It's 2005. I'm nine years old and I love athletics, especially the high jump. Today, it's not going as well as I'd hoped though. I'm doing something wrong, but I have no idea what. My trainers are nowhere to be seen. An older man comes up to me. On his jacket, the logo of athletics club Ilion from Zoetermeer can be seen.
"Try to start your run-up from this point instead," he advises me. I put my marker on the spot he's pointing at. In my next attempt, I jump to a new personal best.
"Well done!" the Ilion trainer says when I tell him I just jumped a new PB. I go on to find my own trainers. When I tell them, I hear that it's "cool, but Kimberly jumped ten centimeters higher".

It's 2008. I'm 11 and my interest has shifted to the long jump. I'm not the best jumper around, but I've improved a lot over the past year. For once, a trainer of mine actually sees me jump at a track meeting. "If you jump over 3.5 meters, I'll buy you ice cream," he says. I'm elated. He's often made this deal with his other pupils. Never before with me. In my next attempt, I fly to 3.52. I never got my ice cream.


In 2009, I meet Lisa in the pouring rain. Like me, she does not have a big group of girls to train with at her club, AV'47 from Boskoop. We become good friends in no time. Soon, I'm dumping my spikes and clothes near her stuff and often sit with the AV'47 group during track meetings. I feel welcome there. I've never felt that way with people from my own club.

2011. At fourteen, I join the training group for older teens. I regret it within a month. Whenever we have to do something in pairs, I'm always the one left alone. Everyone is focused on the shot put and discus, so I'm always doing my long jump exercises by myself. At track meetings, there's no one there to give me advice. No one, except a trainer from AV'47. Sometimes I wish I was a member of that club.

It's now 2013. I've been practicing with the javelin for the biggest track meeting of my season: the heptathlon on my home track. I break the magical barrier of 20 meters that summer. Suddenly, the trainers are very interested in me and my progress.
"You did so well today!", one of them says.
"Thanks," I say crudely, knowing this interest is temporary. At the next track meeting, my javelin falls just short of 20 meters. No one even looks at my final attempt.


Two months later, I twist my ankle while playing soccer at school. I can't run, but I can throw a javelin if I wear my high top sneakers, no problem. When my trainer notices, he says: "What are you even doing here?"

I fall off my bike in 2016. My toenail turns blue and wearing shoes hurts. I start a 3000-meter race anyway, because I love to run. I've given up on jumping, as no one wants to be my trainer. No one wants to train a runner at this club either, so my dad has taken that upon himself. I have to be fair though: there's one trainer who would train me, but my college classes make this impossible. Secretly, I don't mind. I remember the way the group treated me in 2011 and this trainer hasn't even asked what's up with my current injury.
My toe makes me give up on the race after less than 1000 meters. The only person who asks me what's happened is, once again, a trainer from AV'47.

July 2018. I've decided that enough is enough. No one wants to train me, no one wants to train with me, no one respects my decision to stick with running. Why am I still a member of this rotten athletic clubs? Go where you're celebrated, not merely tolerated, right?
I decide to switch clubs in April, so I can run one last 5000-meter race in October, possibly attack my PB. I never run that race, since I'm still recovering from the antibiotics that ravaged my body after my wisdom tooth surgery. Six more months of being a member of a club that won't even acknowledge my existence. I count down to April 1st. I buy a top with the AV'47 logo on it. I fill the forms on their website out. I tell Lisa we'll soon be members of the same club. Mentally, I distance myself from my old club as much as possible over the course of the winter.

Today. April 13th, 2019. I've officially run my first race in my AV'47 jersey. Where, you might ask? On the track of Avantri in Schoonhoven, the club I joined 14 years ago, the club that treated me like shit for 14 years. I took the bronze. It felt like I'd given them the finger. I'm moving forward, away from Avantri's arrogance and cliques, and I'll never look back.