Reagan Trent, June – I was just a kid in sixth grade when I set my sights on shooting a 290. Back then, it seemed impossibly far away, it was a score that belonged to the archers I looked up to, the ones who made it look effortless. That number became my “North Star,” the goal that pushed me through countless hours of practice, frustrating days when nothing seemed to go right.
Seven years. Seven years of late-night practices, strained shoulders, callused fingers, and a steady belief that someday, somehow, I would reach that magic number.
It happened at CENTERSHOT Bullseye, during what would be my last first tournament as a registered archer. My senior year – the result of everything I had worked toward. As I stepped up to the line, I could feel the presence of everyone who mattered most surrounding me like a warm embrace.
Mom and dad were there, the same two people who had driven me to countless tournaments, listened to my frustrations after tough rounds, and celebrated every small victory along the way. I could not be more grateful for them. Uncle Steve and Aunt Nikki had made the trip, their support meaning more than they probably knew, they were part of the reason I got into archery. My cousin Hunter watched, who had been my role model since I was born. My teammates, the friends who had become like family through shared struggles and triumphs. Even archers from other teams had gathered, because in archery, we understand what these moments mean to each other.
My coaches stood nearby, the people who had seen me at my worst and believed in my potential even when I could not see it myself.
Arrow after arrow, something magical was happening. The bow felt like an extension of myself, each release crisp and clean, each arrow finding its mark with the precision I had dreamed of for so long. I could feel myself settling into that perfect zone where everything else fades away.
The number I had chased since sixth grade was finally mine.
The emotions hit me all at once, a wave of feelings I had not expected to be so overwhelming. Pure joy erupted first, the kind of happiness that starts in your chest and spreads through your entire body. I had done it. After seven years, I had actually done it.
But alongside the joy came an unexpected wave of sadness. This was my last first tournament as a registered archer. Senior year means endings, and even in this moment of triumph, I could feel the bittersweetness of knowing that this chapter of my life was drawing to a close ending. The sport that had defined so much of who I am, the community that had become my second family, was all going to change.
Pride was perhaps the strongest emotion of all. Not just pride in the score, but pride in the journey. Pride in the sixth-grader who dared to dream of 290. Pride in every practice session, every tournament, every moment of doubt I had pushed through. Pride in becoming the archer I had always hoped I could be.
I know my coach had pride and belief in me, he kept a 290 chevron in his pocket and gave it to me after I shared my score. Coach Dault knew I could do it.
Looking back at that moment, surrounded by my family, friends, teammates, and coaches, I realize that the 290 was never really about the score itself. It was about the person I became while chasing it. It was about the relationships I built, the lessons I learned about perseverance and dedication, and the discovery that sometimes the most meaningful goals are the ones that take years to achieve.
That arrow did not just hit the target; it completed a circle that started when I was eleven years old and full of impossible dreams. Not only did it complete her circle, but it also completed my three-year-old self’s circle. She did not know it yet, but she achieved her dream. It proved that some dreams are not impossible at all; they are just waiting for the right moment, the right preparation, and the right support system to make them reality.
My 290 will always be more than a score. It is the result of six years of growth competitively, the validation of countless hours of practice, and the perfect ending to my journey as a high school archer. But most importantly, it is proof that the dreams we hold onto longest are often the ones worth achieving most.
