The Healing Power of Hurdles
by Steve McGill
Thursday December 18, 2025 was the last day of exams at our school—Davidson Day School in Davidson, NC— prior to the beginning of our winter holiday break. Due to the flu grabbing hold, there were some students who would need to make up exams on Friday, but Thursday was essentially the last day. I proctored a morning exam, which finished up at 10:15. After that, I stayed in my classroom—which I shared with two other teachers—and graded some of my exams, with the aim of finishing up a set of them before going home. Around an hour later, another teacher, Thomas Whaley entered the room and mentioned something about an accident involving the father of one of our students.
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It was a car accident, Thomas said. The other teacher, Kevin Julian, said he had heard nothing of it. I said the same thing. I did a quick Google search on my phone for “accident in Iredell County Today,” and saw two accidents from earlier in the day—one a car accident and one a plane crash. I ignored the plane crash and focused on the car accident. It sounded like it was very serious, but no names were listed in regard to injuries or fatalities. Thomas further explained that the student was Emma Biffle, a freshman. She was in Kevin’s Honors English class. She was also in my study hall. Funny, happy, pleasant girl.
I found myself thinking how sad it would be if Emma’s dad were seriously injured, or worse, and how she would need support from the faculty and admin if that were the case. I also knew that Kevin would be able to connect with her if need be, because he’s really good at relationship-building, and being there for people.
A little later, someone else came in and said that it wasn’t a car accident, but a plane crash. I jumped back on Google and read the article about the plane crash. It sounded really bad. The plane had taken off, circled back, and blown up after landing. The article said there were at least six people on the plane, and that none of them could have possibly survived. But still, no names.
It was a small, private jet, and Emma’s dad owned a small, private jet. The very real possibility that Emma’s dad had died entered into my mind, and I could feel my relatively shill day turning into something more sinister. I could hear other teachers in the hallway talking about it, conjecturing about what might have happened. I tried to stay locked in on grading my exams, but my mind stayed locked on the thought that poor Emma may have lost her father.
About an hour later, Debbie Taylor, the Dean of Students, came by our classroom and said to us, “We need you to go to Teresa’s room right now.” Her sense of urgency caught me off guard. Teresa was Teresa Crowe, one of our science teachers. I assumed that Teresa was lecturing makeup exams, and that she needed someone to relieve her for a bathroom break. But why would Debbie tell all three of us to go to Teresa’s room? Still, I grabbed my laptop so I could continue grading while proctoring. When I reached Teresa’s room down the hall, I saw that several other teachers were already in there. Also, our Head of Upper School, Michael Smith, was in there. The Head of Middle School, Andrew Griffith, was in there. And the Head of School, Andrew Bishop, was in there. Every face looked serious, somber. I feared the worst: Emma’s father was gone.
Andrew Bishop began talking. Slowly, methodically. Measuring his words. He explained that there had been a plane crash at the airport in nearby Statesville. Private jet. He confirmed that the plane belonged to Greg Biffle, Emma’s dad. Better known as a famous former race car driver, but for our purposes he was Emma’s dad. I could feel my muscles constricting, my breath laboring. Then Andrew said something I didn’t see coming: “There’s a 99% chance that Emma was on the plane.”
I felt like the world was melting. I looked around the room. Tears were flowing from every pair of eyes.
Emma was a “lifer,” as we like to say in private school lingo, meaning she had been attending our school her whole life, since she was three years old. After talking with us, Andrew had to let all the middle school teachers know, and then let all the lower school teachers know.
Subsequent news reports confirmed the tragedy. The names of those on the plane were identified. NASCAR driver Greg Biffle, his wife, his 14-year-old daughter Emma, his 5-year-old son, and two others.
Emma’s death marked the first time in my 30-year teaching career that a current student had passed away. I didn’t know how to respond to the news. I walked back to my classroom and continued grading exams.
The next day, which was scheduled to be a day for students to take makeup exams, instead became a day off, with no exams, and no classes for the middle and lower school. Andrew Bishop mentioned that any faculty or staff who wanted to gather to support each other could meet in the morning in one of the classrooms. I generally like to process grief in private, but I decided to go as a way of acknowledging that I’m part of a community, and because I wanted to be available for any colleagues who needed support, and also because I could use some support myself.
I ended up regretting my decision to go. A professional therapist was there, and she just kept yakkety-yakking with suggestions about how to process grief. In the brief moments when she paused, I could feel a sense of peace, just sitting together with the ten or so colleagues who had shown up. The silence was not awkward, but profound. We were there for each other, we had all shown up for each other. People were crying and no one was ashamed of their tears. Then the therapist would start talking again, obliterating the vibe. By the time I left, I just felt heavy and tired.
Two days later, a Sunday, I had a hurdle training session with Janie Coble, one of my regulars from last year who graduated last May and was in town for the holidays. I had also taught Janie in AP Language & Composition two years ago. She was a quiet student, but barely ever said a word, which annoyed me back then. But when she walked on to the track, the first thing I did when she asked how the school year was going was talk about Emma, and how frustrated I had been two days earlier due to all of the talking and advice-giving during the faculty gathering. Janie instantly expressed understanding regarding how I felt, and I instantly felt better about everything as a result. During our training session that day, which was a very good one, we barely said anything to each other the whole time. And that was the beauty of it. We didn’t need to. We were happy to see each other, to be back doing what we used to do together.
Over the years I’ve come to recognize the healing power of hurdling, whether I’m the one hurdling or if I’m coaching someone who is hurdling. On the track, when there are hurdles involved, the world makes sense again, no matter how chaotic it may have seemed to be beforehand; balance is restored, no matter how off-balance I may have felt beforehand. Breaths come easily; there’s a flow to life again, a familiar rhythm that I can trust.
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