I have something called sensory processing disorder. Most people don't see it because I have spent 50 years learning to hide it.

Today, Triathlon Canada marched through the streets of Pontevedra for the Parade of Nations. Hundreds of athletes in matching red and white, funneled between centuries-old stone buildings, surrounded by drummers whose every beat hit me like an electric shock to the nervous system.

I was choking back tears the entire way.

I marched because I wanted to be present with my team one last time. Because this community -- these people who chose the same hard thing I chose -- deserved to have me there, all the way there, not managing from the edges.

And when I saw a kid on the sideline with their hand out, I broke out of the parade line and ran to them.

Every single one. High fives. Fist bumps. Explosions. Because somewhere in that crowd is the future athlete who will stand at a start line someday and remember the Canadian who ran out of formation just to meet them. I want sport to mean something to them the way it means something to me.

But I also marched carrying people who could not be there.

My friend Sy was with me. My arm around him, right there in my chest, for every step of that route. I could feel him.

And with him -- Marco, Mike, Pam, Aubrey. Friends from past races. People I wish I could have shared a moment like this with. You do not stop carrying the people you love just because the course changes.

Every drumbeat was an electric shock. My back was on fire. And I was the happiest I have been all week.

Saturday is the race. But today was already everything.