I’ve always been a runner. Long before I ever laced up shoes or signed up for a race I could imagine myself doing it. I could picture myself running through streets of a non-descript city. And I had many false starts in my college years. I’d do a Couch to 5k (C25k) program for a couple weeks and then fizzle out on it. But in my head I wanted to be a runner. Then one day, a person I was friends with online mentioned she was starting C25k again and I thought, why not? And I stuck with it. And I signed up for a race. And it was a huge accomplishment. I wasn’t in love with running yet, but I liked it and I was doing it. And then this person said she was going to run the Pittsburgh Half Marathon and suggested I think about doing it too. So I did. And it was in training for that race that I really started to love running. I’ve never been fast, but I’ve also never cared. I like the discipline of it. I like the scenery (though I do NOT like trail running, and yes I’ve tried it). I love the comradery at races. I love the gear, and the expos, and the bling. Still I was an on and off runner. I’d race enough, and run enough that I could get through races, but I didn’t give myself over to it completely. Until I split with my ex, and moved. Then I started running. I lived with runners. The first friend I made on my own outside of a pre-existing social circle was a runner. I gave myself over to it completely and it gave me the life I’d envisioned, the body I wanted, the confidence I could never seem to find. Everything made sense, I felt invincible. I started dating again. I got a promotion at work. I ran a ton of half marathons and my first full marathon. I met the love of my life. Then about a month after my first marathon I foolishly decided I was ready for a second. During the race I started having issues with my IT Band that would continue to plague me. They sidelined me for a bit while I tried to manage on my own. I never completely quit running, but I definitely slowed down. My work life started to fall apart–I was never really trained in my new role and while I was competent enough to escape notice most of the time, my requests for guidance were frequently ignored and I grew frustrated. And I continued doing marathons, barely managing my IT issues and not training nearly enough. I moved in with my boyfriend and nearly tripled my commute time. We got engaged and then married. I started taking kettlebell classes, which I really liked (and still do) but I never loved the way I used to love running. But I didn’t love running anymore, or at least I didn’t think I did. Each race was worst than the last. I was miserable at work, I was gaining weight, running sucked for me and I couldn’t imagine getting back out there like I used to. I was grasping at straws, and honestly, in hindsight, making excuses. I can’t because of X, it sucks because of Y. But they were all just excuses. When I would vent to my friend I was urged to ‘go run’. I blew it off. I respected the input, where it was coming from, and it was a dose of my own brand of tough love (If you’re not going to try to fix it then you don’t get to complain), but I wasn’t ready. I just wasn’t there yet. Month after month a conversation would end with ‘go run’ and ‘yeah, yeah, I know’.
Until one day it sunk in.
And that night I did a mile on our god-awful treadmill. Because something had to give, and I finally realized that something had to be me. Running had always been there, and it was always the answer–but I had pushed it away. Somewhere along the way it got lost. I didn’t realize how important it was to me and for me. I took it for granted. I stopped giving myself over to it completely and letting it work it’s magic inside me. Where it had been what I looked forward to and what would get me through a tough day, it became one more thing on the to-do list to check off, or more often, to not get to at all. And in pushing it away, I lost myself. I was happy enough–newly married to a man I adore, soon after I changed jobs and started with a new company in a role I’m actually good at and comfortable in–but still something was missing. And that something was running. Because, as it turns out, running isn’t just something I do. It’s a part of who I am. It polishes the edges, refines things, it brings me clarity and peace, it calms me down. For me, everything is better when I run. When I give myself over to the run–when I let it and myself just be whatever they will–good things come from it. That first mile back (though I’d been participating in races consistently all year) wasn’t magic in and of itself. It felt terrible. I was on a treadmill, forcing myself through a run in desperation, and it felt forced and awful. But I also felt a little bit better when it was over. And I ran again that weekend, both days. Just a couple of miles to start, but it was something. And I started to feel like I was coming back to myself. They weren’t easy–I’m rusty, out of shape, heavier than I like–but they were mine and in that time I just ran as much as I could, walked when I had to, and got through them. And I felt better for it. Very quickly its become the thing I look forward to again. My new job has stresses of its own, but knowing that I can run them out at the end of the day makes it all manageable. I have goals again, real ones, big ones. Things that will be difficult to accomplish but aren’t impossible if I work hard enough.
And it feels so good to have goals again. It feels good to work hard and be disciplined.
Reflecting back on it, I wonder how my life would have been different if I had started running sooner. If I’d taken it up in high school, maybe I wouldn’t have been as miserable. Maybe if my attempts to start in college had stuck I would have made different decisions. I don’t look back with regret, just curiosity about the alternative timeline and how it would have played out. But no matter, I’m just glad I have it now.