33 Days Without Running
“Maybe running was the problem.”
My run coach was shocked the injury still persisted. I was too. 33 days of no running later, and here I was, still seeking treatment and answers for it. Yet amidst it all, I felt mentally okay. I didn’t miss it as much as I thought I would. I didn’t fall a part.
Nine months ago, a rainy October morning, I ran a marathon. I ran it injured. I crossed the Finish line even more injured than I started. Within the first five miles, I felt an unpleasant tug in my achilles. It wasn’t excruciating, but it certainly wasn’t promising to feel when there’s 21.2 more miles ahead. Had it been a training run, I would have dropped immediately. But for a marathon, one I’d prepared for months and planned my entire life around, there was no way I was going to drop out. So, I ignored it. It was aggravating at first, but as the miles became more grueling, I focused on the other parts of my body that were in pain until the achilles pull felt more like a whisper. I finished. I crossed the line. And then was out from running for almost three weeks. I couldn’t walk without limping. It felt something could snap. A stationary bike and first session of dry needling were my new friends. My mental health plummeted to pathetic levels. Was I really this fragile? I thought I was so much stronger than that. I did not like it. It felt like every voice my seventeen year old psyche wrestled with and saw in the mirror and stuffed down as every other high of choice replaced one after the other after the other, came with a vengeance. I was shocked at the thoughts and depressive low I found myself in. I truly though I’d recovered and put those thoughts to rest. I had no idea how much baggage was trapped inside. I plugged in earbuds, hopped on a stationary bike, and I didn’t stop.
During that time, my love life briefly resurrected itself. The same day we connected was the same day a friend asked me about my weight. I asked her if I looked bad. I saw no difference anytime I looked in the mirror. Others did. Usually my muscular stature could hide that anything was ever wrong. Even when I shed pounds and fat, I never went to a nothingness, skeletal twig. This time, my behind the scenes work was apparently more noticeable.
“…Just don’t lose another five pounds.”
I felt a twinge of guilt. Am I too broken and dysfunctional to pursue something romantic right now? Am I faking it? Am I hiding something from him? It felt slightly wrong to talk to someone who seemed so good, and especially knowing how dismantled my thoughts had been. It also felt wrong and slightly awkward to begin initial interactions by mentally dumping my problems on a love interest. How does one express vulnerability without sounding like a fragile snowflake? I didn’t know if I was self sabotaging or if I truly needed to get better help before trying to date again. I sat down with a trusted friend. I told her my fears. I’d chicken scratch written nearly 30 pages of them in a journal. I didn’t want to bleed my own problems onto someone else. In my tangled web of thoughts and upon speaking to my friend, I realized something.
Seeing such light and goodness in another human being made me want to change.
It made me crave the Light I saw in them. It made me want to be whole, not out of approval and politeness to them, but out of my own desire to have what they had. They made me want to fight for wholeness - and Holiness - and healing. Sometimes people come into our lives, be it friends or lovers, who leave a Holy fragrance behind them. Just as a dust of a good perfume makes you wonder which scent someone has spritzed on, so it goes with those who wear the quality of Light among such a dark world. The voices stayed loud for a while, but as the relationship deepened and as yet another marathon training cycle came into the picture, they quieted. I returned to regular patterns of eating. I had the rigidity of morning runs. I had a love interest and endless butterflies. I had meaningful work and trips and opportunities to look forward to. I had the most beautiful distractions. The “fat girl in the mirror” eventually came to a hush.
Five months later, I ran another marathon. That relationship ended two days before. The next 48 hours felt like a controlled, high functioning, out of body experience and detachment from reality. Still, I was going to run, no matter how sleep deprived, calorie depleted, and heartbroken. I showed up to the race in a mental fog hazier than a hangover. I wanted to at least finish what I started. When I arrived at the Start line, sea of people in spandex and colorful socks and that weird “race day smell” of sunblock and anti-chafe cream, it all seemed absolutely meaningless. The only reason I ran was to prove to my own fragile psyche that nothing had power over me. My pacer kissed another runner, her boyfriend. They wished each other luck and he moved to his corral. That’s when the meaninglessness of a marathon hit me. In a mere 10 minutes before the race, the moments I should be hyped up and ready to kill it, I thought,
“None of this matters.”
At the end of the day, a time and the Finish line and all the things we obsess over are utterly meaningless compared to the connection of a person and the feeling of being seen, understood, and loved. A race and unit of measurement gave none of that.
Nonetheless, apathy and all, I ran. It rained. A humid fog settled over the course. I found several “race day angels” who became my silent heroes and pacers. My brisk, 7:45/mi pace turned to a grueling, salt crusted death march. I got cold chills. I got a wicked cramp in my foot. I jog shuffled the last five miles. I felt a sense of hatred towards life. I couldn’t keep another sip of water down. I ditched my last energy gel. It would be so easy to just quit the course and walk off. I felt like utter garbage. I mentally agreed with myself I’d keep trudging forward until I passed out. I really didn’t care if I fell flat to my face. Reality outside of the marathon sucked anyway, so I really had nothing to lose. That thought was truly the only thing that kept my fatigued legs moving. I crossed the Finish line. I felt nothing. The only emotion I really felt was relief that it was over and to see my mom and a close friend. They videoed me crossing the line, and there’s zero expression of victory or delight. It’s as if a stoic, bored, dehydrated girl with a wilted side braid who feels no enthusiasm for life or the fact that she just ran 26.2 miles, crossed the Finish. I didn’t get my desired time. I certainly didn’t get the anticipated race experience. I wasn’t bummed. I also wasn’t thrilled. It was strange.
Two weeks later, I ran another marathon.
With that much training under my belt, surely I could shave a few minutes off and qualify for Boston. I sent a text to my run coach a whopping 24 hours after the marathon I’d just run. I was sore and tired, but felt strangely rejuvenated, considering the last 72 hours of quite unfortunate circumstances. I stood outside a gas station en route home and hit “Send”. My run coach said it was not a good idea and came with high risk. I could get sick, injured, fall a part, and very rarely could people recover fast enough and well enough to pound out another within two weeks’ time. I texted back and prodded a little more. My run coach texted back.
“Alright. Let’s bargain.”
Under the strict guidance and the race day strategy being, “I can quit anytime at any mile and run at any pace,” and essentially reject every other race method I’d tried, I could go for it. For two more weeks, I had something to obsess over and fixate on. The rawness of the breakup was slowly drowned out by planning yet another marathon to pound out. I didn’t know if this solution was absolutely genius or utterly foolish. Breakups were always the key to my weak spot. Their sting had a way of making me feel my worst fears: Undesirable. Unworthy. Unlovable. Unattractive. I’d quit eating, sleeping, functioning. I’d wall myself up and whither away and everything would feel bleak and meaningless and purposeless. I’d convince myself I’d rather be in pain with someone than without them. I was in agonizing pain both ways, but if I had to be in pain, I wanted to be in pain with them. Breakups made me feel like the voice of seventeen year old me, the one that stared back in every reflection and confidently reminded me I was the repulsive fat girl in the mirror. The hunger pangs and endless cups of caffeinated coffee ripping up my empty stomach felt like a satisfying high; a brief escape from the chaos I had no control over.
Now, I had no choice but to eat. I had no choice but to sleep. I had no choice but to keep pressing forward and living, or at least for two weeks. I never understood how guys always seemed to distract and move forward so quickly after a breakup. I’d feel sub-human, and meanwhile, they were already onto merrier things and back in the dating pool within a month. I mentally decided I’d commit to, sign up for, and fill my time with as much as possible.
“I’m going to process this like a guy.”
I showed up to the Start line. I showed up by myself. I was going to run it, whether or not I had support. I broke every single “marathon rule” I ever followed. I brought completely different energy gels and new fuel. I listened to music. I sipped gatorade and beverages I’d never practiced with. My legs definitely felt tighter. 7:45/mi pace did not feel as quick and flighty and doable as it did two weeks ago. It was a push. I found a group of race angels. I drafted two men and a speedy lady with blonde hair and black spandex, who felt like our “race mom”. She’d check on everyone and periodically glance behind at me, ask how I felt, and give a high five. Together, we all ran for 22 miles. They were going for 3:30:00. So was I. It would have been an honor and a joy to cross the Finish line with them. The American Tobacco trail was nearly perfect. The dirt felt amazing on my legs, the cool, spring temperature was ideal for running, and the race angels I found and connected with felt like I suddenly had a marathon family. A deep burst of joy surged through my veins. Lindsey Stirling’s whimsical music streamed through my earbuds, making the trail feel like an enchanted forest. Her violin and the crowd of runners made the marathon feel like a cinematic movie scene. I ran with strength, joy, and determination, until I didn’t. I kept reminding myself what my run coach and I agreed on for this. If I felt bad at all, I needed to drop the race.
You’ll always feel like crap at some point during the marathon, but there’s two very different types of pain. One reminds you that it is painful, but you can still dig deep and push further. The other reminds you that something actually might snap, break, or cause more detriment than victory a Finish line could bring. At mile 22, my beloved angels moved forward and I nursed a cramp on the sidelines, while beginning to dry heave gatorade. I run shuffled back onto the course and tried desperately to catch back up to them. I knew in my body that it could not give what I asked of it. Still, I tried. I checked my watch. There was still a glimmer of hope for a BQ. I just had to pick it up, lock in, and tune out the death march that began to ensue. The 3:35:00 pacer passed me. That was my finishing time two weeks ago. A BQ definitely was not on the charts today. And now, not even a PR. It was settled. I glanced to the side of the trail and saw a suburban neighborhood. Two weeks ago, I set out to prove nothing had power over me and I could run the race. Now, I set out to prove nothing had power over me once again.
This time, it was the power of a DNF.
I stopped running. I hopped off the trail and onto a curbside. I phone called my mom, who was en route with a friend to wait in hopeful ambition at the Finish line. I nonchalantly told her I DNFd the race. Two weeks ago, that would have crushed me. It would have ruined my week and felt like a scarlet letter. It would have told me I wasn’t good enough, fast enough, committed enough, tough enough. Today, I wanted to prove to myself that even my own expectations had no power over me.
I recovered. I took a few days off running. I left the country for a few day with some friends. I returned. I began a new training cycle for a summer of 5ks. My run coach and I set some lofty goals. I was stoked. I laced up my shoes. My body was not the same. Something felt really wrong. I couldn’t walk without limping. I equated it to all the hiking and walking in Costa Rica. I expected it to ease up in a few days. It got progressively worse. I sought physical therapy and dry needling and rest. I added cross training. I took an entire week off physical activity altogether. Nothing changed. The same foot that had fractured years prior, had an achilles injury from my October marathon, and somehow sustained two more marathons within two weeks, was injured yet again. It was like the emotional roller coaster of the previous six months manifested itself in my lower left side. My body screamed for rest. My mind screamed for rest. My spirit screamed for rest. I had no choice but to give it rest. I decided to take an entire month off running. At first, the stillness and silence felt crippling. Months of processing life “Like a guy”, even if much was meaningful and good, was about to consume my thought life with a real vengeance. Running, my joy and high and coping mechanism and “fat girl in the mirror” quieter, was gone.
33 days of no running.
Just one month. For just one month, surely I could give it up and be okay. One month, and then I could drive myself into the ground again. I stowed away my run shoes. With it, I stowed away my marathon and 5k dreams. I stowed away my obsessions. I stowed away the voice that convinced me running was the golden hem of healing for my negative thought patterns and body image issues. I had to prove, yet again, that it had no power over me. This time, I had to prove that I could run for joy and not for a voice at my psyche’s conference table of endless opinions and scrutiny and toxic negativity. I thought I’d crawl out of my skin. A few times I did. Otherwise, I felt strangely okay with it. I took long walks. I rode my bike. I caught fireflies at dusk on the greenway. I spent quality time with loved ones and friends. I went paddleboarding. I slept an hour later than I usually would on a summer day. I picked up and explored some new creative avenues and said “Yes” to opportunities I dropped nearly a decade ago in my artistic life. I said “Yes” to last minute gatherings and early morning meetups, whereas my run schedule always dictated it all in the past. I listened to Lindsey Stirling’s new album on repeat. The slower pace awakened something within my restless mind. Actually, it forced it to slow down. It forced it to process and reconcile. It forced it to learn the art of solitude and stillness; something I continue to both learn and make friends with. At times, I missed running. But it felt simultaneously like a friendship or relationship that you must let go for the meantime, but could someday be healthy in its proper time and place.
Three days ago, I laced up the shoes I stowed away. I ran again. I barely ran 3 miles. I ran 2.75 miles, to be exact. Mere months ago, that would have barely felt like a warmup. Now, it felt like a long lost friend. I took off hard and fast on an 85 degree evening. It felt 10x harder than it did 33 days ago. I couldn’t run a 5k fast and furious, even if I tried. My body drenched in sweat, legs wobbly, heart beating fast, lungs breathing in humid air, I felt so alive. I didn’t care about how many miles I pounded out, how fast I went, or if I was going to shed something. I clung to the feeling of running wild, free, and without restraint.
I clung to the feeling that, eight years of running later, maybe running didn’t have to be a toxic companion.
Maybe running could be a friend again.