The first day I ran, I wasn’t intentionally starting a new fitness program. If I’m being totally honest, I started jogging across the crosswalk because the crossing guards had been holding up traffic for a while already and I felt guilty about keeping all those people waiting longer. And then a group of moms had stopped on the other side, blocking the sidewalk in conversation. So I kept jogging, pretending like it was what I had planned all along. Maybe I justified it in my head thinking I needed to hurry up and get back home to see my older boys off to school. Maybe I was honest with myself that I was really just trying to avoid what I was sure would be an awkward social situation. I’m new to the area and those moms all knew each other and none of them knew me. Awkward city. So, I ran. Literally. But before that fateful day, running had not been a part of my fitness regiment for over 15 years. So, I didn’t make it very far before I was gasping for breath and convinced my heart was going to explode out of my chest.
But as I walked the rest of the way to my van that morning (I love walking! I have been consistently walking 2 or more miles each day for the past several years.), I started to consider running a little more. I decided that for the rest of the week I would run to that same spot. I remembered it by a fire hydrant. And each day that week, I ran to that fire hydrant and then walked the remaining distance to my van, then drove home. Maybe part of it, too, was that I wanted my avoidance run from the day before to be convincing, so I figured I should stick with it for a few days. Maybe. Probably.
The next week, I decided I would run to the next fire hydrant. And each day of that week, I ran across the crosswalk until I arrived at the designated fire hydrant. Some days I was staring so hard at that fire hydrant, wishing I could make it move closer so I could stop running sooner. As the weeks went on, I expanded my distance one fire hydrant at a time. And I started to think about my relationship with running.
I don’t necessarily hate running. As a child, I was on a track team. I was a distance runner. I ran a couple hurdle events and can even claim a county record for my age division in the long jump. My dad walked me to most of my track practices and helped coach me. I remember going to get my first “real” pair of running shoes with him. My dad told me when to dig at the end of a race and he set up stacked five-gallon buckets in our backyard to help me practice hurdles. I don’t think I consciously decided when he left that I was finished with running, but conscious decision or not, I never ran competitively again.
I have a son who loves to run. He broke his foot on New Year’s Day and got the all-clear from the doctor on January 31 to resume normal activity. On February 12, he ran a 5k and was the first 13-year-old to cross the finish line. Watching him run makes me smile. When he runs, he is in his element. He has boundless energy and rarely sits still, so watching him run is one of the few opportunities I have to see him look peaceful. It’s like all of the distractions around him dissolve when he gets into the zone. Running is his happy place.
Seeing my son run has caused me to seriously consider my own relationship with running. Did I run because I loved it and I have just blocked that part of myself because of heartache? Or did I run because my dad wanted me to? I still don’t know for sure. But I decided I wanted to figure things out for myself. So I set a goal: I would run a whole mile before the end of 2021. And to an avid runner, my mile goal might seem laughable. But 5 babies and 15 years since my last consistent running program meant I needed an attainable goal and one mile was pretty big—more than I had run in the past decade for sure—but not insurmountable.
Each week I extended my run for about .10 mile more. Through shin splints, rain, and a child’s constant goading that they could walk faster than I ran, I continued to push toward my one mile goal. I got in my van at the end of each run, proud of my progress, and typically smiling. I could feel it getting easier. On the last day before Christmas vacation, I decided I would push myself an extra .10 mile and run the full mile. I set myself up for success by planning out my route. I made sure my shoes were tied well. I even put on contact lenses that day so my glasses wouldn’t slide around on my sweaty face. When my watch pulsed that I had completed one mile, I felt like I had achieved something huge. I had reached my goal ahead of schedule and it felt amazing.
Little did I know that a few short days later, I would contract COVID. But I look back at that goal and recognize the gift it was to my body that my heart was stronger than it had been in the past decade as it worked to fight off the mild case my vaccinated immune system had to fight. After the break, I wanted to return to my pre-COVID, mile-running status right away. But it took the month of January for me to get back to running a whole mile again. When I finally felt that one mile pulse on my watch again, I felt proud of myself and the accomplishment I had made. Since then, I have continued to run each morning starting with the crosswalk. I don’t have all the answers yet. I don’t know if running is something I will continue to do forever or if I will look back at this time and celebrate the progress I made toward an unexpected goal. But for the first time in my life, I am doing it for me: no dad, no coach, no running partner, no one else to push me. If I continue to run, it will be because I chose to do it. If I quit, it will be because I decided to quit.
And while that may seem like an obvious statement to most, to me, it is huge. It has helped me realize how many more things in my life deserve the same consideration.
Where is my motivation?
Who decides my goals and priorities?
Too often as a daughter, wife, and mother, I have allowed my own hopes and dreams to be martyrs, unheralded victims to the whims of everybody else. But for the first time in my life, I am internalizing that what I want matters, too. I am still finding my voice and figuring out what ultimately matters to me. And yes, my family matters to me. They are vitally important. Their happiness matters to me. But if my own happiness doesn’t matter to me, will it be relevant to anyone else? So while my cholesterol is the best it’s been in years and my cardio health is the best it’s been in well over a decade, I am most excited for the breakthroughs I am making in my emotional health. I never imagined any of this would come because I chose to run past a group of moms one morning—yes, I acknowledge I have some work to do on the social front—but I am grateful for the breakthroughs that have come and the progress I am making.
