My Marathon

October 20th came and went, and the day before, I felt a little twinge in my heart.

A sense of panic.

I turned to the husband in the car, and I said, "There's something big happening tomorrow. What are we forgetting? What do we have going on?"

Then I remembered-- the marathon I had been training for, but did not sign up to do due to injury. Doubled over with morning sickness 75% of my day, I was grateful I did not pay to be at a starting line I would probably have puked at.

I managed to get out there today-- quite the accomplishment, as most days I am found in an upright fetal position trying desperately to keep what I just ate down while making sure my kids don't do anything that will result in a trip to the emergency room. As I was running, I felt amazing. I felt like I could go much further than the 5k I had planned.

Then I thought, Hey. This is a big deal. So I didn't pay $80 to go on my run today. So I'm not wearing my racing singlet or a bib. So I haven't tapered after running several 20 mile training runs for today. But I'm sick as a dog. I'm an almost mom of 3 under 3. I'm lucky if I get the dishwasher unloaded and if I can make the toddler's peanut butter and jelly sandwich without dry heaving in the sink. I was up until 2 a.m. last night because the toddler threw up on the only set of sheets we have for our new bed, and I was doing laundry while everyone else passed out on the couch. My mileage has been, at most, 9 miles per week lately.

And I felt awesome.

So while this wasn't the coveted 26.2, and there wasn't a timing chip on my shoe, I still felt like I earned a massive medal to dangle around my neck.

Here's hoping that the medal comes later in the form of a much needed nap.

Sparse.

My running lately has been about as consistent lately as my writing. Today, I convinced myself to go out for a run. Put on the clothes, told the toddler, geared up the stroller, and headed out the door. I had my NPR podcast fresh and ready, and I was looking forward to getting in a run.

Then, it/I sucked (wind).

I want to blame it a little on the weather. I was wearing shorts and a short sleeve tech t, and I was HOT. It felt humid, sticky, and I did not try at all to avoid running through the sprinkler overlapping the sidewalk (much to the ten month old's dismay). I was a bit dehydrated, and due to my inconsistent running, my 5k was eagerly interrupted by my full compliance to the toddler's request to stop at the park that is 3/4 of a mile from our home.

I needed the break.

I could also blame it on the double stroller. My poor shape. My children's poor sleep patterns the past couple of weeks (can you call it "sleep patterns" if they aren't sleeping?).

But I think what's really to blame is the tiny human wreaking havoc on my insides, even though he/she is about the size of a sesame seed.

Hence the dehydration-- and probably the insufficient calories to sustain anything resembling a tempo run.

Oy. Here's to hoping I only have to push through a month or so of this.

Fist pumps and air guitars.

Do you ever have those days where you're so emotionally shot, so drained, so deep into the pits of un-caring that you throw caution to the wind and just do something crazy?

For me, that comes in the form of buying music and abandoning any stress or thoughts of sticking to a strict budget.

After loading my ipod up with all of the angsty, angry girl songs I could find from Glee's repertoire, I loaded the kids up in a particularly blustery Midwestern evening, and pounded out a 5k.

Extra calories burned for lip syncing and some pretty sweet dance moves.

My father who spent much of our adolescence attempting to embarrass us by dancing in parking lots would be so proud.

If run-dancing becomes an Olympic sport, I'll see you on the podium.

Growing up.

When I was a kid, my self esteem was laughably low. I can say "laughably" now, because I've been through therapy. Before, though, it was depressing. Depressing to the point where I convinced a therapist to write me a note telling my apartment complex to allow me to have a cat (they still said no). Regardless of my long list of accomplishments, I never felt like I was enough.

Some of this stemmed from external (lack of) validation, but over time, I had rehearsed little tidbits confirming my inadequacy in my head often enough that the voice behind them was my own. So it didn't matter that I was a national qualifier for forensics, or that I was treasurer of thespians, or that I played junior varsity soccer. It didn't matter that I had a lead in the musical, or that I was taking oodles of AP classes, or that I was in the gifted program. Because even if those things were on my resume, so was the glaring mark against me--

My weight.

Really, my stomach. Even at the peak of my eating disorder, I never acquired the chiseled abdominal muscles, the inability to pinch an inch.

So, I look back. And through therapy, I "reparented" the child Me and told her why all of the things she did were good. That her accomplishments were meaningful, and she was meaningful. I AM meaningful.

Fast forward. Now I'm a super awesome mom who can sometimes manage to get the kids through the day AND unload the dishwasher (behold my amazingness). I manage to keep three dogs and four chickens alive on top of my tiny humans, and most days, I can even squeeze in a run.

I've got some good things going for me.

But then, the old voices can linger. After two children, the problemal abdominal on some days looks as if it is beyond the point of return. The reflection in the mirror can often resort to the same pose-- straight on, eyes focused intensely on my middle, a mouth turned to scorn.

But where are the AP classes? The JV Soccer team? The lead in the musical?

If I dare let my eyes travel, I see my strong arms. My collar bone stands triumphant, shouting my beauty for all to behold. My legs seem almost unfair to the rest of the world, with their strength and tone that comes almost effortlessly after a few training runs.

So the stomach remains. But it does not define me. It does not disqualify me. And on some days, it too can scream of its own accomplishment, having housed two amazing tiny humans, and will not cower in the retorts of what the world has determined as acceptable. Those days are not the norm-- but they are there.

And on those days, it's okay if the dishwasher doesn't get unloaded.

Arriving at the light.

Four weeks doesn't seem like a super long time. Twenty eight days. Shortest month of the year. A few weekends, a blur of playdates, gymnastics classes, visits to the park.

It becomes a lot, lot longer, however, when your happy pill is taken away. At first, the diagnosis was the IT band. After nursing it time and time again, though, it was discovered that it was not my IT band at all-- but something was twisted/torn/strained/ouchie in my gluteous region. The good thing was I could jump, squat, climb, and do various other moves (and therefore, exercises) without feeling a hint of pain. As soon as I started to run, though, the movement forward caused the injury to scream at me for mercy.

Very frustrating.

The other day, though, I was at the neighbor's, and my toddler requested that I retrieve his toy lawn mower from our yard. A quick dash across the street, and I was best. Mommy. Ever. But the feeling of being so happy with being able to appease my son so easily could not match the joy of being able to run across the street and back without feeling any pain.

So come Saturday, I felt inspired.

I sent the husband off on his group bike ride, and the nine month old went down for a nap. I put in some P90X (my latest adventure), and after doing my workout, I looked at my toddler.

"Do you want to go running?"

"YEAH!"

So when the nine month old woke up, I took out my running shoes. I asked the toddler,

"What are these?"

"Mommy running shoes."

Okay. It hasn't been THAT long.

Out I went, the two in the stroller, and I sucked wind for four miles. I didn't bring my garmin, because I definitely did not want to push myself too hard and re-injure. Knowing my pace would have made me forget listening to my body-- I'm too competitive to be smart. So I was probably slow. I was definitely feeling it cardiovascular wise (in spite of biking and working out otherwise during the past twenty eight days), but I was out there. Running. Just me and my kids.

I felt like me again.

And it's good to have me back.

Interruption.

This won't be my usual type of post.

I know, I know. You were so looking forward to another blog post about NOT running on a running blog. Sadly, that will have to wait until next week (by the by, as of tomorrow, it will have been four weeks since my last run... which was seven miles on a treadmill. Does that even seem fair?).

In the meantime, I have something to share.

Years ago, freshly married, I took a job at an eating disorder clinic. This was a dream come true for me-- this was the population I wanted to serve. I could identify with so much of their hurts, their expectations for themselves, and I wanted to be a beacon of hope of what life could be in the absence of the perils of Ed. Starting out, it consisted of a lot of training, and on my very first clinical day (actually working with the patients), we went to a ropes course on family day. There weren't enough staff for me to shadow and still have someone with every group of girls, so I was sent off on my own with a group of gals where I had to fake having any kind of authority whatsoever.

There are many things I fear in life: Failure. Disappointing others. ET.

Heights.

Being at a ropes course was not really my cup of tea.

The obstacle we were given was to climb up a ridiculously high tree to a platform, and then leap from the platform to grab a metal hoop that was dangling from said ridiculously high tree. I thought about the last time I was convinced to go on a ferris wheel, and cried as I rocked myself on the floor of the basket until the ride was over. Climbing this ridiculous tree was certainly not covered in the job description.

I surveyed the ladies. We had someone who used to be an acrobat, and she looked totally at ease, in her element. The other gals were varying shades of excitement and anticipation. Then the youngest, a quiet girl of sixteen, looked as white as a ghost. She stared up at the ring, her jaw set, and her hands were at her side, her thumbs picking the cuticles of her other fingers.

"You gonna do it, Katie B?"

I looked at the sixteen year old. In that moment, not focusing on that stupid tree was what I needed to not piddle all over myself for what was to come.

I looked back at the patients. "I'll do it if [sixteen-year-old] does it."

She didn't even look at me. "Oh, I'm going to do it."

Each girl climbed up the tree. Each one, when asked what they were jumping for, said, "Recovery."

I climbed up that stupid tree, my feet, hands, and knees shaking violently with each movement. When the gals yelled up, "What are you jumping for?"

I yelled back, my eyes squeezed shut, "I'm jumping for you!"

I didn't reach for the ring. I just jumped from the platform, grateful for the experience to be over. The girls saw my fear, saw what I did, and instantly we had rapport. I was forever grateful for that sixteen year old girl's bravery.

A couple months would pass, and I'd be at a meal with that sixteen year old. It was her last day, and I could tell she was riddled with anxiety. My heart ached for her, and I so badly wanted to wrap her up in a cocoon of safety, comfort, and self love to help her combat her disorder outside the warm walls of the treatment center.

Another couple months would pass, and then I got a message in my work email.

That sixteen year old, who had inspired me so, had taken her life.

It was apparent how young and undeveloped I was in my professional career, because the boundaries weren't there. I hadn't put up the walls or learned how to distance myself in such a way that I did not fall absolutely in love with each patient I was able to serve. The loss of this bright light, this person who influenced me so, took a significant piece of me that day.

And so, on this running blog, I ask you today to donate to another running friend of mine's Suicide Walk page. She has her own story, and I know that so many people do have their own story of how suicide has affected their mortal tale.

So head over there. A couple dollars would be awesome. This is one of those tragedies where you spend forever after asking yourself what you could have done differently. This walk, this fundraiser, is an opportunity to do something now. Do something for what could come-- and what can hopefully be prevented.

Do something for that piece that has been taken.

Thank you.

You inspire me.

Being on the bike, I crave running. Climbing a hill, I imagine what it would be like to just be me, my glutes, quads, hamstrings, and my awesome neon shoes on that pavement, conquering something that looked so daunting in the distance. I see people out, knowing it took them just throwing on their running clothes and heading out the door to enjoy their workout, and I long to be in their moment. That sense of feeling like you did something hard, you did something good, and it was all for you. No matter what happens the rest of the day, you got your run in. So it's okay.

So when I was doing my long ride, finishing up after a couple chilly hours in the early morning, and I came up to a gal out running, I was humbled. I was speechless. I was inspired. On the trail, in the early hours of a Saturday, this woman was out doing something hard. Doing something good. Doing something for her.

But she was a reminder that it isn't just for her.

This gal did not look like the typical runner. She had a cotton t-shirt on, but underneath, you wouldn't have found chiseled abs and taut, tan flesh. She wasn't wearing a super trendy running skirt, and her running shoes weren't outfitted with the latest technology the running industry has to offer. She was simply a gal out running. And every second of it looked painful, uncomfortable, and knowing what she was feeling, no one would have blamed her for a second for stopping to walk.

But she didn't.

Research has shown that women often do not engage in exercise because they fear what other people will think of them because they do not look like the typical athlete.

I do not consider myself to be a typical athlete (mostly, I'm a mom who runs), but I do know that exercise makes you feel good. It helps you love you, appreciate you, and gives your body the endorphins and fitness necessary to be healthy and happy. So to deny yourself of that goodness out of fear of what others think is a sad commentary on what our society has determined is important.

So I don't look like the typical athlete. I have muscle definition in my arms, slamming legs, and a beautiful collarbone. My stomach looks like someone knocked over the mixing bowl of pancake batter. But I was running enough to be that obnoxious person that would push the pace and still be conversational, so I feel like I can speak for the part of the population you may fear is judging you:

You are amazing. My heart is so full when I see you, because I know what you're doing is so difficult. Running, or any exercise, is awful at first. It is for all of us. The body fights against what is uncomfortable. It's convinced you're dying, and your brain can be your worst enemy, telling you to stop and give up. But your heart keeps you going. Your heart gets that foot to move in front of the other, because you aren't running just for you, are you? You're running for your children. You're running so you will have the energy to play and keep up with them, and be involved with them so they know how important they are to you. You're running for your siblings, so they won't have to watch one of their best friends go through complications related to chronic disease. You're running for your spouse, so you will have the strength to help them through the hard stuff you'll encounter together, and so you can process the suck when you're strengthening your relationship.

You're running for you. You're running to give you the goodness that fitness has to offer, because your heart recognizes that you are worth it. The people you love are worth it. Everything important in your life is worth getting through that awful feeling that your body tells you to give up on when you start running.

And to be witness to that, to be a part of that moment, is truly humbling.

Thank you. Thank you for recognizing you, and your world, are worth it.