Running for My Life

Running a few miles has always been a symbol of strength and great health for me, of overcoming painful limitations. After chronic pain from multiple car accidents, each recovery was checked off as I reached the 2, 3, 6 mile marks with a smile and a fist pump in the air. Each winter hibernation ended with a trusty 2 mile reunion with my body. I am that weirdo on the hamster wheel (treadmill, whatever) with a big, goofy grin as I sweat because to me running is freedom. It means that my body is strong and free and that makes me happy, even as I grunt, drool, and wheeze through that last quarter mile.

I was feeling stronger than ever, healthy and free and light. Until the Really Bad Stuff happened. I entered a dark time of anger with my body, surgeries, recoveries, and tears. I was stripped of my power and crippled with fear and panic. I kept telling myself I was okay, telling family and friends "I'm fine, drop it."

Looking back, I can now see that I was not fine. I was muddling in molasses, the dark time lasting 2.5 years. I would panic on the way to yoga class and drive home. I would plan to run and then simply run in the opposite direction of the gym, hiding on the couch. My body and personal power grew weaker and weaker, making the thought of ever running again increasingly overwhelming.

When I showed up for my first day of personal training, the fear was heavy in my gut. I felt like it could actually kill me if I walked through the door. I took a deep breath. I did it anyways. I vowed that I would just show up, I would see what was hiding deep inside me, and I would pray the angel of death to pass over me as I held plank pose for what seemed like forever.

About 6 weeks since I walked through that door, I am changed. The hope is settling in that even if I'm still not completely okay, that I can and will be more than okay soon. The promise of power is coursing through me, prana flowing as I just keep breathing.

(Cue Chariots of Fire)

Last week, I just kind of felt like running 2 miles after a pretty challenging yoga class. So I did. Then, this past weekend I thought I'd just see if I might be ready for a 5K this coming weekend by going for the 3 mile run. If you're not a yogi, this may sound crazy to you, but I even patted my body, thanking it for the strength, loving it for all of its miraculous glory. And then the impossible happened. Sweating, wiping snot from my nose with my sleeve, wheezing, grunting, gasping, I just kept going. 2.75 miles and I sped up, letting my legs fly out in huge strides of freedom.

3 miles!

If the other gym members knew what that moment meant (instead of thinking how gross that she wiped her nose with her sleeve), they would have been cheering. If my life were a movie, it would be a major scene in the comeback montage. My life is not a movie, so instead it was just the goofy smile as the tears snuck out of the corners of my eyes and the feeling gently washed over me that I might finally be okay again, stronger even.

It's more than "working out." It's showing up, facing my fears and weaknesses over and over again and proving to myself that I'm so much stronger than I knew. That I have, and always will, overcome. Just breathing, healing, showing up, running it off, letting it go. Letting it go. Letting me grow.