One Foot In Front Of The Other
It feels the same every time. Nervous rumbling in the pit of my stomach, legs jittery, mind trying desperately to push back the nagging can I actually do this question while at the same time absorbing the excitement and anticipation of the surrounding mob as we approach the starting line. We bounce around and halfheartedly stretch our calves and wait for the time when anticipation eases into reality, when we begin to pound our feet against the pavement and start our watches and let our bodies do their thing as we watch for the next mile marker.
"How far is it around the loop?"
"A little over 2 miles, I think. But pretty much completely flat."
"Ok. Should we do this?"
And so we do. We embark upon a journey of epic proportions. It is indeed just over 2 miles.
Paved.
Flat.
We will not receive a medal or a free t-shirt at the end, and there will be no one chanting our names and taking photos at the finish line. We won't earn ourselves a sticker that says 26.2 or 13.1 and the mob that now surrounds us at the starting line consists of our combined four children - two of whom are desperately in need of naps and two of whom are already nagging to get out and have a snack and put on their mittens and take off their mittens and see a seal and play on the playground and see some workers and go to the other park instead of this one. Rather than absorbing energy from this mob, we are fighting against it because we know that no matter how much they might protest we need this, we need to do this one thing that feels so absurdly hard to accomplish but is something that we are doing for ourselves. We need these next approximately 25 minutes of fresh air and exercise and camaraderie and putting one foot in front of the other because we can't do everything but we can probably do this one next thing.
In between desperate gasps to fill our lungs with the cool fall air, we wonder exactly how much extra weight we are pushing with all of the children and giant strollers and car seats and snacks and toys and blankets and water bottles and things that we might need in case we happen to get stranded somewhere on this grand adventure around the harbor. The toddlers are somewhat placated by the promise of the playground at the end, and each time we hit a bump in the sidewalk we nervously pull back the blankets over the car seats to make sure the babies are still sleeping. I feel every step in my achy joints and my wrecked pelvic floor and my racing heart rate, and I know deep down inside that my body is never going to be the same as it once was, but there is something about this simple act of pounding my feet against the pavement that makes me feel alive. It's like I am finding a piece of myself that I thought might be lost. It looks different now, there's no doubt about that, but it's still in there. Even if I never run another race again (a very distinct possibility), I can still be a runner. I can lace up my shoes and get out the door and put one foot in front of the other and push the stroller and do the thing that I love - no matter how slow I am, no matter how many times I stop to pick up dog poop or get someone a snack, no matter how many times I am made painfully aware that my body is not what it used to be.
Running has never been an easy thing for me. I still remember being on the middle school track and field team and specifically choosing to do only the events that involved absolutely ZERO running. Every once in a while, I suppose as some kind of cruel joke, our coach would send us out into the neighborhood surrounding the school to jog for about 10 minutes as a warm-up. As a united front, we (the throwers of the shot put and discus) would trot out and around the corner until we were sure we were out of sight and immediately slow to a walk. Running is hard, you guys! Why go fast when you can go slow? It wasn't even that I was lazy - I had always been an athlete and didn't shy away from hard work when I was practicing for something I loved - but there was just something about running that seemed pointless to me. Those feelings continued well into my adult life, until I had to run a whopping mile and a half for a physical fitness test required by my employer and figured I should probably prepare myself a little bit so as not to be embarrassed completely and/or fired if I failed to complete it in the required time. I joined a gym, turned my iPod up really loud, and stepped onto a treadmill.
Initially it was just as awful as I remembered, but then something happened. I started to actually like running. Maybe part of it was pushing through the pain of getting into shape until my body wasn't completely rebelling against me. Maybe it was realizing that I had friends who ran and running provided a great opportunity for conversation and quality time. Maybe it was seeing how the rhythmic movement of my body seemed to open up space for connection with God in a season when I was feeling worn out, burnt out, and floundering in my faith.
Or maybe it was that running reminded me of something I needed so desperately to hear in that season of life, and that unsurprisingly I really still need to hear in this current one: I can do hard things, one tiny step at a time. Can I run 26.2 miles? Not a chance. But can I run to that stop sign up there? Absolutely. And then maybe to the next one and the next one after that. Can I run a summer camp for 100 emotionally and behaviorally challenged and traumatized children? Definitely not. But can I sit with this one kid for this one minute and be one adult who values them enough to ask meaningful questions about their life? Totally. Can I raise my babies to be brave, kind, emotionally intelligent human beings? I have no idea. But can I take a breath and let them know that I hear what they are feeling no matter how irrational it might seem to me? Maybe. Can I prioritize compassion over frustration for the next 10 seconds? Probably. Let's start with that. One foot in front of the other.
It has been several months since that first chilly 2 mile loop around the harbor, and I'm finally starting to feel like my running legs are returning to me. I'm definitely in better shape than I have been since I got pregnant with Micah, but the truth is that every single run is still hard. I know it's good for me, and I love the feeling I have after I'm done, but the actual one foot in front of the other part is a conscious act of discipline. The middle schooler in me still reminds me that walking is so much easier, and the tired mom in me reminds me that I only have a finite amount of energy and I'm probably going to need it for something else in a hot minute, and my postpartum body reminds me that I will most definitely always pee my pants on that last little push up the hill towards home. I'm not sure I'll ever complete another marathon or half marathon, but for now I'm just rediscovering my strength approximately 4 miles at a time.
One of my favorite authors/revolutionaries/badass inspirational women, Glennon Doyle, posted this quote the other day:
Here's the thing: I'm not even close to feeling like I have put myself back together, but I think it's an apt description for the journey I'm on and running has helped me realize that wholeness doesn't mean returning to who I was before. Heck, I couldn't do that even if I tried. Becoming a mom has involved so much joy and so much grief, so much growth and so much frustration, so much healing and so much pain, so much life and so much death. And just like the box full of jeans from my pre-pregnancy days that I took to the consignment store a few weeks ago, there are some things about my "old" life that are never going to fit me again. I can choose to either keep those things in a box on the shelf, nagging me to work harder/do better/figure it out already, or I can send them packing and make a little more space for those Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants caliber hand-me-down yoga pants that have magically fit my body through each and every one of its miraculous transformations. For now, I'm going to try to keep at this process of rediscovering the things that help me feel strong even when I'm at my weakest and let that be enough. One foot in front of the other.
"How far is it around the loop?"
"A little over 2 miles, I think. But pretty much completely flat."
"Ok. Should we do this?"
And so we do. We embark upon a journey of epic proportions. It is indeed just over 2 miles.
Paved.
Flat.
We will not receive a medal or a free t-shirt at the end, and there will be no one chanting our names and taking photos at the finish line. We won't earn ourselves a sticker that says 26.2 or 13.1 and the mob that now surrounds us at the starting line consists of our combined four children - two of whom are desperately in need of naps and two of whom are already nagging to get out and have a snack and put on their mittens and take off their mittens and see a seal and play on the playground and see some workers and go to the other park instead of this one. Rather than absorbing energy from this mob, we are fighting against it because we know that no matter how much they might protest we need this, we need to do this one thing that feels so absurdly hard to accomplish but is something that we are doing for ourselves. We need these next approximately 25 minutes of fresh air and exercise and camaraderie and putting one foot in front of the other because we can't do everything but we can probably do this one next thing.
In between desperate gasps to fill our lungs with the cool fall air, we wonder exactly how much extra weight we are pushing with all of the children and giant strollers and car seats and snacks and toys and blankets and water bottles and things that we might need in case we happen to get stranded somewhere on this grand adventure around the harbor. The toddlers are somewhat placated by the promise of the playground at the end, and each time we hit a bump in the sidewalk we nervously pull back the blankets over the car seats to make sure the babies are still sleeping. I feel every step in my achy joints and my wrecked pelvic floor and my racing heart rate, and I know deep down inside that my body is never going to be the same as it once was, but there is something about this simple act of pounding my feet against the pavement that makes me feel alive. It's like I am finding a piece of myself that I thought might be lost. It looks different now, there's no doubt about that, but it's still in there. Even if I never run another race again (a very distinct possibility), I can still be a runner. I can lace up my shoes and get out the door and put one foot in front of the other and push the stroller and do the thing that I love - no matter how slow I am, no matter how many times I stop to pick up dog poop or get someone a snack, no matter how many times I am made painfully aware that my body is not what it used to be.
Running has never been an easy thing for me. I still remember being on the middle school track and field team and specifically choosing to do only the events that involved absolutely ZERO running. Every once in a while, I suppose as some kind of cruel joke, our coach would send us out into the neighborhood surrounding the school to jog for about 10 minutes as a warm-up. As a united front, we (the throwers of the shot put and discus) would trot out and around the corner until we were sure we were out of sight and immediately slow to a walk. Running is hard, you guys! Why go fast when you can go slow? It wasn't even that I was lazy - I had always been an athlete and didn't shy away from hard work when I was practicing for something I loved - but there was just something about running that seemed pointless to me. Those feelings continued well into my adult life, until I had to run a whopping mile and a half for a physical fitness test required by my employer and figured I should probably prepare myself a little bit so as not to be embarrassed completely and/or fired if I failed to complete it in the required time. I joined a gym, turned my iPod up really loud, and stepped onto a treadmill.
Initially it was just as awful as I remembered, but then something happened. I started to actually like running. Maybe part of it was pushing through the pain of getting into shape until my body wasn't completely rebelling against me. Maybe it was realizing that I had friends who ran and running provided a great opportunity for conversation and quality time. Maybe it was seeing how the rhythmic movement of my body seemed to open up space for connection with God in a season when I was feeling worn out, burnt out, and floundering in my faith.
Or maybe it was that running reminded me of something I needed so desperately to hear in that season of life, and that unsurprisingly I really still need to hear in this current one: I can do hard things, one tiny step at a time. Can I run 26.2 miles? Not a chance. But can I run to that stop sign up there? Absolutely. And then maybe to the next one and the next one after that. Can I run a summer camp for 100 emotionally and behaviorally challenged and traumatized children? Definitely not. But can I sit with this one kid for this one minute and be one adult who values them enough to ask meaningful questions about their life? Totally. Can I raise my babies to be brave, kind, emotionally intelligent human beings? I have no idea. But can I take a breath and let them know that I hear what they are feeling no matter how irrational it might seem to me? Maybe. Can I prioritize compassion over frustration for the next 10 seconds? Probably. Let's start with that. One foot in front of the other.
It has been several months since that first chilly 2 mile loop around the harbor, and I'm finally starting to feel like my running legs are returning to me. I'm definitely in better shape than I have been since I got pregnant with Micah, but the truth is that every single run is still hard. I know it's good for me, and I love the feeling I have after I'm done, but the actual one foot in front of the other part is a conscious act of discipline. The middle schooler in me still reminds me that walking is so much easier, and the tired mom in me reminds me that I only have a finite amount of energy and I'm probably going to need it for something else in a hot minute, and my postpartum body reminds me that I will most definitely always pee my pants on that last little push up the hill towards home. I'm not sure I'll ever complete another marathon or half marathon, but for now I'm just rediscovering my strength approximately 4 miles at a time.
One of my favorite authors/revolutionaries/badass inspirational women, Glennon Doyle, posted this quote the other day:
Here's the thing: I'm not even close to feeling like I have put myself back together, but I think it's an apt description for the journey I'm on and running has helped me realize that wholeness doesn't mean returning to who I was before. Heck, I couldn't do that even if I tried. Becoming a mom has involved so much joy and so much grief, so much growth and so much frustration, so much healing and so much pain, so much life and so much death. And just like the box full of jeans from my pre-pregnancy days that I took to the consignment store a few weeks ago, there are some things about my "old" life that are never going to fit me again. I can choose to either keep those things in a box on the shelf, nagging me to work harder/do better/figure it out already, or I can send them packing and make a little more space for those Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants caliber hand-me-down yoga pants that have magically fit my body through each and every one of its miraculous transformations. For now, I'm going to try to keep at this process of rediscovering the things that help me feel strong even when I'm at my weakest and let that be enough. One foot in front of the other.
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