Learning to run
When I was younger, I thought health = salads and running.
Obviously I know better now. I know that health is comprehensive, holistic, and different for each person. I also know health isn’t available to everyone, that it’s rooted in a culture that prizes whiteness above all else. I know that people who run and eat salads aren’t automatically healthy, and that those who do neither aren’t automatically unhealthy. There’s no causal relationship here, only an illusion.
I love salads as an adult, but not because I believe they will make me thinner or more virtuous. I just really enjoy vegetables. They’re tasty! As a vegan, I eat a wide variety of salads, both warm and cold, because it brings me pleasure.
Running, though? That’s been a mental struggle for me for almost my entire life. I always thought I wasn’t a runner. I’ve had Osgood Schlatter Disease in both knees since I was a pre-teen (it basically means I have to be really careful with high-impact exercises). I get winded easily and associate breathlessness with panic attacks, so it’s hard for me to stay calm when I can’t catch a good breath.
Each year of Elementary and Middle school, I dreaded the presidential fitness test. It meant one thing, cast in iron: I would have to run the mile with my classmates, and I would be humiliated. I was always last to finish. Always. I was never able to run the entire mile. I had to mix running, jogging, and walking to complete the mile. I drowned in the shame. I felt absolutely worthless - a complete failure.
In eighth grade, I was so slow that my gym teacher forgot about me and brought the entire class back indoors before I had finished the mile. When I walked back in the building, he remarked with surprise that he hadn’t written down my time- he asked me, “how long did you take?” I answered that I had no idea— he'd left me outside. He was quite kind and sorry, but my peers weren’t. They thought it was hilarious. I feel so sad and sorry for that younger Sara. There were so many reasons she was slow, so many reasons she didn’t have the ability or wherewithal to run faster. I wish someone had told me it was fine to be slow. I wish my gym teacher and classmates had been able to be, if not compassionate, indifferent to my pace.
When I worked with my health coach, Michelle Baker of Fitvista, one of the VERY first things she told me was that I didn’t need to run to be healthy, ever. What a gift this permission was. So, I didn’t run. I strength trained, swam, walked, hiked, and did yoga. I wore my knee braces and worked on low-impact cardio for my heart and mental health.
However, as with almost all aspects of our lives, COVID deeply interrupted my movement routine. With sheltering in place, it’s been hard for me to get a satisfying cardio workout. Hikes have been a lifesaver, but they take time, and I was noticing a dip in my mental health as the weeks and months went by. I started feeling depressed.
[IMPORTANT SIDE-BAR: relying entirely on movement for mental health is not the way to go. Endorphins absolutely help you maintain stable mental health, but only if you have other tools. For me, that includes therapy, meditation, painting, baths, tea, and seeing friends regularly, among other things. Formerly, my toolkit included medication when I really needed the help. Movement is the cherry on top - NOT the whole sundae.]
It was hard to only speak to my therapist on the phone and not see her in person, to not see my friends, to be stuck in my small apartment. Of course it was hard - it’s been hard, for everyone. Movement was one of the tools in my toolkit that I could still use, safely. For that reason, I made a decision: I decided I kinda sorta wanted to see if I could start jogging.
I started so slow. I jogged lightly for the length of one song. I waited a week and added one minute to the time jogging. The next week I added another minute, etc… My goal was to make sure I was light and soft on my knees and able to breathe easily through my nose for the whole jog so that I didn’t panic. Y’all, I jog hella slowly—proudly back of the pack—something that would have caused me insurmountable shame when I was younger.
I got up to 24 minutes (which was an incredible achievement!) when the fires started in California. Dangerous air quality, plus emerging knee pain, told me to take a break. I didn’t jog for a while. Months later, I tried again. To my surprise, I didn’t have to start from zero. I jogged a mile one week and the next was able to jog 25 minutes! The week after, I jogged for 30, which was my initial goal. I was so proud of myself. Tiny Sara was so proud and amazed - I did something I truly thought was impossible. That’s a beautiful lesson, but surprisingly, it wasn’t the most powerful one I’ve learned from running.
Lately, while on my weekly jog or interval run, I’ve heard a new refrain in my mind when I start to feel fatigued. I’m either starting to breathe heavily, or my legs have begun to hurt, OR I’m feeling the mental strain of sustaining attention and motivation for something that doesn’t feel particularly great in the moment. When this time comes each run, as it inevitably does, I hear: “I CAN DO HARD THINGS. C’MON SARA, YOU’VE GOT THIS. YOU CAN DO HARD THINGS.”
I’ve seen this phrase on Instagram, I’m sure. It’s probably been hiding in my subconscious for a while. It’s not necessarily profound. But for someone who lived most of her life in fear, suffered from and worked through PTSD, and defined herself as a child as being inherently unable to do hard things, this is a tremendous shift.
And you know what? It’s true. I’m resilient as hell. I’m strong, mentally and physically. I’m brave. I’m proud of who I am. I can do do hard things.
This is my new motivation. This is why I want to keep running. Not to be able to run for longer, not even for endorphins. I want to be able to do hard things, now and in the future. Hard times will come—they always do. They’re part of life. I have a support system in place for when those times arrive. I couldn’t be more grateful for the people who comprise that system. But I also have myself. I can rely on myself. I can persevere. I can endure pain and hardship and mental fatigue. I can keep going. I don’t force myself to keep going - I try to treat myself gently rather than militaristically, but I know that I CAN keep going. It’s about what I can do, not what I have to do.
This is why I love movement so much, and why it has such a valuable place in my life. I encourage my clients to move in a way that makes them happy, for so many reasons, but this being one: if you can prove to yourself that you are capable of more than you realize, what else might you be able to do?
Which activities help you feel strong, powerful, and capable? Have you learned an important lesson from trying something new? Leave a comment below!
Be well,
Sara
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