Three years past.
When I stopped running competitively, I was both relieved and heart-broken. It was one of the scariest, saddest, most difficult decisions I have ever made, but I knew in my heart I needed a break from competitive running, although I couldn't admit it initially. In this phase of my running life, every workout seemed like brutal punishment, and my body and mind were falling apart. I was not working, my legs were lead every mile, and I was running slower than ever. To top it off, I was steadily gaining weight despite my long mileage (bad news in the distance running world). I was burnt out, hardcore. Exhausted in every sense of the word, I couldn't do it anymore. But when you have to decide between leaving your first all-consuming passion and staying, the decision can seem impossible.
After a stress-fracture scare and a week of base-building exhaustion high in the mountains, I came back to Provo with a very heavy heart. I had trained with the BYU Cross Country Team, a dream I had literally been chasing for years. I yearned, mentally, to stay with them. I wanted to be a collegiate runner, to represent the school I was growing to love. I wanted to stay a runner. A hard-working, pace-pushing, mountain-climbing, long-distance runner. The thought of quitting made me nauseous. But simultaneously, even the thought felt like freedom. To quit would mean freedom from the exhaustion, from the stress, from the enormous expectations I had on myself.
I remember swimming laps one day during this time in my life. The repetitive motion of arms steadily slapping, head turning, hips twisting, lungs gasping. . . I contemplated what it would mean to no longer run competitively. I thought of all my dreams and personal goals I had yet to obtain, goals that I would probably never reach if I quit. Looking back, I put an incredible amount of stress on myself to achieve these goals, goals that always seemed just barely unobtainable due to my steady decline in the two years previous. While I swam, my mind wrestled. It was a tough mental battle, one I remember vividly even today, over three years later. But in that moment, I knew it was time for me to take a break--temporarily, I thought at the time--from competitive running. As I made this decision, I felt physical weight lifted from my shoulders. I felt peace. Serenity.
But it was still hard. So, so hard.
I think often about that fateful decision I made three summers ago. What if I had stayed? Who knows, but I know that the life I chose was right for me. It has been an incredible journey, you know. So mind-blowingly awesome, yet utterly simple in a beautiful way.
I chose to write this today because I finally feel at peace about it all. I've started training much better in the past three weeks; by better I mean much more balanced. I listen to my body, and when I'm tired, I rest. When I'm strong, I push myself. I'm cycling, running, and swimming, a perfect balance for me. My body doesn't drag anymore--I feel strong! If only I could convey how incredible and meaningful that statement is to me. Chronic fatigue is a terrible plague I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, the way it rips at not only your entire body but also the deepest parts of your mind and soul.
So, I'm happy. So incredibly happy. I'm in a really good place right now: physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. . . I'd forgotten how much I missed physical exertion; body, mind, and spirit plowing forward in unison, together on the exact frequency, moving together as a unit greater than the separate parts. I love that unison of mind and body, a unity I think is only available during long, repetitive motions, like running, cycling, and swimming. . . It's a beautiful thing.
I find it ironic that these thoughts came to me as I crouched to enter the pool again today. Three years later, but a totally different person. A stronger, happier, more confident person.
I entered the pool and began to swim.
Arms steadily slapping, head turning, hips twisting, lungs gasping. . .
And I felt at peace, yet again. Serenity.
Life has an interesting way of turning out, you know?
After a stress-fracture scare and a week of base-building exhaustion high in the mountains, I came back to Provo with a very heavy heart. I had trained with the BYU Cross Country Team, a dream I had literally been chasing for years. I yearned, mentally, to stay with them. I wanted to be a collegiate runner, to represent the school I was growing to love. I wanted to stay a runner. A hard-working, pace-pushing, mountain-climbing, long-distance runner. The thought of quitting made me nauseous. But simultaneously, even the thought felt like freedom. To quit would mean freedom from the exhaustion, from the stress, from the enormous expectations I had on myself.
I remember swimming laps one day during this time in my life. The repetitive motion of arms steadily slapping, head turning, hips twisting, lungs gasping. . . I contemplated what it would mean to no longer run competitively. I thought of all my dreams and personal goals I had yet to obtain, goals that I would probably never reach if I quit. Looking back, I put an incredible amount of stress on myself to achieve these goals, goals that always seemed just barely unobtainable due to my steady decline in the two years previous. While I swam, my mind wrestled. It was a tough mental battle, one I remember vividly even today, over three years later. But in that moment, I knew it was time for me to take a break--temporarily, I thought at the time--from competitive running. As I made this decision, I felt physical weight lifted from my shoulders. I felt peace. Serenity.
But it was still hard. So, so hard.
I think often about that fateful decision I made three summers ago. What if I had stayed? Who knows, but I know that the life I chose was right for me. It has been an incredible journey, you know. So mind-blowingly awesome, yet utterly simple in a beautiful way.
I chose to write this today because I finally feel at peace about it all. I've started training much better in the past three weeks; by better I mean much more balanced. I listen to my body, and when I'm tired, I rest. When I'm strong, I push myself. I'm cycling, running, and swimming, a perfect balance for me. My body doesn't drag anymore--I feel strong! If only I could convey how incredible and meaningful that statement is to me. Chronic fatigue is a terrible plague I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, the way it rips at not only your entire body but also the deepest parts of your mind and soul.
So, I'm happy. So incredibly happy. I'm in a really good place right now: physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. . . I'd forgotten how much I missed physical exertion; body, mind, and spirit plowing forward in unison, together on the exact frequency, moving together as a unit greater than the separate parts. I love that unison of mind and body, a unity I think is only available during long, repetitive motions, like running, cycling, and swimming. . . It's a beautiful thing.
I find it ironic that these thoughts came to me as I crouched to enter the pool again today. Three years later, but a totally different person. A stronger, happier, more confident person.
I entered the pool and began to swim.
Arms steadily slapping, head turning, hips twisting, lungs gasping. . .
And I felt at peace, yet again. Serenity.
Life has an interesting way of turning out, you know?
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