I Can Do Hard Things

I started running eight years ago purely because I wanted to learn how to do something I was scared to try. I ran alone for six years, too intimidated to be around “real runners” in group runs or events. I guess that’s the definition of imposter syndrome, the idea that you aren’t that great at something and can’t validate your own success. But every now and then that fear was punctuated with a not so encouraging comment or snarky remark from someone I would consider a “real runner”. The day I ran my first 5 km I was so incredibly proud of myself. It had taken me months to get there. Waking up at 6 am before work, three to five days a week with burning lungs and hamstrings you could play like a violin. I marched over to a coworker that ran marathons and told her. She stared at me silently, as I stood there beaming and said “I don’t even put my shoes on for less than 8 km.” That one sat with me for longer than I would like to admit. 

For seven years I ran five to seven days a week and completed several half marathons without attending a single running group or race. I was an anti-social runner and I told myself the same dialogue that has been in my head since second grade when I was hauled aside for not playing with the other kids at school: 

“I just don’t like them,” I said out loud.  

While my heart whispered you’ll never fit in.

I had spent most of my life depressed as an undiagnosed spicy neurodivergent. I don’t think like other people, I don’t feel things like other people, and I certainly don’t fit in well with most people. That separation I felt from others turned into a depression that was deeply ingrained into negative thought patterns. For most of my life, I didn’t have the positive inner dialogue that is a requirement in most sports and necessary in long distance running. And it took me years of meditation to hear that voice in my head and challenge those negative thoughts and years of running to learn how to encourage myself to push harder. It’s safe to say that the mental aspect of running has always got to me, and the running community was easier to be on the outside than in. 

I even developed a habit of registering for races and then not showing up. The day would come and go. I would Iook at my watch at start time and think I should be there. I wanted to go, I wanted to be there, but willingly comparing myself to others was impossible. It took all the perils and loss of COVID to push myself to sign up, show up and complete the Edmonton Half Marathon last August.  And signing up for a full marathon this May felt very weighty and scary. The mental part was killing me, even thought it was entirely irrational, in my mind, the weeks before, I was already defeated and awaiting the shame of a DNF. I had given up before the race had happened.

When the smoke rolled in and the marathon distance was canceled at Woodys, I was depressed. I sat in my hotel room alone two hours before the race and read the apologetic cancellation of the marathon distance. I felt both relieved and disappointed. And just like all of us in our lowest moments, my inner voice was full of pain, and I told myself “Just like I thought, I can’t do it. It’s not meant for me” I picked up my medal and my bib and debated throwing it all in the trash.

But I knew that surrendering to that negativity doesn’t help me, it just drags me down. And I couldn’t have another medal in a drawer for a race I didn’t attend. So, I took a day to feel angry and sorry for myself, and the next day I started running on a treadmill instead. I did 22 km in a coffin sized exercise room on the treadmill in my building until it overheated. Lost over 2% of my body weight sweating and as I rang the sweat out of my buff I decided to give up again. I texted my partner Alex “I am done.” And like any good cheerleader he said “no way, meet me at the gym, we are finishing this!” With lots of encouragement three granola bars and a pack of blocks I finished the last 20.2 km at the gym with him cheering me on for 3 km.

It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t what I expected, but at least I feel like I accomplished something: I beat that voice inside my head. And that’s all that matters to me.