Necessary Interruptions
When it first happened, I thought something was horribly wrong. I was a sophomore in high school, and, having just won the cross country state championships, was beginning to train for my first 10-mile race. Though I’d been running for a few years at that point and had always been a perfectionist about it, that December, seemingly all of a sudden, all those months of simmering anxiety began to boil over. It was partially physical–I was so tired and every run felt so hard–but mostly, it was mental. The idea of running, something once so natural and routine for me, became an insurmountable challenge. A journal entry from that month reads, “all day, I couldn’t stop thinking about my upcoming workout… It’s taken over now, not just my life but my mind. I’m sick and tired of dreading every run, being so mentally exhausted before it even begins. My legs feel heavy and I’m tired. I have no life anymore. I can’t join clubs, go to camps, make new friends, learn to drive, because it’s all I ever do. I’ve lost that joy.”
I kept running, only committing the cardinal sin of modifying my self-written training plan once or twice, on days when there was simply no energy or motivation to be found. Some workouts were good, others not so much, but I can’t recall a single session that I looked forward to–-or, for that matter, didn’t completely dread. I felt an overwhelming loss of control. Running was what I was known for. It was basically all I ever thought or cared about; the only exciting part of my otherwise monotonous high school life. And now it seemed to be slipping away. I knew that forcing myself out the door once or twice every day could only be sustainable for so long. The 10-miler went fine, but I finished mostly just relieved to be able to take the next day off from exercise with a good conscience.
Looking back at my high school career, I sometimes have trouble seeing any positives. Sure, there were good days, plenty of them, but the overwhelming emotions I recall are anxiety and dread. I remember feeling jealous of classmates who would complain about getting stressed over schoolwork, wishing my source of worry was something so “simple.” Yet after that first difficult winter, things did get better. I had more good days than bad; my goals seemed exciting again. By the summer, it felt as though I had found my love for running again.
Covid hit during my junior year, and I found myself responding to canceled races by running more than ever. Week after week I set a benchmark of 90 miles, an increase from the 70-80 I had averaged prior to that. Then, that December, it happened again: The crushing, overwhelming dread, the complete lack of anything remotely resembling motivation or love for the sport. This time, though, I tried a different approach. Why bother training for a race? There were no races anyways. Instead, I attempted to find new activities. I bought running snowshoes and huffed around the trails behind my house. I dug out my old cross country skis and drove to a local golf course a few times, but never got past my fear of going downhill (I would take my skis off and walk). But, in the end, it was obvious that my body was telling me I just needed to stop forcing movement–completely. I remember running down Scott Dyer Road one morning in early January and saying to myself, “this sucks. I’m done.” I took six entire weeks off. That might seem like hardly a big deal, but for me, it was like taking away the very essence of who I had been. Yet those six weeks were filled with energy, joy, and productivity. I worked more hours at a job I found challenging but immensely rewarding (preschool!) I began an EMT certification class, finished my college applications, and went WWOOFing at an off-grid farm. I got excellent grades. And I didn’t miss running at all until one day in mid-February. I was spending the weekend at my friend’s farm, helping her muck stalls and prep the greenhouse for spring planting, when suddenly the same voice that told me I was finished told me it was time to start running again. So I did. I put my name in the lottery for a local 50k, got in, and never looked back. Since then, I have been a very different runner than the high schooler who put her entire self-worth into the sport. Ultrarunning brought a kind of excitement and lack of pressure I had never encountered before.
That’s not to say I’m over my weirdly obsessive tendencies or seasons of highs and lows. In fact, I run more than ever now. My mind and body are stronger–30 mile training runs and 130 mile weeks feel routine–but there’s still always anxiety simmering under the surface. This spring, I broke my pelvis, sacrum, and first metatarsal, tore a labrum, and got an additional stress reaction in my acetabulum. When my doctor learned the results of the MRI, her first reaction was to screen me for OCD. She tried to put me on medication but I refused. I didn’t want to lose any part of who I was. Even though it was responsible for so much damage to my body, who would I be without the voice pushing me to keep going?
Yet in some ways, I am much more carefree than I used to be. I no longer classify runs as “good” or “bad.” If it gets done, it was a good day. It wasn’t always like this. One time in 8th grade, while my family was on vacation in Virginia, I had a 10-mile run on my schedule, which I decided to complete on the hotel treadmill. A few minutes in, I realized I had to use the bathroom–-badly. Fortunately, the bathroom was literally 10 steps away, right outside the door of the gym. Unfortunately, some part of me had internalized that pausing my watch and stepping off the treadmill for 90 seconds would completely negate the workout (this is also why I would often find myself running for miles with untied shoes). It was a very uncomfortable hour. That was a “bad” run.
Seasonal depression is a real and serious concern for many, and while I wouldn’t classify my annual low-motivation funk as a real diagnosable condition, it certainly is something I’ve come to expect each winter. But I’ve learned that it doesn’t mean I’ve fallen out of love with the sport. I know that when the temperatures get warmer and the majority of my miles aren’t in the pitch black early morning and the air smells like mulch, it will be much easier to get out the door. Until then, I take an approach of being tough but kind to myself. Courtney Dauwalter’s UTMB mantra of “robot” has really resonated with me. Sometimes you have to just go through the motions and not think too hard–or at all. But other times, you must be gentle with yourself. After all, there’s no sense in breaking your spirit for this sport.
Honestly, putting this all in writing is a bit embarrassing. I have been told more than once that I run with so much joy, that my love and enthusiasm for the sport is so obvious and genuine. While these things are true, they are not true all of the time. I listen to podcasts and follow the social media feeds of athletes who seem to exude a carefreeness I can only envy. Why can’t I be like them? Why can’t running be fun and great and stress-free all of the time? Why, more days than not, is my first waking thought, “please please don’t make me run?”
This winter, I planned to combat the cold-weather blues with a warm-weather race. I signed up for the Bandera 100k in Texas and threw myself into training. I was excited, of course, but also incredibly anxious. As a very rigid person, you could say that travel doesn’t exactly bring out the best in me. It would be my first time traveling alone, and there were so many variables to plan–flights, rental cars, hotels, etc. And when I say I was anxious, I mean I was irrationally anxious. Every night I was waking up around midnight and lying there for hours, dreading the number of things that could go wrong, even weeks before the trip. I hate to think of the hours wasted worrying about that race. Anyways, last week, I decided to do a short FKT on a local mountain trail system. It was a pretty tough route navigationally, so the day before my attempt I went to go scout it out. I was running down the mountain on a slippery rock when one misplaced step made my legs fly out from under me and I landed hard on my butt. Ouch. But I got back up and continued, setting the FKT the next day. Two days later, I ran a fun 50k trail race (fat ass style – no registration, awards, or aid… just show up and run) and realized early on that my tailbone was not fine. I ran a decent time, but finished barely able to run.
For the entire next week, running was out of the question. I could walk slowly, but any time I tried to speed up, a sharp, stabbing pain would immediately stop me. I canceled my flight and emailed the race to let them know I was withdrawing. I spent the week jogging at a 15% incline on the treadmill, the only running-like motion my body could tolerate (side note – this allowed me to check off a goal I’ve had for a while but never made time for: climbing the height of Mt. Everest in a week. Although I did 38,800+ feet instead of 29,000 feet so yay me I guess). I was bummed and anxious to miss Bandera, but also kind of (*ahem* very) relieved. On Saturday, the day of the race, I jogged 7,000 feet on the treadmill and limped out of the gym like normal. I followed the live standings on the computer. That evening, when the results of the first finishers popped onto my screen, I suddenly noticed something: I could walk fast again. I tried to jog. Yep. The next morning, I was able to run 15 miles.
I’m not superstitious, but I’m religious, and I believe 100% that God didn’t want me to run that race.
Aside from the weirdness of that story (and I promise the pain wasn’t psychological), the interruption the injury provided was just the interruption I needed. During that week when I couldn’t run normally, I was more motivated to run than I had been all winter. It took a few days of being confined to the treadmill, watching documentaries like Pacing the Pacific and The Source to get that spark back. Suddenly, all I wanted to do was get out there and run. Our sport is so cool. Traveling fast and far using the power of our own two feet, exploring places otherwise untouched (or viewed with a new lens) is so natural and beautiful. Sometimes a little reminder of the gratitude I feel towards ultrarunning–even if that reminder comes in the form of a minor injury–is what’s needed to get back on track.
Our pastor recently gave a sermon on purpose, and how we can find and pursue it in a world driven by outward success. So my final reflection is this: Running is not my purpose. Sometimes it feels like it is. But, as a Christian, while I can use God-given passions and gifts as a vehicle to pursue my purpose, ultimately, we are called to be disciples who make disciples. This isn’t meant to be a sermon, but instead a reminder to myself that running can’t be my everything. I truly believe God gave me this often single-minded focus for a reason, yet I can’t abandon the other blessings He’s placed in my life. When I’m too exhausted from a 150-mile week to put my best foot forward with relationships and my future nursing career, clearly I’m abusing that gift. So I will strive for balance, for those big adventures and races coupled with the other things that make life exciting. I will take the seasons of running as reminders to both lean in and step back. I will use the setbacks as fuel for the fire that keeps on burning—often lightly this time of year, but still burning. And when all else fails and my mind gets in the way, I will be a robot, going through the motions on autopilot, until the darkness lifts and I can allow myself to think again.
