When I was in junior high (because back then “middle school” wasn’t even a thing) a few times each year my schoolmates and I were tested beyond our physical limits and forced to endure the most grueling of preteen athletic pursuits, the mile run. O.M.G. My stomach was in knots for at least a week leading up to this dreaded day. Just the thought of running made my lungs constrict as if I was drowning in the mildewed dust that hung on the gymnasium rafters. As I drifted to sleep the night before M Day, I would run a quick diagnostic on each of my major body parts, hoping to uncover the slightest hint of weakness that might afford me a note from my mom that would somehow save me from this agony and shame.
“I can’t do this. Nobody should be forced to run that far. I’m going to pass out. I won’t be able to breath. Can’t. Do. This.” Ah, the uplifting self-talk of the preteen psyche.
Actually, our self-talk as adults is often just as unhelpful. Sometimes more so. As a young adult I toyed on-and-off with gym memberships, usually sticking to an elliptical and some weight machines to keep my body in check. I would watch others on the treadmill, completely awed that anyone could keep their body running for minutes at a time. I couldn’t. I was not a runner.
Fast-forward to baby #3 and the surprisingly stubborn extra pounds that wouldn’t seem to drop off as they had with my first two. We no longer lived close to a gym, so we gave up a quarter of our living room to a giant treadmill. My husband would sometimes jog on it, but I was content to power walk because I was not a runner.
Fast-forward again to baby #4. I was now a 100% SAHM, we were a few years into homeschooling, my husband was exclusively consulting, we were still muddling through our fixer-upper house and our finances felt held together with grimy, fraying duck tape. (You know what I mean? The kind you find holding together 30-year-old boxes in your grandpa’s garage. The kind that seems to maintain its stickiness with nothing but the glue of sheer will and old exhaust muck that pollutes every corner of antiquated outbuildings.) Life was staggeringly out of control and one day a crazy, wild idea just struck me…
What if I started running? I can’t seem to control my kids, my house, our finances, but I CAN control my body. My body had birthed four babies; suddenly running a mile didn’t seem so impossible. Maybe I could be trained to be a runner.
It wasn’t easy. Some days it was downright ugly. But, I stuck with it. And I’m seriously not exaggerating when I say that an inexpensive “couch to 5K” app literally changed my life. I discovered a hidden ability that I never DREAMED my body possessed. I was a runner. I could do it. And not just do it, but I LOVED it. In 2015 I ran my first official 5K and have been running ever since.
Now, I wish I could say that I’m so disciplined I run all the time. I love it. It makes me feel good. Why on earth wouldn’t I? But, if you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you know that “super disciplined” appears nowhere on my resume and I often struggle against the very things that are probably best for me. So, sometimes I run alot. Sometimes I don’t. Every winter I tell myself that I’m going to layer up and keep going in the cold months. But, I never have. At times, grief, depression and exhaustion have completely foiled my goals and training. But, I always seem to come back.
Baby #5 is now 10-months old and I can tell you that postpartum weight that was tricky to shed in your early thirties sticks to your gut and posterior worse than the dust on grandpa’s duct tape when you’re in your LATE thirties. The scale mocks me more than it ever has before and year 40 is bearing down on me like a speeding freight train. It took me several months to convince myself to return to the one activity I knew would make me once again feel in control of my body, emotions and mind. I am a runner. And year forty will be my year.
In a few days I am running a 5K that is kicking off a major training milestone for me. In May I’m running a 10K, in June a 10-miler, and my first half marathon in July — two weeks after my candle-laden cake sets the room ablaze. My life’s bucket list would fit on one of those mini sticky notes, but running a half marathon is one of the few things on it. I’m a little scared, but mostly just excited. Because unlike junior high me, almost-40-year-old me knows I can do this.
Just finished my first 5-miler! 
There was that one time I ran in the snow. 
Longest distance so far.
So, this is all to ask — what’s your thing? What’s the thing you have always told yourself you don’t do? Or can’t do? What if all these years you’ve been mistaken, and you actually can? Maybe this year isn’t a milestone birthday for you, but it can still be a milestone year. Stop focusing on the things you can’t control and choose to channel all that energy into something you can. Think about the next time you’re telling your story, how awesome it will feel to fast forward to the part where you took control and did the thing you thought you never could.
