Running

I’ve been  a runner for as long as I can remember.  I always liked to run—fast and far, and I knew I was good.  The Greenville Mile was always a chance to prove myself, that I was in the top three, often the first in my elementary school class.  There were a few girls that were faster than me, that was always a given.  I was part of the running club in middle school, which mostly consisted of me trying to keep up with the boys, to prove I was just as fast.  In ninth grade, it was popular to do track, but I didn’t just do it, I wanted to own it.  In volleyball, my ability to run and be first was always a proud point for me.  One of the cruelest things anyone has said to me was my tenth grade volleyball coach who said that maybe I should just do cross country since I was so good at running.  I still remember as a freshman, when a junior boy came running up to me because he wanted to get to know me.  The boys on the track team were my friends, my crushes, my competition.  In the midst of not doing cross country and quitting track, running was still my out.  On the day of high school graduation, I got up early to go and practice my speech, but afterwards I ran six miles on our treadmill, slow and steady, running out my nerves and nostalgia.  On the day of my college graduation, I ran a couple of miles, out of tradition and to breathe some air into my fear.  I ran my first year at BYU, up and down hills, creating out my own running route in a new place.  On my study abroad, I ran through the streets of Venice, in the shadow of the Alps, and on a treadmill in South Africa.  Running was my touchstone in the midst of confusion, always the same route down the edge of campus, right on 700, and then turning to University Avenue.  My year is patterned by half marathons, littered throughout spring and fall.  When my back hurts, when I have a difficult discussion, when I’m feeling restless, I lace up my running shoes.  My life could be falling apart, and the only solution I can provide is to go for a run, never mind more sleep or taking up yoga.  I wish I was more consistent or a faster runner, or even someone who took care of herself better throughout the running process, but it’s been my escape.  I have made it a life habit to run, both literally and figuratively as I try to outrun my demons.  

And now, I am finally grounded.  Not surprising in some ways, because aren’t we always waiting for the other shoe to drop?  I am stationary. I can’t run to the new song I have on repeat.  I can’t run when I woke up today feeling inexplicably sad.  I can’t run when I need space or time to think. I can’t run when I’m happy and find myself rejoicing over a small comment. I can’t run when I had a breakthrough at work and feel like declaring it from the rooftops.  I can’t run when I need to escape and not think for one second of life.  

I know I want to run because the thought of being left behind terrifies me.  If I run hard enough, fast enough, far enough, maybe I will escape the insecurities and my failures.  And now I'm just sitting with them, terrified and apprehensive because this is really the first time that I've been forced to just spend some time, anchored and tethered to the things that frighten me most.