2020, the year of perfect vision. The year of favor. The year of fill-in-the-blank. We’ve talked about what you want; we’ve talked about vision. What about the stories we tell ourselves? How do they affect our vision?
What are the stories you’re telling yourself? Our stories serve a purpose. Perhaps, this is something we were told over and over as children, and so we wove it into the fabric of our being, not realizing that it wasn’t really ours in the first place. Our stories protect us. They keep us safe. And they can also keep us stuck if we don’t do the hard work of looking at the stories as just that-- stories.
Since the new year, I’ve taken up morning walks. They are always glorious, sometimes a little chilly (for California), and the color of the rocky mountains never disappoints. On my more recent walks, I’ve been reflecting on how far this feels from where I once was.
Once upon a time, I was a runner. Let me go back a little further. Once upon a time, I WASN’T a runner. Growing up, I was told that I wasn’t a runner, that my body wasn’t built for running, that it would be better for me to stick to the pool.
So I did.
I swam on the ICE swim team, the Iowa City Eels. I competed. I dominated. I loved it. I was a swimmer. I was built to swim. What can I say? I’m part mermaid.
One year for Halloween, I wore a shirt from a marathon, and let everyone at the Halloween party I went to know that there wasn’t a more appropriate costume for this non-runner. The “I’m not a runner” story I had adopted as my truth ran deep.
I don’t remember the details of how it happened, but somehow I signed up for a reverse triathlon at the Rose Bowl in 2010 (reverse because a triathlon is usually swim, bike, run). This race was a 5K run (3.1 miles or 1 lap around the Rose Bowl), followed by a 15K bike (9.3 miles or 3 Rose Bowl laps) and finished with a 500 meter swim in the Rose Bowl pool. I joked (not joking) that I wished the run and swim lengths could be switched.
Nonetheless, I began training for the run, the whole run and nothing but the run. I wasn’t a runner. I wasn’t built to run. But I had to find a way to finish the race! I wanted to show those who’d said I couldn’t, that I COULD.
As I began practicing at the Rose Bowl after work, I would run as far as I could and then stop to walk and work up the muster to run again. It was grueling. I did the Couch to 5K program, which was the perfect plan for this non-runner. I’d either run outside or at the gym and do my intervals and feel SO accomplished at the end of the workout. My goal on race day was to not stop. To not walk. To RUN the full 3.1 miles as if my life really did depend on it.
That was how it all started. I wanted to show whoever it was who’d told me my whole life that I could indeed run. (I mean, how absurd, not being able to run. It’s one foot in front of the other, repeat, repeat, repeat!) I initially looked at running as flipping a big bird to those who’d told me, “you can’t.” And it was about reclaiming the part of myself who’d believed all the nay-sayers.
That little reverse triathlon unleashed something in me. The costume I’d worn for Halloween quickly became my Saturday morning uniform. I trained after work. I trained before work. I trained on weekends when I wasn’t running races. I spent several summers in Spain during my running years and ran races there too. I had discovered a part of myself that I loved, and I wanted to continue to get better.
The apex of my running career was March of 2013 (more on why later). I ran the Los Angeles Marathon, pounding 26.2 miles of pavement between Dodger Stadium and Santa Monica Pier. I didn’t set any records. My race time was nothing for the books. Because this race was not about records or PRs; it was about finishing what I’d set out to do. Crossing that finish line was one of my proudest moments. I lost all 10 toenails on that 6 month journey to the end. I’d missed happy hours with friends, birthday parties, brunches. Yet I’d reclaimed and rebuilt a part of myself I didn’t know existed. What I found on the other side? More pride than I could ever imagine. More possibility than I ever knew existed. It’s worth it, I promise. Even with all those lost toenails.
What stories are you telling yourself? What limiting beliefs are holding you back from the life you’ve always dreamed and imagined? How can you begin to rewrite that story today?
As always, I’d love to hear from you. Shoot me an email. Leave a comment below.