Tag Archives: Fitness

Running from Math Teachers

Being a mom, I’ve decided, is a lot like signing up for an ultramarathon you don’t remember registering for, on a course no one has accurately mapped, with an elevation chart drawn by a drunk cartographer.

There are moments when the sun hits just right, the road opens up, and you think, “This. This is why people do this.” And then, about three minutes later, you’re in a ditch, tying your shoe with one hand while trying not to cry into your Gatorade.

That’s motherhood for me.

I love it. I hate it. Simultaneously. In the same way I love and hate mile 17 of a long run—far enough in that you can’t turn back, not far enough that you can see the finish line, fully committed and questioning every life choice that led you here.

Here’s the part people get weird about: if I had to choose motherhood again, I wouldn’t. There, I said it. Not because I don’t adore my kids—because I do. Fiercely. If it came down to it, I would step in front of anything for them, no hesitation. I show up for them, I take care of them, I push for what they need. They are, without question, the most important part of my life.

But if we’re talking about some cosmic do-over button? Knowing what I know now about sleep deprivation, emotional whiplash, and the sheer volume of sticky surfaces? I’m not sure I’d sign up for this particular race again.

And yet, here I am—bib pinned on, shoes laced, in it for the long game.

My kids bring me so much wonder and joy it feels like hitting that perfect runner’s high: the world sharpened, the air brighter, the sense that maybe, just maybe, I can do hard things. Then, ten minutes later, they bring anger, self-doubt, and anxiety—like realizing you misread the route and there’s another hill you didn’t plan for.

The mental part of parenting is the real endurance test. It’s not the packing lunches or the laundry; it’s the constant, gnawing question: Am I doing right by them? Am I screwing this up? It’s that voice that pipes up around mile 8 and mile 13 and mile 21: Are you sure you can finish this?

This week, that voice had company.

My oldest is in 5th grade, but he’s taking 6th grade math. He’s already finished that curriculum, so he’s been moved on to 7th grade content, most of which lives in a program called MATHia. Picture it as the treadmill of math: technically useful, but not especially inspiring, and you’re never entirely sure if anyone’s actually running the thing.

In my opinion, there hasn’t been a lot of actual teaching happening—more like supervised screen time with occasional math problems.

So when his teacher emailed to imply he wasn’t doing his assigned work this week, I felt my heart rate spike like I’d just started sprinting intervals. Then I noticed she’d copied the middle school principal.

Not his principal. Not his building. A completely different principal.

It was like getting a race DNF email from a race director for an event you didn’t even run.

The rage I felt in that moment could have powered the school’s lights for a week. I had just spoken to her last week about how he’d moved on to the next set of lessons. Now she was telling me he wasn’t doing work tied to lessons he had finished weeks ago—work that had only been officially assigned in the last two weeks.

So let me get this straight: he’s ahead, he’s done the material, and we’re mad because he isn’t pretending to still be on mile 4 when he’s already cruising at mile 9?

Absolutely not.

This is where the running metaphor and motherhood collide: I can tolerate a lot when it comes to my own race. I can handle blisters, bad weather, bad pacing, and poor decisions involving mid-race snacks. But when it comes to my kids, I turn into the runner who will absolutely march over to the race director and calmly, clearly, with a polite smile, demand to know why the course was mis-marked.

Motherhood is a marathon, sure—but no one talks enough about how messy the middle miles are. The beginning is all enthusiasm and new shoes. The end is finish-line photos and relief. The middle miles are where the doubts live. Where your pace slips. Where you negotiate with yourself: Just get to the next mile marker. Just make it to bedtime. Just answer this one email from the teacher without setting anything on fire.

In those middle miles, things get complicated. Teachers misunderstand. Kids get ahead or fall behind. You second-guess yourself hourly. You try to advocate without overreacting, to push without bulldozing, to support without smothering. You’re tired. You hurt. You keep going anyway.

But here’s one thing I’m certain of, even when nothing else feels clear: my kids will always feel my love. They will know, without a doubt, that I will stand up for them, even if my hands are shaking when I hit “send” on the email. They will know I am in their corner, whether the problem is long division, a MATHia module, or something much bigger down the road.

I may not have chosen this race if I’d seen the whole route ahead of time. But I’m running it. Every day. Some miles are ugly, some are beautiful, most are a strange blend of both. And as long as I’m on this course, my kids will know one thing for sure:

Their mom is still moving forward. Still showing up. Still fighting for them.

Even when she’d really, really like a water stop, a pacer, and maybe a new course map.

Running from the Old Me

How did I—a reasonably sane 42-year-old woman who once fancied herself a college athlete—end up screeching across the dinner table, “Stop saying buttcrack, for the love of God”? It’s a fair question, and the answer, I’m afraid, is that life has a way of sprinting ahead while you’re still lacing up your trainers. None of it was my doing. Not a single humiliating, heart-stopping mile. Call me stubborn if you must, but let me trot out the evidence like so many rogue blisters on a marathoner’s heel.

Exhibit A: Compartment Syndrome, My Five-Year Nemesis (2001–2005)
Ah, college volleyball glory days—until my legs decided to rebel. Chronic compartment syndrome: too much muscle crammed into too small a sheath, swelling like overpacked luggage on a redeye flight. I could barely hobble off the court, pain radiating like I’d run a marathon barefoot over coals. Surgery in 2002? Fizzled like a dud firework. The punchline? I was too fit. My body, that traitorous overachiever, had outgrown its own packaging. Who knew ambition could literally cramp your style?

Exhibit B: The Husband Who Strayed (2015—or Whenever the Heck It Ended)
End of June 2015, baby in arms, no maternity leave, husband off on noble recruiting trips like the dedicated coach he was. Or so I thought. What should have been a relay race through early parenthood turned into a solitary slog through betrayal’s mud pit. The fallout? A wound that festers still, quite possibly the hidden accelerant to that later stroke. Life’s curveballs don’t come with batting practice.

Exhibit C: The NICU Marathon (January 1–21, 2018)
Why my body treats pregnancy like a bad blind date—bolting for the exit before the appetizers arrive—is one of life’s more baffling mysteries. My babies always emerge from the chaos strong, healthy, and perfect as polished trophies, yet my womb seems to regard the whole affair as an unwelcome intrusion, ejecting its precious cargo weeks ahead of schedule. It’s a wretched mismatch, like a marathoner cursed with shoes two sizes too small. That premature arrival turned our world into a 21-day gauntlet of beeping monitors, tiny incubators, and the kind of bone-deep terror that makes every sunrise feel like borrowed time. Touch-and-go doesn’t begin to cover it. He’s thriving now, of course—my little sprinter, outpacing the odds—but those NICU nights remain the slowest, most grueling miles I’ve ever logged.

Exhibit D: The Stroke That Came Out of Nowhere (March 24, 2022)
Picture this: six weeks postpartum, fit as a fiddle, no vices to speak of. I’d never smoked, rarely sipped, and my cholesterol was so pristine you could frame it. Doctors poked and prodded, shrugged their white-coated shoulders, and declared it cryptogenic—a fancy word for “beats us.” Just one of those cosmic pratfalls, like tripping over your own shadow mid-stride. No warning, no fault, just a brain misfiring while I was still catching my breath from new-mom life.

Exhibit E: AFib’s Electrical Gremlins (January 19, 2025)
One ordinary Sunday, my heart decides it’s auditioning for a techno rave. Electrical system gone haywire—no clogged pipes, no dietary sins, no excess poundage. Just faulty wiring in the old ticker, demanding a hospital marathon and surgical pit stop. Here I am, patched up and plodding on, wondering if my body’s secretly plotting a mutiny.

I could keep lapping this track—miscarriages, job upheavals, the daily gauntlet of boy-mom chaos—but what’s the point? Running from everything has left me winded, circling the same bruised shin. No more. I’m grabbing the baton, plotting a new course, even if the map’s half-sketched. Because here’s the truth I’ve pounded into my skull on a thousand solo jogs: you don’t outrun life’s ambushes by fleeing faster. You lace up tighter, pick your stride, and charge toward whatever finish line you damn well choose. Buttcrack or no buttcrack.

Running from Everything: The August Marathon

Here in the thick of August, we find ourselves on the last, long lap of summer—the kind you run when you can both see the finish line and also suspect it might, in fact, be moving further away every time you glance up. In our house, the new school year is lurking just around the last bend: two weeks for the kids, but my husband and I are up for a head start with students next week. If this were a Disney race, we’d already have hit the castle, gotten distracted by a Dole Whip, and realized we still have to finish.

I work all summer, so my personal schedule doesn’t change much—it’s the unremarkable “Tomorrowland Speedway” of routines: reliable, uninspired, and a little too loud. But my husband and our kids? Their summer is pure Magic Kingdom chaos: rope drop every morning, parades all day, fireworks every night. Bedtime and wake-up times are more like vague suggestions, as if the laws of time only apply to mortals living outside the borders of summer vacation.

But race director that I am, I know better than to let the “RunDisney After Party” lifestyle run all the way to the start line of school. With two weeks left, I’ve activated the dreaded Operation: Earlier Bedtimes, much to the dismay of the crew who have become accustomed to living like nocturnal pirates. If I don’t do this now, the first day of school will look less like the opening moments of a Disney half marathon and more like the “balloon ladies” coming for anyone left at the back.

To try and restore balance (or at least fake it long enough to get us to the first bell), I’m putting us all on a reentry plan worthy of any Dopey Challenge: one room gets cleaned each day, one load of laundry run, and there’s a loose attempt at meal planning, in between the usual nutritional gambit of “Is this leftover pizza or the lost-and-found churro from last week?” I know this will pay off with more evenings free for kid activities, maybe even some peaceful runs around the neighborhood—my solo laps through the EPCOT of suburban life, waving to neighbors like we’re all characters in some elaborate parade.

Most days, I’m just trying to help my kids (and myself) become finishers in the marathon of “life skills.” The goal isn’t perfection; it’s having options. I want my kids to try gymnastics, football, science club, trombone—whatever piques their curiosity, like a list of Genie+ reservations: the more you sample, the better your story. Back in my day, exploring wasn’t so easy, and specializing was rarely a choice. I’ve found that being a jack-of-all-trades and a master of none has gotten me far: kind of like being able to race all four Disney parks, rather than winning one. In my career and as a coach, I see again and again that it’s the kids who diversify—who build different muscles, learn from new experiences, and sometimes even get a little lost along the way—who really go the distance.

And that’s what I’m aiming for: a family ready not just for school, but for the miles and magic that come after the starting gun sounds.

Running from Bad Days

Credit: Philip Barker

Let’s be honest—some days, the only thing I’m running from is my own brain. I’d love to tell you that every morning I leap out of bed, tie my shoes with the vigor of a caffeinated squirrel, and hit the pavement with the grace of a gazelle. But, in reality, some days I’m more like a confused sloth, wondering how I ended up in a world where people voluntarily run for fun.

Like any reasonably constructed human, I have good days and bad days. Lately, though, my bad days have been stacking up like the laundry pile I keep promising to fold. And these aren’t just “I spilled coffee on my shirt” bad days. We’re talking about the kind of days where my brain seems to have misplaced the instruction manual for “feeling things.” I’m already on Prozac, which is supposed to help, but sometimes it feels like my mental fog has a two-week vacation policy and is determined to use every last hour.

Nothing is technically wrong. My life, on paper, is pretty much the deluxe package: a husband who does more than his fair share (I suspect he’s angling for sainthood), a job I genuinely enjoy, and kids who are thriving—although one of them is determined to taste-test every inanimate object on earth. We have everything we need and a few things we really don’t (looking at you, bread maker). The only things on my wish list are a Disney World annual pass, an endless supply of Reese’s peanut butter cups, and perhaps a set of Apple earbuds that haven’t been personally waxed by yours truly.

Yet, for almost two years now, I’ve been wrapped in this emotional bubble wrap. Sometimes I wonder if it’ll ever pop. But here’s where running comes in—because, as any runner knows, not every run is a runner’s high. Some runs are just… runs. Some are spectacular, some are slogfests, and some are so bad you wonder if you accidentally put your shoes on the wrong feet.

But the thing is, you keep going. You remember how good it feels to cross a finish line, even if you’re the last one there and the volunteers have already started packing up the water table. You remember that not every mile is easy, but every mile counts. Running, like life, is about moving forward—even if it’s at a pace that would make a tortoise look like Usain Bolt.

I know my brain isn’t quite the same as it used to be. I’m only in year three of figuring it out, and if I’ve learned anything from running, it’s that progress isn’t always linear. Some days you sprint, some days you crawl, and some days you just stand there and wonder how you got so much sand in your shoes.

But it will get better. After all, if my three-year-old can enthusiastically lick every cart we grab at the grocery store and still greet each day with the energy of a puppy on espresso, maybe I can keep moving forward too. Maybe we all can.

So here’s to the good runs and the bad ones, the finish lines and the false starts. And if all else fails, there’s always next year’s Disney pass, a bag of Reese’s, and the hope that tomorrow’s run will be just a little bit lighter.

Running from The Myth of the School Employee’s Endless Summer

People have this charming idea that if you work at a school, your summer is a three-month hammock nap punctuated only by sunscreen reapplication and the occasional ice cream cone. “Must be nice to get summers off!” they say, with that peculiar blend of envy and disbelief usually reserved for lottery winners and people who actually enjoy running hills.

Let’s set the record straight: I am not a teacher. I am not an administrator. I am, in fact, one of those mysterious school employees who keeps the place running while everyone else is off recharging their batteries. My “summer break” is less “European vacation” and more “please submit your vacation request in triplicate.” The only break I get is the one I schedule myself—and even then, I’m more likely to spend it cleaning up after my family’s daily reenactment of Lord of the Flies.

But here’s the twist: while my colleagues are off, I get to enjoy a school that’s blissfully empty. The pace slows down. The urgent requests evaporate. The phone stops ringing. It’s like the difference between race day and a solo long run: during the year, it’s all adrenaline and chaos, but in the summer, it’s just me, my thoughts, and a spreadsheet that I’m desperately trying to make interesting. (Spoiler: it’s still a spreadsheet.)

Some days, I’m the only soul in the building. And honestly? I love it. There’s a certain meditative joy in moving at your own pace, with no one breathing down your neck or asking if you’ve “got a minute.” You work, you eat lunch, you work some more, and then you go home. It’s the workday equivalent of an easy recovery run—no pressure, no competition, just steady progress and the satisfaction of ticking off the miles (or, in my case, the tasks).

Home, of course, is a different story. Carnage is a good word, and I stand by it. DIY projects in various states of completion, children’s shoes multiplying like rabbits, dirty dishes forming geological strata, and the ever-present frisbee perched on the roof like some sort of suburban gargoyle. But that’s summer at home: a little chaos, a lot of noise, and the sweet reward of snowcones and late bedtimes.

So, I get my quiet miles in during the day—those peaceful, solitary stretches where it’s just me and the hum of the copier—and by 4 p.m., I’m ready to lace up and tackle the wild interval workout that is family life in summer.

Running, working, living—it’s all about finding your pace, embracing the quiet when you can, and knowing that, sooner or later, you’ll be sprinting again. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll finally get that frisbee off the roof.

Running from Little Green Men

As a self-proclaimed Walt Disney World expert—meaning I can tell you the exact number of churros you can eat before you lose the will to live—one of my favorite corners of the parks is Toy Story Land. Nestled in Disney’s Hollywood Studios (which, let’s be honest, will always be MGM Studios to those of us who remember the Backlot Tour and the inexplicable presence of a Golden Girls house), this is the place where you get to be a toy for the day. It’s all giant building blocks, oversized board game pieces, and a healthy dose of nostalgia. It’s like stepping into your childhood, only with more sunscreen and slightly more expensive snacks.

Now, as a parent, my mission is to bring a little of that magic home, specifically, to the boys’ bathroom. Yes, you heard me: I am attempting to transform the most utilitarian room in the house into a Toy Story-themed wonderland. I have plans. Big plans. Beadboard! Wallpaper! Window coverings! Hanging monkeys! (The plastic kind, not the real ones. I’m not that ambitious.) I want it to be colorful, kid-friendly, and the kind of place where you half-expect Woody to pop out from behind the shower curtain and remind you to wash your hands.

But here’s the thing: the only thing standing between me and this Pixar-inspired paradise is, well, me. And a lack of power tools. And possibly a healthy fear of accidentally nailing my own foot to the floor.

What I really want—what I yearn for—is a mitre saw. And a jigsaw. And a nail gun. I want to be the kind of person who uses phrases like “orbital sander” in casual conversation and actually knows what it means. I want home projects to be my hobby, not just something I watch on YouTube with a mixture of awe and mild terror.

But here’s the secret Disney never tells you: learning something new, whether it’s how to wield a nail gun or how to navigate Genie+, is a lot like training for a marathon.

Stay with me here. When you decide to run a marathon (or, in my case, when you decide to run away from everything and end up in a marathon by accident), you don’t just lace up your shoes and jog 26.2 miles. You start small. You run a block. You wheeze. You Google “can you die from running?” You keep going. Over time, you get a little stronger, a little faster, and a little more confident that you won’t collapse in a heap by mile two.

Learning a new skill—like transforming a bathroom into Andy’s room, or figuring out how to use a mitre saw without losing a finger—is the same way. It’s about taking baby steps. You watch a video. You read an article. You buy a tool and stare at it for a week, wondering if you need a permit just to plug it in. You make mistakes. You learn. You get a little better. Eventually, you’re not just surviving—you’re thriving. Or at least you’re not actively endangering yourself or others.

So, as I stand in the doorway of the boys’ bathroom, armed with nothing but enthusiasm and a vague idea of how wallpaper works, I remind myself: this is my marathon. There will be setbacks. There will be questionable design choices. There will almost certainly be paint on the ceiling. But with each small step, I’m getting closer to creating a space that’s as magical as Toy Story Land—minus the crowds and the $6 sodas.

And who knows? Maybe someday I’ll be the kind of person who can say “orbital sander” with confidence. Or at least with fewer power tool-related injuries.

Until then, I’ll keep running from everything—except my dreams of a Toy Story bathroom.

Have you tackled a Disney-inspired home project? Or survived a marathon (literal or metaphorical)? Share your stories below! And if you have tips for using a mitre saw, please send help.

Running from Walking: A Staggering Return

Space Mountain Lighted Tunnel- Property of Joe Penniston

Let’s be honest: calling this a “running blog” is a bit like calling a toaster a “bread spa.” Yes, the original idea was to chronicle my athletic exploits, but if you’ve been around for more than five minutes, you know it’s mostly a catalogue of my minor health crises, parental misadventures, and the occasional existential whinge. Still, that was always the point. This is my corner of the internet, and if I want to use it to document my slow-motion journey back to fitness (and sanity), so be it. Besides, writing is cheaper than therapy and, crucially, doesn’t require insurance approval.

Tomorrow marks the start of my latest “running” adventure. I say “running” in the same way one might describe a sloth’s commute as “parkour.” The cardiologist has finally given me the green light to exercise, and I am positively itching to get started. There is, however, a catch: thanks to my heart medication, my blood pressure and heart rate now behave with the wild unpredictability of a British queue-steady, polite, and not prone to sudden excitement. So, running is out. Walking is in. Very, very slow walking.

To be clear, I’m not talking about the brisk, purposeful stride of someone late for a train. No, my current pace is more “lost tourist at EPCOT after three churros.” My stamina, as previously discussed, is somewhere between “elderly tortoise” and “houseplant.” But everyone starts somewhere. This is less “couch to 5K” and more “couch to mailbox and back, possibly with a nap.” Still, as any seasoned training plan will tell you, progress is not linear. Sometimes you ebb, sometimes you flow. Right now, I am ebbing so hard I might be mistaken for a receding tide.

Complicating matters, I am also attempting to plan a Walt Disney World weekend for my son’s 10th birthday. For the uninitiated, a day at Disney is less a vacation and more an endurance event. You will walk 10-12 miles a day, minimum, most of it spent dodging strollers and wondering if you should have taken out a second mortgage for a Dole Whip. If I don’t get my stamina up, I’ll be lucky to make it past the first popcorn cart on Main Street, USA.

The good news is that my family loves the outdoors. We hike, we walk, we play. My kids are at that magical age where they still think I’m fun and not just a mobile wallet with opinions. I’m grateful for the chance to join in this summer, even if my role is less “intrepid leader” and more “caboose with snacks.”

So, what’s the moral here? I’m looking ahead, not back. The tunnel isn’t dark; there’s light all the way through, and I’m confident I’ll be back on the running side before long. For now, I’ll take it one slow, meandering step at a time. After all, every journey starts with a single step-even if that step is followed by a sit-down and a long, thoughtful sigh.

In the immortal words of all good writers (and exasperated parents everywhere): onward, slowly, and with snacks.

Running from the Weather

Spring has arrived—or so it claims. Here in the Midwest, spring is less of a season and more of an elaborate prank. It starts with what I like to call “false spring,” a tantalizing glimpse of warmth and sunshine that lasts just long enough to trick you into packing away your winter coat. Then comes “fake spring,” followed by “pseudo-spring,” and finally, the inevitable return of winter—twice. Just when you think you’ve survived the last winter, another one sneaks in like an uninvited guest at a party. And let’s not forget the grand finale: construction season. But that’s a rant for another day.

The weather here is so indecisive it could run for office. One minute it’s 77 degrees and sunny, and two hours later it’s snowing sideways. It’s like living inside a weather app that can’t make up its mind. For runners, this is nothing short of a nightmare. Dressing for an outdoor run becomes an exercise in meteorological guesswork: hand warmers and a sock hat? Or shorts and a tank top? Either way, you’re probably wrong.

Races this time of year are no better. You start bundled up like an arctic explorer but occasionally get faked out by a rogue warm day that leaves you sweating buckets by mile five. By December or January, though, it’s time to flee south for races—because while Ohio may have bipolar weather, at least Florida has the decency to pick a season and stick with it (mostly).

Take my marathon experiences in Florida as proof that even “consistent” weather can be wildly unpredictable:

  • January 2010: The Coldest Marathon Ever™. My hair literally froze during the race—it was 32 degrees at the start, which was fine because I’d trained in similar conditions. But by mile 20, my knee gave out, forcing me to walk half a mile. The cold was so brutal I had to start running again just to avoid freezing solid like some tragic runner-shaped ice sculpture. It took me two days to thaw out properly.
  • January 2012: The Temperature That Never Was. This race felt like running inside a vacuum—there was no discernible temperature at all, just an eerie neutrality that left me wondering if I’d accidentally entered some kind of weatherless dimension.
  • January 2014: Heat Advisories Galore. In my infinite wisdom, I wore all black and tights for this race—a decision that seemed fine until the temperature hit 90 degrees by hour five (yes, I’m slow). By then, it was hotter than blue blazes, and I spent the last few miles questioning every life choice that had led me to this moment.

So no, it’s not just Ohio—weather chaos can strike anywhere. My advice? Always have gloves handy. Being cold is infinitely worse than being too warm (though I say this as someone on blood thinners, so take my bias with a grain of salt). Overdressing beats underdressing every time—unless you’re running in 90-degree heat while wearing tights, but let’s not dwell on my poor judgment.

Spring may be unreliable, but running through its ups and downs teaches you resilience. After all, if we can survive spring weather every year without losing our minds entirely, we can survive anything!

Running Back to the Saddle

In the crisp autumn air of Indianapolis, with leaves crunching underfoot and the promise of adventure hanging thick as morning fog, I found myself standing at the starting line of the Indianapolis Half Marathon. It was October 2023, and I was about to embark on a 13.1-mile journey through the heart of the Hoosier capital, a feat that seemed as improbable as finding a cowboy riding a horse down Broadway in New York City.

You see, dear reader, this wasn’t just any race for me. Oh no, this was my first major foray into the world of competitive shuffling since a rather inconvenient stroke had decided to pop by for an extended stay in my brain. Here I was, a former college athlete who once squatted small cars for breakfast, now questioning whether I could manage a brisk walk to the corner store without keeling over.

But let me tell you about the ingenious decision I made, one that would make even the most seasoned race veteran nod in approval. I splurged on the opportunity to start my day in the hallowed halls of the Indiana State House. Picture it: while other poor souls were huddled outside like penguins in a snowstorm, I was stretching my questionable limbs in the warm embrace of democracy, munching on a breakfast that didn’t come wrapped in tinfoil. It was a stroke of brilliance if you’ll pardon the pun.

As I waddled to the starting line, a mere stone’s throw from my cozy State House sanctuary, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of panic. Had I trained enough? Was I still the same person who had once pushed out babies with the ease of a vending machine dispensing snacks? The identity crisis loomed larger than the giant timing clock ticking away mercilessly above our heads.

The race began, and to my utter astonishment, I found myself running. Not the graceful gazelle-like strides of my youth, mind you, but a determined shuffle that would make any powerwalker proud. For five glorious miles, I was unstoppable. That is until my right shoe decided it had had enough of this foolishness and came untied.

Now, dear reader, picture if you will, a somewhat disheveled woman bent over a curb, fingers swollen to the size of small sausages, attempting to tie a shoelace. It was a sight so pitiful that a kind stranger took pity and performed the task for me. I briefly considered asking them to carry me the rest of the way, but my pride (what was left of it) wouldn’t allow it.

The next few miles were a blur of monotony, broken only by the occasional cheer from a spectator who had clearly mistaken me for someone else. But as we approached mile 10, something magical happened. We found ourselves running alongside the race’s overachievers – those annoyingly fit individuals who were already finishing. It was both inspiring and mildly infuriating.

As I crossed the finish line, my boys waiting with expressions that were equal parts pride and “can we go home now?”, I wanted to shout from the rooftops about my triumph over adversity. But instead, I settled for an internal victory dance, and the knowledge that I had, indeed, proven something to myself.

In the end, as I hobbled what felt like another half marathon to reach our parked car, I realized that toughness comes in many forms. Sometimes it’s squatting small buildings, and sometimes it’s putting one foot in front of the other when your brain has other ideas. And since that realization has landed me in therapy, well, at least I have plenty to talk about.

And So it Begins…

Training is hard work, but I have yet to find anything in this world that feels more rewarding when you are done. I love lifting, I love running, I love practice. I am now training MMA, and I can’t wait to actually get to use it in competition. Finding a way to push my body is something that I crave. I’ve started doing some shadow boxing and am okay at it. It interests me, and its something different to try.

I found a great boxing workout to try today, and since my trainer is gone, I get to see if I can push myself a little bit… http://www.menshealth.com/fitness/3-powerful-boxing-workouts

Pain is temporary… (I just have to remind myself sometimes.)