Finding Confidence Again
Under the cover of night, I laced up my new running shoes, pulled on some unflattering sports attire, & stretched my legs, like I actually knew what I was doing. I took that figurative first step; literally. I started to walk, I built up to a brisk jog. As each foot hit the pavement, there was a distinct reverberation throughout my body. The different bits of fat & flesh thumped around behind me, like an echo to my initial steps, fighting the momentum of my forward motion, slowing me down remarkably. My mind was blowing up with absurd images of what I must look like in my lumpy black spandex, waddling down the street, red hair flying out behind me. I kept going, this was it. My breath was loud and labored in my dry throat. I turned up the music, squared my shoulders, lifted my chin and tried to keep pace. I could feel the imperfections of my clothing choices failing me, as my body moved independent of my steps. My sporty shirt was riding up under my sweat shirt, to the top of my belly, but I kept going.
I was doing it. Determined. The wind actually felt good on my face, the music was loud. Almost to the end of the street (downhill). I started to feel like, “Ok, I got this”. I turned the corner and tried to ignore the curious eyes of the pack of college students trolling toward downtown. With my echoing hips behind me, I felt like I was hard to ignore. Almost to the end of this section and my lungs started to burn, and my shins, my god, my shins. Another turn and a big hill was in front of me. Deciding to walk for a bit and catch my breath for just a minute, I adjusted my play list. Four blocks later I ran another length.
Anything worth doing is going to be hard
I decided, I hated running. I had heard about the “runner high” and thought that might inspire me to work hard. It did. I kept going, hating every single step. I had an ongoing conversation, actually a tough negotiation with myself. “Just finish running this block, then you can walk for a block”. I made adjustments, got some cool tools, and kept trying, switched my runs to the mornings. I was consistent. Every hateful step, 6 days a week at 6am. I was finished making excuses and needed to find my happy place again. I pumped myself up with “you can do it” and congratulating myself when I was finished. I committed and I followed through. There were a lot of fist pumps. I had to be my own cheerleader.
This went on for a year. There was never any sort of “high” for me from running, aside from the victory phrase “I did it and it’s done for today.” I finally got myself so that I could just run for 20 min (mostly). I could run to destinations, up hills, down the bike path, across the river, and all around Burlington Vermont. I lost a good solid 20+# and I started to feel a little better. I had a taste of something that I didn’t quite understand yet, but I knew I wanted more. It still hurt, every step was a struggle, but the progress was measurable, quantifiable. I could see the start of some real progress. I was committed. I stayed on target, I was consistent and then…I hit a wall. The scale stopped moving, I couldn’t seem to get much faster or run much longer, and as a result, I felt my will ebbing.
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