A literal gut-wrenching stomach bug wasn’t in my training plans, but alas! Just a week before I was due to run the most consecutive miles I’d ever done in my life, it happened. Plans going awry is the zhuhz of life. I arrived at the start line still recovering from dehydration and in overall good spirits. None of the race day jitters plagued me. I resolved to let whatever was going to happen, happen.
The course was gorgeously set where Central Washington’s palouse collides with the Cascade Mountains. The views provided ample motivation. Even as I wheezed like a car with a sputtery engine around mile 12. (Still managed to dazzle with those pearly whites as I crawled past a race photographer. That’s showbiz, baby.) I let the warm, dry air carry me into an auto-pilot mode where I repeated the phrase: the only way out is through. This saying is nailed to the doorway of my pain cave. My pain cave materializes as a mirage when I’m in the thick of endurance activities like long hikes, bike rides, or runs. I have an inherent love/hate relationship with my pain cave, but damn if it isn’t character building. I wouldn’t have made it out the other side without my running partner and close friend. Crushing that race together has earned a permanent spot in the highlight reel of our friendship. (Thanks, Sara.) ♥️
I could go on about the race itself, but instead I want to share how having this experience has shaped who I am as a writer. These realizations were unintended byproducts of deciding to drive 3 hours to run 13.1 miles before noon, but I suppose I should’ve anticipated that that sort of glutton-for-punishment behavior would result in some profundity.
The biggest lesson that etched itself on my writing brain? Don’t try so hard.
There were people running that race of all ages, shapes, and sizes. People took different paths to get there, but we were all there. Together. The same is true for writing and for any creative job. Some people are formally trained at prestigious universities. Others get their start by scribbling on a bar napkin. It. Doesn’t. Matter. There is space for all of us, and we are all made better by diverse perspectives.
I internalized this lesson and am slowly letting it chip away at my imposter syndrome. That silly ol’ thing has been freeloading on my personal space for years. It got loud when I decided to start freelancing. But I’ll be damned if I let myself be my own worst enemy.
The other, related lesson I learned from the race is this: mindset matters. The mental obstacles associated with doing hard things are way harder to overcome than any physical feat. Your mind is a powerful tool, and you have to actively choose how you will harness it. This clarity is what got me across the finish line and into the celebratory beer garden. It’s also what got me to you, dear reader. I’m several weeks post-race, and I have another bug. Thankfully, this one is not a virus. It’s an urge to do another half marathon. Fresh-across-the-finish-line me would’ve balked at the idea. But reflecting on the experience has made me hungry for more. I think I’m addicted to doing hard things because they’re a certified golden ticket to unlocking new iterations of yourself and how you interact with the world. Plus, the souvenir medals are pretty cool.