"Are you a runner?" I heard.
I entered the common area at my community college, breathing heavily, with sweat dripping from my hands as I peeled off my gloves. I had decided to run right after class that day and anticipated the outside air being much colder than it actually was; thus, at the termination of my three mile run I was nearly soaked from my own perspiration. Gross.
"Are you a runner?" The voice repeated. I looked up, recognizing a classmate of mine reading in a chair near where I had left my books.
"I used to be," I replied, gathering my belongings and keys to drive home to the comfort of a much needed warm shower.
"Well by the looks of it, you still are!" He said, adding, "You're crazy to run outside in this kind of weather! Keep it up!"
I stopped referring to myself as a "runner" during my Senior year of high school when I was told by my doctors and parents that I would not be allowed to participate in the Spring track season due to my extremely low body fat: a side effect of being held prisoner in the deadly cell of an eating disorder. When I entered college that fall (2013), despite being a scholarship track-and-field athlete, I felt like I had lost my running "identity" altogether. As I have mentioned in previous posts, at that point I hadn't trained for almost a year. I would try to sneak runs here and there in the early mornings, but these runs were few and far between and did not amount to the running I was "supposed" to be doing to prepare myself to be a collegiate athlete. In this way my eating disorder was akin to a broken leg or stress fracture -- I was prohibited from doing much physical activity. As the days and months passed without workouts, miles, and races, in my mind I was falling farther and farther away from the definition of a "runner" or an "athlete."
By the time I left for treatment during my first semester of college, I lost all hope of ever running again. At the time, I was so focused on getting better that school, running, and relationships were all put on hold -- and this focus was a blessing. It allowed me to fully invest myself in my treatment without nagging regret hindering my retention of the coping mechanisms, therapy techniques, and mindfulness skills that were constantly being thrown my way. As I began to make progress and get better, being in treatment became a sort of "safe haven," though. I was almost scared to leave, because I didn't know where or how to return to the life I had put on hold. My full-ride education would not be waiting for me, and I definitely was no longer an athlete that was capable of running collegiately.
When I returned home from treatment last spring (2014), I ran from running (pun intended). I buried it a dusty attic in the back of my mind like a rusty old toy I no longer found pleasure in. I lied to myself and told myself I didn't miss it and that I didn't care that I was out of shape and never exercised. However, the numerous binges I would partake in each day to quiet the noise of my regret said otherwise. I was letting my regret dictate my future. (Note: Of course, I was regretful for MANY other things -- the most prominent one being "losing" my educational opportunity free of expense -- but for the purpose of this blog I am just writing about the regret that accompanied thoughts of running).
I knew I had to do something, though. I had to do some exercise for my health with all of the bingeing that was going on. So I started walking at the beginning of the summer, slowly building up my strength and endurance to the point where I would walk 7 miles at a time. Walking turned into something I looked forward to everyday; it was my time to be at peace with myself and with nature. During my long walks, I would talk to God, reminisce on memories of happy times, and reflect on my pain and suffering and how I could somehow use my journey to not only become stronger in my Christian faith, but to serve God and change the lives of others.
And that's when I decided I wanted to run again. I realized that running could perhaps be one of the best things for me and my recovery. My relationship with running was going to look different than it did in the past, but that was okay, because my relationship with food, family, friends, and myself were all going to look different as I moved along the path of recovery. I knew that getting back into shape would be difficult after so much time off and the changes that my body had went through, but that the task would pale in comparison to fighting off the thoughts of regret. But being afraid to go back to running, one of my biggest passions in life, because I may never be as good as I once was would be letting my eating disorder win.
It hasn't been easy. When I began running consistently towards the middle of last summer (2014), I felt at war with my body and my mind. I could hardly run a mile in nine minutes, and this made me want to cry. The recurring pattern of thoughts would replay in my head: "Two years ago," I would say to myself, "I was running 3 miles in 17 minutes. Imagine where I could be had I not taken those two years off! All of my friends who are running in college are making progress, or at least if they are injured it's been for a short amount of time and they can cross-train. I'll never be able to get back into shape in time to make up for what I've done to myself."
I worked hard to change these negative thoughts as I made slow and steady progress. I realized that the thoughts were formulated from the false belief I had of what others expected me to do; I was known as a great runner in high school, and thought people expected me to uphold this reputation as I continued into college. The paramount epiphany I had in regards to running was that perhaps I do not truly desire to reach an elite level again for my own satisfaction, but just to prove to others that I can do it. My perfectionistic brain hates feeling inferior, and to think that I will someday race again in college and actually be one of the slower runners makes my dream of running collegiately again seem less worthwhile. But that's exactly why I SHOULD compete again. I do not need to run certain times/receive certain accolades just to spite those who are better. I cannot chase other people's dreams to quell the comparisons in my brain. The dream has to be mine, and I have to be happy about reaching the new goals I will set for myself based on the circumstances of having an eating disorder and being in recovery. I need to learn that I can be part of a team again without having to be the best or investing all of my time into the sport. I need to learn that even though I may never reach the level where I used to be at, or be able to run as fast as people I used to be able to beat in high school, I can still enjoy the sport and love it with all of my heart.
Unfortunately for me, after running for the remainder of the summer, I developed shin splints this past fall that turned into a stress reaction and prevented me from running as many miles as I would have liked. Today, eight months after deciding to resume running, I am still struggling with these nagging shin splints. There are many days I complain about them, because I am bitter about getting injured after missing training for the lengthy injury of my eating disorder. However, the shin splints may actually be a blessing in disguise. Because of them, I have to limit my training and try other forms of exercise like biking and swimming; indirectly, I am forced to stay balanced and slowly ease back into running.
No matter what happens this fall when I (hopefully) run my first race in three years and begin the life of a college-athlete, I will be able to say this is one hell of a comeback story. Whether or not my return to running holds any merit has nothing to do with the times I will run or how good I will be again; rather, it has everything to do with the positive spirit, resilience, and mental strength that was required for me to say no to perfection and yes to life. I have far more to offer the world than running a fast race and at the end of the day wish to inspire others through my character more than a list of my accomplishments. I want to motivate others to break through the chains of their own regret and fear of failure to live fulfilling lives. I want others to speak of me in adjectives that describe how I live my life rather than what I do with my life. I AM a runner -- I'm just a lot of other things as well.