Mostly, I think I did cry out of grief. The grief that I played those tapes for so many years, and I really believed they were true. The grief that it had taken me so long to move through it. But I kept on. And I panicked. And cried. And screamed at my husband several times. But we kept on. A half mile seemed so short. It seemed like I should be able to do it. And eventually I did, but the mile seemed so elusive. Still. I kept collapsing and crying. Looking back, it seems like a lot of drama, but sometimes the drama we play out in our minds is an incredibly powerful driver of real life. And that was certainly true for me in this instance.

I finally stopped. I stopped running. I looked at why. Why did I want to run? Why did this feel like such a need for me? And what I came to changed everything. I wanted peace. I wanted to feel free. I wanted to trust myself. I wanted to know myself. It wasn’t about the distance. Or the time. Or the image. It was about me finding peace and trust. I stopped comparing myself to every other runner I ever saw. I gave myself permission to look stupid or feel stupid. I stopped giving myself so much judgment. Mostly.

I picked it up again and ran for a different reason. After that point, I stopped trying to run, and I just ran. I gave myself only two very strict rules: run as slow as you can and breathe. SLOW. VERY VERY SLOW. BREATHE. BREATHE. BREATHE. Instead of aiming for a ten-minute mile, I paced for a 15-minute mile. Yes, technically I can walk faster than that. But I literally forced myself to run at a 15-minute pace. I worked to let go of the “you’re so slow” shame going through my head. I practiced breathing. A meditative breathing. And slowly, it began to work. I could keep my heart rate down, and keep on going. And after three months I ran a 15-minute mile. After that,  I let go of the distance and worked toward 30 minutes, regardless of distance. I stopped tracking it entirely. And I could eventually really run a long way.

I ran a 5k, and then a 10k.  When I ran the 10k, I felt like a superwoman. I wasn’t aiming for a time. I was only aiming to finish the run. And I did. My husband ran with me too and offered lovely support and reminders to SLOW the f*&% down. I did not break down with a migraine. I did not hyperventilate. And I had fun. Still, I cannot call myself a runner. BUT I can run. And that is enough.

Now I know. I can run a mile. To be honest, I still haven’t erased those childhood tapes entirely. I still can’t say that I love running. But I can say that I can do it, and can do it again. And, the fear . . . the overwhelming fear is gone. That. Is. Huge. The distance to a mile is not just geography. It is not just physical. The emotional distance of a mile was one of the longest and deepest miles I’ve ever traveled. And going that distance changed me inside and out.