What I've Learned about Myself during My Hiatus from Running
Four months ago today was the last time I strapped on my running shoes. Four months. That means, I haven't felt the wind in my hair or the beads of sweat on my back since August 2. Since the drops of sun rained down and the grass laid on the ground like a carpet of green velvet. Since the blue sky above me and the humid air hugged me with their comforting arms. Four months. One hundred twenty-two days. One-third of a year.
I thought when I first considered a running hiatus that I'd never make it through whatever magical number of days it took for me to heal. That I'd pull my hair out and morph into a crabby witch of a person and most people who called themselves my friends would claim to no longer know me. Shoot, I thought my family would no longer want to admit they were mine, although they'd be forced to suffer through living with a new, non-running me. I've always held to the belief that running serves as therapy for me, and that the action itself combats my genetic tendencies toward depression. Therefore, if I took running out of the equation, I imagined days full of anger, sadness, and irritability that would spill over to Tim and the children.
But if there's one thing I've learned over the last 15 years, it's to not dwell on the negative, because you waste more energy than you should. So when the shoes had to remain off my feet, I decided to embrace the extra minutes and find something else to do besides running. Perhaps I'd have more time for writing, or a few more moments with the kids. Maybe I'd get more laundry done, or more cleaning, or spend more time with Tim. Maybe, instead of thinking about a life without running, I could envision a life with something else. More positive, less negative. And may I say that the mind is a beautiful thing.
I still salivate when I see runners out on the road. I long to feel the stretch and strain of my quads, the pull in my hamstring. I can't wait to hear the slap of my feet on the asphalt and the fingers of the wind as they tickle my cheeks. But the past four months have been a lesson in who I am and what I can handle. I've learned that I'm able to hold myself together without running, and that even though I miss the activity, my personal mental health does not depend on it. I've learned that if I allow myself to do so, I can sleep until 7:00 a.m. I've also learned that many good conversations occur early on Saturday mornings and that for years, I have been missing them. Most importantly, I've learned that I'm a stronger person than I thought I was.
The worst thing that has happened due to this hiatus from running has to do with my writing. I used to think on those runs: toss ideas in my mind, attack plot dilemmas, and mull over character development. Many times I'd leave the house with a blank slate, only to have it filled by the time mile 3 or 6 or 10 came into view. And now that I'm not running, my creative streaks have dwindled. But if having to work a little harder at writing is the worst thing to come out of it, then I think I'm pretty lucky.
People used to ask if I could live without running. "Of course not!" I'd say. "There is no way I could ever do that." I guess I was wrong.
I thought when I first considered a running hiatus that I'd never make it through whatever magical number of days it took for me to heal. That I'd pull my hair out and morph into a crabby witch of a person and most people who called themselves my friends would claim to no longer know me. Shoot, I thought my family would no longer want to admit they were mine, although they'd be forced to suffer through living with a new, non-running me. I've always held to the belief that running serves as therapy for me, and that the action itself combats my genetic tendencies toward depression. Therefore, if I took running out of the equation, I imagined days full of anger, sadness, and irritability that would spill over to Tim and the children.
But if there's one thing I've learned over the last 15 years, it's to not dwell on the negative, because you waste more energy than you should. So when the shoes had to remain off my feet, I decided to embrace the extra minutes and find something else to do besides running. Perhaps I'd have more time for writing, or a few more moments with the kids. Maybe I'd get more laundry done, or more cleaning, or spend more time with Tim. Maybe, instead of thinking about a life without running, I could envision a life with something else. More positive, less negative. And may I say that the mind is a beautiful thing.
I still salivate when I see runners out on the road. I long to feel the stretch and strain of my quads, the pull in my hamstring. I can't wait to hear the slap of my feet on the asphalt and the fingers of the wind as they tickle my cheeks. But the past four months have been a lesson in who I am and what I can handle. I've learned that I'm able to hold myself together without running, and that even though I miss the activity, my personal mental health does not depend on it. I've learned that if I allow myself to do so, I can sleep until 7:00 a.m. I've also learned that many good conversations occur early on Saturday mornings and that for years, I have been missing them. Most importantly, I've learned that I'm a stronger person than I thought I was.
The worst thing that has happened due to this hiatus from running has to do with my writing. I used to think on those runs: toss ideas in my mind, attack plot dilemmas, and mull over character development. Many times I'd leave the house with a blank slate, only to have it filled by the time mile 3 or 6 or 10 came into view. And now that I'm not running, my creative streaks have dwindled. But if having to work a little harder at writing is the worst thing to come out of it, then I think I'm pretty lucky.
People used to ask if I could live without running. "Of course not!" I'd say. "There is no way I could ever do that." I guess I was wrong.
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