I have always hated running. After wheezing and panting my way through the one-mile "run" (walk) in gym class, I vowed never to run again. I didn't understand how people ran for fun. I didn't understand the need to run unless you wanted to get away from something.
And I did a lot of metaphorical running throughout my life, but I never literally ran. Halfway through my freshman year of college, my roommate suggested we run a 5K. Actually, she wanted us to run a half marathon together, but one look at my face confirmed that would not be happening. With the compromise of a 5K, I started to train. Athletically, I knew I was building from the very bottom -- which is somewhat comforting, knowing you can't be any worse than when you started.
I hated it. I was hot, sweaty and not making any progress. It was only in evaluating why I was doing this that I realized how to change it. My entire life, I had always equated running with weight loss. This meant that every time I went for a run during one my "fitness kicks," it was for the sole purpose of burning calories and I often wasn't fueling my body properly.
In order to be successful at running 3.1 miles, I had to learn how to stop punishing myself. I had to treat my body with the respect it deserves. My perspective radically changed when I stopped looking at running as a way to lose weight and began fueling my body to perform at its peak. I had to accept that being in the best condition to run did not equate to being skinny. I stopped eating salads for meals on the days I went on runs. I ran and worked hard, but I also cherished my rest days. I no longer needed to be the perfectionist, working my body past its abilities.
As I did this, I noticed my times improving. I was finally able to run a mile continuously. Then two miles. Then eventually, one week before the actual race, I got it up to three.
I worked incredibly hard to get in shape. I wanted to say I could do this. The date of the race happened to coincide with an anniversary of a loved one's passing, and I was doing this run in their memory. It was also a celebration of life. The race was on June 11, 2016.
On June 11, 2015, I began the hardest, longest and most rewarding summer of my life by voluntarily leaving a camp counselor position to seek treatment. I was incredibly ill. I was weak, I was scared and I was dying. So 12 months later, I am more alive than I have ever been. Running this race was an "F-- you!" to everyone who had told me I wasn't ready. Most importantly, it meant the destruction of my own fears that I wasn't able to do this, and that I would never get better. Last year, I never would have guessed how strong I am today.
On the morning of the race, I ate a good breakfast. I stretched. I mentally prepared myself. My roommate encouraged me the entire way, and although my legs burned and sometimes, I couldn’t breathe, I made it through. My run time was around 36 minutes, but that didn't matter to me. I had made it. I had gone against all odds, and I had proven that even in my darkest moments, I will always keep going.
