I never really understood the point of running, but maybe that’s because I never felt like I could be a runner.

I once signed up for track in seventh grade, the beginning of my “it’s still baby fat” years, and was immediately assigned to run two miles with the cross country team. Looking back, this was probably a real quick way for the coaches to suss out the non-athletes (me) from the students with actual athletic ability. As someone who formerly tramped around the country side in creek beds and along dirt roads, I didn’t quite get the term “cross country” and had no idea it meant long distance running. The most I had run at that point were the mandatory laps around the track in PE, and by run I mean walked with my friends with the occasional half-hearted jog thrown in for the coach’s sake.

I started out with the rest of the team, committed to running the course around the suburban sports field behind the school, until about thirty seconds of good, solid running passed and I realized that I still had approximately 1.99 miles remaining. With muscle cramps setting in, I quickly abandoned the course and my dreams at being a runner, walking back to the school.

I had begun a pattern that would continue to creep into my life for decades: If I was not automatically good at something, it wasnt worth trying. Call it a fear of failure, or call it a general uncomfortableness with learning, I simply did not pursue anything that I couldn’t guarantee moderate success at. Running quickly joined a list of things best left for others.

In high school, my best friend was a cross country runner (again, what the fuck is cross country? We were in the suburbs) and would often invite me to run with her after school. If I couldn’t beg off, I would usually compromise with roller blading by her side, followed by eating all the Dorito chips in her pantry. My company didn’t come cheap. After dropping some twenty-odd pounds from a particularly vigorous marching band season during sophmore year (the nerdiest way to lose weight, for sure), I wanted to keep up the weight loss and asked her to teach me how to run. She printed out what was probably the original “Couch Potato to 5K” workout and we commenced training. I enjoyed the workouts, and for the first time I allowed myself to grow with a sport. I arrived at the high school track with humility on the table and the results were solid: I was learning to run.

We timed the training to end in March, and we planned our asks to our parents to take us to Dallas to run a St. Patricks Day 5K Fun Run. Unfortunately, we both found ourselves with high school boyfriends a few months before the race, and why the hell would I leave town for a race when I could stay back for some heavy petting and easy affirmation. The race, and the training, became abandoned.

For the next several years I would find myself testing out a treadmill at the gym before settling on the elliptical machine, or jogging a block just to prove I could before resuming a walk. I quickly convinced myself that while I may had been able to run three miles straight for a few months in high school, that probably wouldn’t happen again. I settled back into the shitty thinking: I’m not good at it, so why try?

It’s amazing at how many opportunities I skipped out on because of a fear of failure or embarrassment. I could only focus on what I knew, what was familiar, and what was established. Trying something new and falling short of some inner ideal was something I had no patience for. If I couldn’t be the best, then why fucking bother? Stick with what you know; you know you are shit at running. This kind of attitude kept me from seeking help for alcoholism and addiction until I wanted to die. This way of thinking kept me isolated from signing up for classes that would challenge me in the best ways. This perspective kept me from finding out what I really wanted to achieve, following me as I bounced from job to job, career to career, aimlessly staying comfortable.

Call it fate or my innate ability making friends with people who had qualities I wished I had, but I kept collecting friends who ran for fun. Because I wanted them to see me as their equal, I’d find myself signing up for a 5K with them, downloading the “Couch Potato to 5K” app with the best of intentions to try to be a runner again, and then abandoning training about three weeks in. I’d show up for the 5K still, but I’d mostly walk the course, shaming myself the entire way as runners passed me by.

So it was no surprise that when my newest friend at yet another new job asked me if I would sign up for a Thanksgiving Day 5K, I agreed. A slight deviation from my usual MO, I didn’t even attempt to train for the race, resigning to walk it with no pretenses of being a runner. The fall months stretched on, finding me walking in the evenings like I always would. In a twist of fate, I hit a new bottom in my binge eating disorder at the same time, finding myself drowning in a sea of self-doubt, shame, and even self-loathing despite having ample things to be proud of and grateful for. My relationship with my husband was shit. True to my disordered self, I was unable to extend any grace to anyone, but expected it from everyone. I had no relationship with any kind of higher power, no practice of spirituality, or faith that things would be OK. By the time November arrived, I was emotionally drained, sometimes crushed, and ready for a change.

I began changing the way I ate by resuming work with 12 step sponsor and program. I began to recognize my shitty black and white, all or nothing thinking. As recovered as I may have been from other issues, the -ism was still very apparent in my life and behavior. I saw how I required my husband to have the perfect recovery; perfection being my own ideal of his recovery. In couples counseling, I would find myself taking a valid slight or offense and completely twisting it into a narrative about me instead of finding out the real reason for the behavior. I began looking at how I lost all humility, assuming control of my universe, and assigning my shitty logic and rules to it. The door of self-awareness and new patterns was cracked open. Willingness was key.

The morning of the race, I kissed my daughter goodbye and told her I’d be right back, this would all be over soon. I showed up to the race start area, ready once again to jog a little but walk the rest. I found my friends and made self-deprecating remarks about my pace and reminded them they didn’t need to run with me.

The race started and I began to jog.

The course zig-zagged it’s way through downtown, following the old-city grid pattern. I told myself, “run to the next block, then you can begin your walk”. I didn’t feel awful, so I kept running to the next block. A slight cramp formed in my side, but I told myself, “lets just see if we can make it to the next block.” The race turned onto a new street, and the dialogue began “let’s see if we can run down this stretch”.

Amazingly, I was doing it. I was fucking running.

Now, to clarify, I was being passed by people jogging with their dogs, people running in costumes, and people pushing jogging strollers. But I was doing it.

As the blocks stretched and the race left downtown for the nearby neighborhood, I checked my watch, seeing how long I had run, doing the mental math to figure out my shitty pace and how many miles I had run. At one point I was convinced I was well within the last stretch and the race was almost over until I saw the sign “Mile 2”. Fuck.

I kept running.

I was getting passed by power walkers at this point, but I had to see it through. Could I redefine how I saw myself? Could I settle for being a shitty runner, but still a runner?

“Don’t drop your legs and arms. Don’t walk. Just keep running. You’re fucking doing it.”

I saw the finish line, and if this was a movie, there would have been a dramatic music swell and maybe a final burst of energy allowing me to sprint, but I shuffle-jogged my way across and reached out for my “Finisher” medal with clawed hands and a gasping “thankyousomuch”.

I did it. I fucking ran 3.1 miles by myself, without stopping.

The definition of a runner does not include pace times, gazelle-like gait, sweat levels, or athletic wear. A runner runs. In that moment, I defined what it meant to be a runner for me. I ran. I committed to a course of action, fully knowing I was going to struggle, I was going to be bested, and I wasn’t bringing home bragging rights.

As I walked back to the car, I wanted to cry. I redefined what it meant to be a runner, for me. Maybe I can redefine what my recovery looks like now. Maybe I can redefine what kind of wife I want to be. Maybe I can redefine how I see myself. If I can redefine what being a runner was, I could redefine every other thing previously locked in concept.

As I arrived home, I called to my daughter and told her I finished my race.

“Did you get first place?”

No baby, I didn’t.

“Second place?” No baby.

“Third?” [FUCK!] No.

“Well were you last?”

No, I wasn’t. I just ran, baby.