“Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” This cliche, oftentimes misattributed to Einstein, rings true in my life. That said, this middle-aged Mama is finding that as I evolve AKA age, so does my definition of insanity.
Over a decade ago, I drank a few too many mojitos at a dinner party and proudly proclaimed I was training for a half-marathon even though I didn’t own running shoes. A woman of my word, a few months later I crossed the finish line of my first half-marathon or frankly any finish line. In that moment, I wondered WTF I was doing before promptly signing up for another half-marathon. Thus began over a decade of self-doubt and serious imposter syndrome wondering what it’d take to earn the right to call myself a runner. I wanted to be a runner – no matter the cost.
Somewhere along the way, I found some joy in the journey. Perhaps that’s too Pollyana for this Stoic Scandinavian. If I’m being honest, it was more I enjoyed the idea of being a runner. It was an identity I could fall back on – a constant in my life as I navigated a failed adoption, pregnancy, motherhood, career changes, grief, perimenopause, and a global pandemic. Running became something I could embrace when things got tough. An opportunity to believe that even the impossible is possible. Yet, finish line after finish line, I found myself coming up short. That somehow, I was not enough to be a runner.
Last Winter, this love-hate relationship with running came to a halt when I decided to take a hiatus from running. To take a pause to understand why just running was never enough. To acknowledge that after 10+ years of beating myself up for my lack of improvement, perhaps I needed a running rest that may or may not lead to retirement. I spent the Spring working on my health – addressing some concerns tied to aging, along with mixing up my work-out routine to focus more on cross-training and strength building versus cortisol spiking runs. I made peace with some running demons, only to find myself longing to hit the road again. And thus the cyclical nature of running insanity continues. Or, does it?
This time feels different. As I slowly laced up another pair of Brooks Glycerin 21 packed with promise, I find myself at peace with the open road. The days of disappointing splits and lackluster finish times no longer relevant in a world where my only goal is to run for myself. It is an odd transition – for some reading this – I imagine it might feel like failure. But, I don’t. It is an evolution on what matters to me. A reminder of my why. A reconciling with embracing the piece of running I love while letting go of what no longer serves me.
Sure, my gal pals and I will stumble through another 10K this fall, but just for fun. A reminder that we can do anything when we put our minds to it. Unlike years past, I doubt I’ll even keep time. For once, the desire to call myself a runner or somehow set a PR no longer takes center stage. Instead, running has become a small piece of a greater wellness puzzle. A missing piece that helps me achieve my goal of keeping up with my middle school age, athletic son. To prioritize myself and ensure I make the most of this one precious body I was given. To come to terms with the idea that running is a part of what I do but not who I am. And if that makes me a bit insane, so be it.
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Last Update: Jul 25, 2024 1:19 pm CDT
