When I was in University, I started running in the summers to stay in shape. I never ran very far, or very fast, but I ran. And I loved it. I still do.
I stopped running during the mess I made of my life earlier this decade, but earlier this year, I started running again. I had a goal to complete a half marathon a month before it was all over, and I did it. I did it alone, with no one to cheer me on, except my own two feet and a necklace around my neck that I had wanted for years, instead of a ring around my finger I never really wanted in the first place.
A little while back, I read a short piece written by a woman who started running after being diagnosed with breast cancer. Though our paths were different, the sentiment is the same. This is a small part of what she wrote:
And then I ran. Exactly as planned.
I was running for my life, in a sense, though I knew that competition was really unfolding inside my body, far beyond my control. I was running in affirmation, in defiance. I was running to prove that I could, to show that I was not defined by the clusters of renegade cells that were growing within me.
To deal with something in my life that has not, in any conceivable way, gone exactly as planned.
I’m glad to know I’m not the only one.