Present, Connected, Lucky
Musings after seven days of running
About a week ago, a video crossed my social feed of a forty-something woman who’d decided to run a mile every day for thirty days, only to fall in love with it and continue well past the one-month deadline.
With quick cuts and bright outfits, the video was probably designed to not-so-subtly highlight her dramatic weight loss. But that wasn’t what caught my eye.
What I noticed was how much better at running she became. She got faster. Her form improved. Even her breathing shifted. In the span of less than a minute (which represented at least a year’s work), she evolved into the kind of athlete that we fortysomethings often assume is out of reach.
I don’t consider myself easily swayed by social media—probably the biggest lie I tell myself—but I laced up my sneakers and went out for a mile run that very day. I hadn’t gone out for a run in eight years.
To be honest, I’m not sure what it was about that particular video that got me outside—or if the video was to blame at all. Maybe it wasn’t any one thing. Maybe it was many little things, like pebbles dropped in a filled glass until the water overflows.
In my twenties, I ran all the time: 10ks, half-marathons, even just a three or four mile run for funsies.
Then I had kids. My body changed. I changed.
You’ve heard how this story goes before. Well, so had I. I’d heard it so many times before, in fact, that without even realizing, I started re-treading the familiar beats, shaping myself to the narrative.
I’m too old to run anymore, I told myself with all the authority of the best storytellers. Too fat. Too slow. There isn’t any point in running any more. That time of my life has passed.
I was okay with that narrative. Or so I thought.
Until seven days ago.
I’m writing this after my seventh consecutive mile run. Those are my real times in that picture above.
As you can see: I’m not very fast. My times are slow, even for what’s considered “slow” in running circles. That part of the story that I told myself, at least, appears to be true.
Yet—and this surprised even me—when I look at those times, speed isn’t what I see.
What I see are seven consecutive runs, after ten years of telling myself I couldn’t run anymore. Seven consecutive times where I just went out and tried to do a thing, just to see if I could.
Turns out: I could do the thing. I just needed to give myself the chance.
I believe that identity is a verb. That is to say, identity isn’t something you feel—or, more accurately, something you only feel. Identity is something you do. Actions you take, choices you make. You choose a version of yourself, then commit to doing whatever it takes to make it real.
Over the years, I’ve collected many identities: Mother, daughter, wife, friend, mentor, collaborator, storyteller, problem-solver. All of those identities require actions.
Now I have decided, seven times, to add runner into the mix.
I linger on this point because those things I told myself—“fat”, “old,” “slow”—they aren’t identities. They’re adjectives, like “green,” “three-headed,” or “scaly.”
Adjectives don’t define the noun they describe. The quality of “green” doesn’t change the intrinsic properties of a knife; being “green” doesn’t transform the knife into a spoon. You could paint the knife crimson, and then it becomes a “red” knife—but either way, it’s still a knife.
So what’s stopping me from painting myself in new colors, too?
Today, I am choosing a new set of adjectives to describe myself besides “fat,” “old,” and “slow.”
Instead of “fat,” I am “present.”
I exist, grounded in physical space. When I run, all the many atoms of my body work in concert to propel me through a swiftly tilting universe that, with each passing second, expands to become just a little bit bigger and more marvelous than it was before. Every step I take is me calling out to that universe: I am here.
Instead of “old,” I am “connected.”
What hubris it is to declare oneself “old”: A single human lifespan is only a brief blink of light, a wave crashing on the shore, before it vanishes forever. But I do exist as a link in an unbroken chain of people, those who came before me and those who will come afterward. That chain cannot be complete without me; it breaks without my presence. So when I run, I connect my chain to theirs and keep it whole.
Instead of “slow,” I am “lucky.”
Most of us have said to ourselves: I wish I could do it all again, with the knowledge I have now. I wouldn’t make the same mistakes. I would make better choices. Well, I have the enviable opportunity to do just that. To begin again. To make smarter, healthier decisions. To fall in love with running again as if for the first time. How lucky I am to be in these shoes, huffing and puffing and sweating rivers! What a blessing I have been given—that I have given myself.
With these adjectives in hand, I can more accurately describe my identity—as a runner, yes, but as a person.
I can tell myself a new story: That I am the person who chooses, every day, to lace up my shoes and go outside.
I am a present, connected, lucky runner. That’s who I am.
That’s who I choose to be.