At one point I hated it, the whole being unable to breathe thing wasn't high on my list of favorable feelings, and my competitive self loathed being passed by everyone including a Mom pushing a stroller and a morbidly obese man who was quite literally smoking as he passed me by. But as I was home for the summer with my parents at the time (almost 8 years ago) it got me out of the house, I didn't have anything better to do and I was becoming a little concerned about the fact that none of my pants fit after a 5 month drinking bender overseas (Ahhh, to be 20 again).
Over the next few years, running became my solace. My time with me, time away everyday I didn't feel guilty about taking. Running kept me company when I lost my job, when I lived in Boston and knew no one, when I felt lost in bad relationships, when I moved to Austin and didn't have a space, when I celebrated my everyday victories. Running is my place. It's a place where I can process things, where my mind can mull things over or go blissfully blank to everything but the sound of my breath.
I lost that after my marathon and my surgery. Moving hurt. So I leaned into my injury and the excuses.
15 pounds later, I found myself in a remarkably similar position as I had been in 8 years before. Except, thank God, I wasn't living at home. I had to reacquaint myself with my pace. With the discomfort of being passed. With that wretched out of breath feeling.
I hated running. I hated feeling foreign in what was supposed to be my goddamn element.
Then one strangely cool day in Austin, I laced up and began a 3 mile stretch of trail, and I remembered. I remembered my pace. I remembered my space. I ran 9 miles, and I didn't do it for the accolades, or to push myself, I ran because it felt like coming home.
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