One #FindYourStrong Marathon, Two Voices: Where’s the Training Plan for Parenting?
Everyone’s happier after a run.
Heather and Marianne, two long-distance BRFs, are going to document their #FindYourStrong Marathon training weekly on Tuesdays. Although training has started, it’s only started for the first three waves (marathons on October 3-4, 10-11, & 17-18). Registration is still open for all waves, and will be open through June 19. Heather has a solo performance today; she and Marianne will be back to writing together next week.
Training this week has been slightly tougher than usual, mostly because we’re undergoing training of a different sort: sleep training. The last time we went through this, we had to fasten a bike lock around a baby gate at the entrance to our son’s room. Even with the lock, we had to deliver him back to his room five times the first night after he used two different chairs, a storage box, the trash can, and the mountain to his train table to climb over the gate. (In case you were wondering, that determination better come from me and it better translate to marathons in the future.)
Let me tell you, when before I became a real parent—and not just one in my mind—I never would have been going through this. My children would pick up all their toys before bedtime. They’d shower the room with goodnight kisses before cheerfully skipping upstairs while singing a song, VonTrapp style. They would carefully brush their teeth, change into jammies, no pull-ups needed because obviously they stayed dry through the night. We’d cuddle up for storytime and then I’d tuck them gently into bed. Those imaginary children were asleep before I left the room.
They would do those things because I had parented so well. Whenever I witnessed other people’s children resisting bedtime or waking multiple times during the night, I would make sympathetic murmurings, but really I was thinking “They’re obviously not doing something right. I would never put up with that behavior.”
I like equations. It’s not so much that I’m enamored with math, but more that I love a right answer. I like knowing that I’m on the right path, making the correct choice. Unsurprisingly, parenting has not been smooth sailing for me. As it turns out, there are no right answers in parenting. Or, perhaps more accurately, there are 17,000 right answers to every question, because everyone insists that their answer is the correct one.
Oh—and as a bonus —everyone wants to give you their answer.
As a result, I have spent much of my time as a parent grappling with indecision, self-doubt, and guilt. People will say, “Trust your motherly instinct! Mama always knows best!” But what if I can’t feel an instinct? What if I don’t have one? Should I feed him peanut butter before 2 years of age? Should she be picked up and comforted, or am I spoiling her? When exactly does that pacifier need to disappear? Did we already ruin her life by introducing a pacifier in the first place? How the hell am I supposed to know any of this? And where on earth are the manuals for these kids?
A bewildered mama with baby Henry
A while ago, I made an offhand comment to my parents that running is the easiest part of my life. Concerned and possibly alarmed, my mom asked, “What’s so hard?” After all, by most standards I do not have a hard life. I lead an upper-middle-class existence in a delightful suburb with a fantastic family, a job I care about, and full health benefits. The streets of Hudson are not tough. Life isn’t that hard. It’s that running is.so.easy. There are zero decisions to make.
Someone (in the case of the #FindYourStrong Marathon Challenge, Coach Christine) gives me a prescribed plan to follow, and I know that if I follow that plan, it will yield good results. Want to run faster? Do speed work. Want to run farther? Gradually increase your distance. 1+1=2. Equations. Right answers.
Even when sleep was interrupted and sacrificed this week, my marching orders were clear: 3 miles; 4 miles; 6 miles… On Monday, after a night of who-knows-how-few hours when even the devoted morning runner in me couldn’t bear the thought of a 5:45 a.m. alarm, I stuffed my running gear into a workout bag and got in those three miles before leaving the office for the day. On Tuesday when I fell asleep before the screaming kid did, when he woke early the next morning as I was leaving for my run and my husband asked me to stay, I did it again despite the obnoxious heat and humidity. Why? Because that’s what the plan said to do. I didn’t have to think. I just had to go.
The benefits to working in a national park.
Back in the murky world of parenting, my 3.5-year-old son does not want to go to bed. He doesn’t want that bedtime story. He wants to be tucked in approximately 874 times. We didn’t snug up his feet and toes properly. He will wake multiple times during the night and repeat the painful process. At bedtime—or worse, at 3 am—he will ask questions about my father-in-law, who died so very suddenly a month ago, leaving us all breathless. I will waver between wanting to provide comfort and reassurance, and feeling the need to lay boundaries. Am I making it worse by giving in and going in? If I stay firm am I making it worse because he feels abandoned? Indecision. Doubt.
I’m taking comfort in the thought that a month from now, a year from now, five years from now, things will be different. We’ll be wrestling with something else. And in the meantime, I’ll keep putting one foot in front of the other, taking solace in the results that follow. At least I always snug those laces just right.
We gotta know: Is running the easiest part—or at least one of the easier parts—of your life?
#BAMRdown Is Getting back up: an Ankle Update
The grand unveiling is moments away–and I could barely look.
I realize I’m nervous for my June 11 appointment with my orthopedic surgeon when I find myself biting off nearly all my fingernails the afternoon before. Both thumbs, left pinky, ring finger, middle finger. A Valium helps me sleep that night, but the next morning, after Jack drops me off and I clomp on my iWalk to the doctor’s office by myself, my heart is racing as fast as my brain. “What if…” scenarios are doing 4-minute miles in my head:
What if the healing isn’t happening as fast as I hope?
What if the doctor keeps me in the cast longer?
What if I get a boot…but it’s non-weight-bearing?
While I can’t run miles, I can put yards and yards of needlepoint yarns to good use. This canvas will eventually be made into a doorstop, encasing a brick from the hospital where I was born.
To calm down, I start needlepointing. Occupy the hands, not the brain, I tell myself. Still feeling jangly, I look around the otherwise-deserted waiting room…and cue up Peter Gabriel on my iPhone. The soothing tones of “Down to Earth” ratchet down my anxiety a notch or two, but I continue playing music as a tech cuts off the cast and takes X-rays. I switch to John Mayer, and he eases my nerves a bit, but waiting alone in an exam room for the results, I kick the music into high gear. On comes “Boston, baby!,” my playlist from 2012 Boston Marathon. I listen to Gotye’s “In Your Light” while visualizing memories from that 26.2.
Paula, a physician assistant with a bright smile, enters the room, and we talk needlepointing for a bit. Then we turn our attention from my koi-pond canvas to the ankle X-rays. Beaming, Paula says everything is healing really well, pointing out how well aligned the breaks were healing–no jagged, bony bits sticking out. (My words, not hers.) When she gets to an image showcasing the biggest remaining fracture, it appears to me like a gaping chasm between the two pieces of bone, but Paula blithely says, “And that’ll fill in nicely with new bone growth,” as confidently as I’d say my 9-year-old twins would be rowdy when they get out of school that afternoon.
Paula tells me she expects the doctor to put me in a non-weight-bearing boot, and my face falls. She immediately asks what’s wrong, and I croak out, “I really, really want a weigh-bearing boot.” Her tone a trifle less cheerful, Paula says the final decision is up to the doctor.
Looking back, instead of playing random John Mayer music, I should have cued up “Bigger Than My Body” or “Waiting on the World to Change” during the X-ray session.
As if on cue, in walks Dr. B. The slender, charcoal-haired surgeon knows how much running means to me and how ardently I want to be active again. After a quick perusal of the X-rays, Dr. B. casually announces, “Let’s get you in a weight-bearing boot.”
My reaction is immediate and visceral: I burst into tears.
With tears springing from my scrunched-shut eyes, I hear Paula explain to the obviously confused doctor, “That’s the news she wanted…. No, no, don’t worry: Those are happy tears.” I continue crying but try to pull myself together. When I finally open my eyes, a befuddled Dr. B. sits close to me, proffering me a box of tissues. I assure him he’s given me the scenario I’d been (nervously!) daydreaming about; I thank him profusely.
Boot on, ready to take first step–which was a doozy: felt like 100s of flaming pins shot into my ankle. To ease into weight-bearing, I used a single crutch to hobble. Immediately set a goal: Lose the crutch by Monday.
As I wipe away my tears, Dr. B. gives me the lay of the land for the next few weeks. Several times a day, I’m to gently flex my ankle/foot forward and back, using a towel or strap to help as it loosens up a bit. In two weeks, he’ll see me again and if all continues to look good, he’ll give me the all-clear to see a talented physical therapist whose office is less than a half-mile from our house. He assures me, “We’ll get you back to exercise, probably starting with pool walking.” I don’t dare inquire about running, but he doesn’t look dismissive when I ask about barre class and riding a stationary bike in mid-July.
I make my way don the hall to get fitted for the weight-bearing boot solo: I don’t need to be accompanied by Peter Gabriel, John Mayer, or Gotye.
Two days post-cast, and already I’m racing Kara Goucher–at least in my mind. In reality, I was upright, crutch free, and happy at party at new Foot Traffic store, where they unveiled chainsaw sculpture of Kara. (Yes, I know: only in Portlandia!)
Post-script: Back home, ready to work, and in the boot, I gaze out French doors in front of my desk toward the blooming lavender in our neighbor’s yard. I marvel at the abundance of almost-ripe plums on a tree shading our driveway. As I let the progress of my ankle recovery settle in, I am left with one pure belief that I tweet:
“Prayers & positive vibes from Another #MotherRunner tribe worked: cast off; weight-bearing boot. Best possible outcome for today. THANK YOU!”
It bears repeating in stereo: THANK YOU all for your continued support, love, and advice. I treasure it all.
#165: Tips and Tales from an Ultrarunning Fitness Instructor
Certainly not the worst scenery for a trail run.
Sarah and Dimity welcome on Laura Swenson to hear her tales of running the Grand Canyon rim-to-rim. This mother of three tells how she has run 30+ marathons since her first 26.2-miler in December 2001 (yeah, you do the staggering math on that feat!), as well as how the first time she stepped out of her athletic comfort zone it felt almost like spiritual experience. Find out what this Spinning instructor and personal trainer considers a “miracle worker” for runners, and what an R3 is. (Nope, it’s not from the new Star Wars movie.)
But first hear Dimity recount her recent triathlon, and Sarah tell why a dime demonstrated that her husband really loves and understands her.
From our sponsor: For 20% off a ROVER, EDGE, or any Red Fox merchandise or active-lifestyle accessories, use promo code AMR2015 at Red Fox Wireless website.
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Martini Fridays: on Coaches, Plans, and Coastlines
I’d like to say that I’ve been up to something completely fabulous since my last Martini Friday — fighting pirates in the Caribbean, maybe, or discovering foolproof cures for foot fungus — but I’d be lying. Mostly I’ve been working, sleeping, parenting, and/or running. Lather, rinse, repeat.
I did make a coaching change. And, yes, I did alert the running media, whose silence on the matter I will try to not take personally.
New coach, new plan, new stickers. Same Garmin.
While there was absolutely nothing wrong with my previous coach Sara, I don’t know that we were ever the best fit philosophically. She is based in the fitness pressure cooker that is New York City, where the drive to be faster, stronger, better is multiplied tenfold because every day is a competition between you and 8 million other people. I am just not that driven, even when I was young and in a similar place.
When I met Coach Christine in Little Rock, I knew I’d found a Sole Sister. Yes, sure, she runs 101 miles just to see if she can — but she also doesn’t push anyone else to do it, too. Christine has met me in the slow, only vaguely competitive, busy life with kids place where I am. And that has made a world of difference.
My next race will be the Shipyard Old Port Half Marathon in Portland, Maine, which I got drafted into by another mother runner who is going to be the pacer for the 2:30 group. In all honesty, it wasn’t hard sell. I have friends in the area who we try to visit every year and am a big fan of Maine itself. I greatly prefer beaches that pummel you with their craggy cold-ness rather than their soft sand and gentle surf. I am also increasingly convinced that I might have been a Viking in a past life.
For me, 2:30 will be a stretch, even though the course is relatively flat and I’ll have a buddy to run with. But a running buddy is no gaurantee that I’ll be able to keep up. Two weekends ago I hooked up with Laura, a great friend who also happens to be a massage therapist/acupuncturist/badass mother runner. Usually, if Laura wants to run with someone, it has to be her very tall, very fast husband, who runs ahead of her, then lopes back for a few more steps, then runs ahead again.
Yeah. I’d want to throttle him, too. Laura’s pretty chill about it, though. She’s pretty chill in general, which is really what you want from someone in her profession. We both thought it would be fun to run together, even though my very, very fastest mile time isn’t that far off from her very, very slowest.
That morning, after a quick discussion about routes and times, we took off. The first mile was good, if a wee bit zippier than my usual pace. We slowed down a bit, because Laura is, again, pretty chill and was happy to just be running with a friend who was sticking around to talk.
At the three mile turn, the sun came out and my personal wheels came off. The sun is my nemesis, which might lend further evidence for my Viking theory.
Post-run smiles.
If I were forced to write one sentence to describe my running career so far, it would be this: I make an excellent anchor. And by “anchor,” I don’t mean “someone who you put last in the relay because they are reliably speedy.” No, I’m referring to that big, heavy thing that keeps boats from floating away.
As Kelly learned when I ran the first half of the Philly Marathon with her, I am exactly who you want when you are worried about going out too fast. And as Laura learned on Saturday, when the sun comes out, even my fastest-yet-still-not-fast-really pace deserts me. We walked a good deal of miles 4 and 5, with brief running breaks so that we had a hope of getting back in enough time for her to get her son to a soccer game. By the last half mile, Laura agreed to leave this mother runner behind so that she wouldn’t be quite so late.
And I’m pretty chill about that. But I’m still learning how to be chill about not being a faster runner in general, one who can keep up with most other mother runners with minimal effort. It’s a journey.
In the better news department, I had my first long run of this training cycle last weekend. Because of a scheduling snafu, I had to squeeze it in before work last Friday, which I could do because I didn’t have to be in the office until noon, which was the upside.
The downside is that I could go in late because it was Alumni Weekend and, since I work in my college’s Alumni office, I would be on campus off and on (mostly on) for the next 48 hours. Which is not ideal when you’ve run for 9+ miles and then spend the next 8 hours on your feet.
Still, we do what we must — and we make sure we wear our Pro Compression socks.
We also make sure we roll out our calves (and our hammies and our quads).
As long runs go, it was a good one. The weather was perfect — 50 degrees and cloudy. I had plenty of podcasts saved up and plenty of time to get it done. I nearly forgot that Coach Christine wanted me to work in a five-minute strong finish but remembered before I turned off Herr Garmin.
I’m trying to not think too much about this weekend’s long run, which will contain two miles at my race pace of 11:22. My fingers are crossed that the great ball of sky fire keeps itself hidden that morning.
If I were writing a comic book about running, the sun would be my bad guy. Who would your nemesis be?
Olympic Triathlon Race Report: I Get To Do This
Where’s Dimity? Over there by the orange buoy, about to dive in.
I get to wake up at 5:10 on a Sunday morning because I get to do an Olympic triathlon. I get up to pee, decide I need 15 more minutes in the warm bed, and I climb back in and snuggle with the husband and dog. Then I get up to go.
Because I chose a small, local event for my first triathlon in two years and my first race in 10 months, I get to park close to the transition area. So close, I can go use the port-a-potty—success, in case you were wondering—and then walk back to my car, extract my bike and my wetsuit and all the other gear I need for this triathlon I get to do. I get in a little bit of a tiff with a guy who doesn’t like how I set up my transition area—my stuff is too close to his, apparently—so I walk away instead of getting myself too worked up about it.
I get to make those kind of decisions on race day.
In the 62-degree water—trying to focus on the fact the chilliness makes me feel alive—I decide I’m going to lean into the burn going on in my legs as my little school of pink-capped fish takes off for the first buoy. I could take my foot off the gas pedal and slow down, but doing so will create limb-to-limb combat as I fall to the back of the pack. Plus, I get to swim the whole 1,500 meters today anyway, no matter what speed I go. My legs get to keep kicking hard.
Orange buoy on my right. Another orange buoy on my right. Take ten strokes before I sight again. Ok, seven. Green buoy on my left? How did that happen? Reorient myself and take five strokes before I sight again. Five, five, seven, seven, green buoy on my right. Face is freezing, toes aren’t much better, not sure I’ll be able to shift gears on my bike with my cold hand.
I get to do this.
One more green buoy, breaststroke around it, then head home. Find another pink cap swimming roughly my speed, and ride in her bubbles like I’m surfing. Pretend like I’m swimming downhill. Act like this is no effort at all. Let her carry me. I get to be in a race where somebody does the work for me: How cool is that?
I also get to be in a race where, if I lie down on the pavement after the swim, a really nice volunteer will strip off my wetsuit. That is beyond cool.
Lyle almost bucked me off, he was so excited to race again.
Get on Lyle, my bike, who hasn’t raced in two years. He definitely hasn’t climbed up any hills recently like the ones in this triathlon I get to do. Put him into a fairly easy gear and spin, spin up the hills. Then shift up, and mash, mash down the hills. Go 36.6 mph down one hill, and wish that I could go 40. While climbing, pass two riders pulling people (one child, one adult) with special needs in their trailers. They’ve already pulled them on a raft in the swim, and will push them in strollers during the run. “Great job,” I pant to all of them.
Holy cow. I get to do this.
I get to be out here, on smooth pavement, looking at Colorado exactly as She should be: blue and green and white-capped and crisp. I get to be out here with legs that can hum and lungs that can breathe and eyes that can see and a mind that is doing its very, very best to be positive and grateful. I get to do this.
An unexpected friend appears to cheer me on and I’m teary with appreciation on what I thought would be a solo morning. “I’m, like, not trying to be rude Mom,” my daughter said the previous night, “But going to races is really boring.” Roger that. I get it. Except when you’re like me this morning, and you get to do a triathlon.
Then the run on a still-healing foot that doesn’t always cooperate. The run out starts out surprisingly easy and pain-free, and I decide I will stick with my planned 9 minute run/1 minute walk intervals. The first one is cake. 10 minutes done, 1 mile done. The second one, still ok. I’m one third through the run! This will be over in no time! Third mile, well…huh. Rat farts. Foot is burning and f**k, this is hard. My legs are fried.
I get to do this. I.get.to.do.this. Igettodothis.
Start counting my steps as I head towards the mile 4 marker. 25, 43, 60, 70, count from 61 to 70 again to stretch out the 100—110, really—and get closer to the 9-minute mark. Back creaks, steps shorten, foot yells, nobody is around. Nobody will know if I walk prematurely. All the speedies have passed me, and I have no idea where anybody else is. Too much energy to turn around to check.
But no. I get to not let myself off the hook. Get to 100, and get to start counting again. And again. And again.
Get close enough to the finish line that I can hear the announcer. Then I get to run this way and that, up hills and down, back out and in every direction but directly towards the line. I get to do this. This frustrating, exhausting thing that has me wincing and wondering why I even care and wanting so.very.bad to just walk.
When only run photographer was positioned at the top of a hill around mile 6.1 of a 6.3 mile course. I get to keep my head down.
My whole life, I see the holes before I see the whole. I anticipate what will go wrong, instead of relish in what has already gone—and will go—right. I plan for bad moods, bad days, bad races, bad months. Probably don’t have to tell you that’s not the most seamless or smart way to live. I’ll never be a pathological optimist like Sarah (bless her!), but I am making a conscious effort to turn my mental barge slowly in a more positive direction.
So on a gorgeous Sunday morning, even though I’ve been on the travel-too-much/sleep poorly/never swim training plan, I grab the wheel of that barge and head straight for I-get-to.
Every time I started to go in my normal negative direction, I diverted myself. My brand new goggles are perfect! I’m surfing behind this swimmer and she doesn’t even know it! I’m back racing on Lyle! And Grant cleaned him and gave him a new back tire and his gears are smooth as silk! I love to ride my bicycle! I’m running a freakin’ 10K! I passed a few people at the end! I hung in for the full 9/1 pattern!
Thinking in exclamation points is not my M.O., but if you’re trying to turn a barge, you’ve got to pull out all your (!!!) tools.
Most of all, I reminded myself, I don’t have to do this race. I don’t need to do this race. Nobody is forcing me to do this race. I chose to do this race—because I have the body, the mind, and the means to get to.
Yes, I know that ending a sentence in a preposition is crappy grammar, but I get to.
I get to. I get to. I get to.
One #FindYourStrong Marathon, Two Voices: Weighty Matters
Feeling good to have officially started training.
Heather and Marianne, two long-distance BRFs, are going to document their #FindYourStrong Marathon training weekly on Tuesdays. Although training has started, it’s only started for the first two waves (marathons on October 3-4 and 10-11). Registration is still open for all waves, and will be open through June 19. Marianne is taking over both voices today because the topic is more in her wheelhouse and Heather is off enjoying her 10th wedding anniversary and will be back to writing here next week.
Something that I have been mulling as I wrapped the No Limits winter challenge and started this one is how I, and others, change perspectives.
I’ve spent almost a year using Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT), specifically the Beck Diet Solution, to change my relationship with food and to augment my Weight Watchers systems of tracking points and attending weekly meetings. If you’re someone for whom food has been a struggle, I highly recommend checking it out. One of my most powerful takeaways from the books has been “Just because you have a thought, doesn’t mean it’s true.” It turns out, I am one with a lot of untrue thoughts. Although I primarily utilize Beck for weight loss/maintenance, I’ve noticed how similar my changes in running, food, and running + food thoughts have been.
Old Thought: I can’t have chips in the house because if I open the bag I eat the whole thing.
New Truth: I am a person who makes choices and I can plan for and enjoy one serving of chips.
Old Thought: I can’t run when it’s too hot/ too cold/ too windy or I’m too tired/ too busy/too lazy.
New Truth: Barring injury or illness, I run what the plan says. Maybe I’ll need a walk break. But I will do the work.
Old Thought: The reason I run is to eat more.
New Truth: How I am eating impacts how my runs feel. Rather than seeing a run as a gateway to more calories, I think about how to fuel my body before and during my runs to make them as pleasant as possible.
This past week, I got some pretty significant practice on how I think when it comes to running. My car had a cracked engine block that would cost as much to repair as the car was worth, so instead of doing that, I took a very brief field trip from New Jersey to Ohio. My brother sells cars and had a used one that was deemed the perfect replacement by my husband. I burned some frequent flier miles, left Wednesday night, and packed 95% running stuff and 5% other things.
(Almost) ready for a running centered getaway.
I went to bed, excited for 8 flat, fun, Midwestern miles on Thursday. I planned to make part of it a run to the cemetery to visit my mom and break for a Gu. I knew my favorite podcast, Reply All, would have a new episode to get me through the first two miles, which are almost always a struggle. I would finish in time for breakfast with my dad, head out to get the car, and then drive 450 miles home so I could sleep and be at an important meeting on Friday morning.
It was going to be amazing.
Except I forgot what might be the only thing you cannot easily replace at 7 a.m. in NE Ohio. No, not my shoes. (I wore those on the plane so I wouldn’t forget them.)
I forgot a sports bra.
Back in the 90’s, Big K and Wal Mart (no Target yet) were open 24/7. In 2015, neither was open until 9 a.m.. I was disappointed, but realized I could run the 8 on Friday and figure out the rest of the weekend later. Perhaps I’d run the North Jersey Pride 5k on Sunday and call it the tempo.
What was more important than this backup plan, though, was my own response. There was a long time in my life where this blip would have been more than just a missed run. It would have been a long duration opportunity to ruminate. Perhaps about how I plan big and fail hard. Or how I might have good ideas, but terrible execution. Or how my identity as a runner was a giant scam and the jig was up. Etc., etc. The reason I didn’t frame it like this on that Ohio morning is due to practicing Beck principles for eating—and finding they also change how I think in almost every other domain of my life.
I referenced in my intro post that my brother and I have lost a sum total of 190 pounds. Ninety of those belonged to me. I earned every last one of them in college. Here’s one of my favorite before photos and one from May’s triathlon at the same angle for contrast.
Marianne at her highest weight with the same friend as last week’s triathlon photo, Sara.
Sara is still by my side.
I lost those pounds in fits and starts and redos over the course of 9 years. But I did not change my thinking around who I was. In fact, I knew I had not changed me when I attended a Weight Watchers meeting on how long-term weight loss requires an identity change to someone who is a healthy person. I sat there and thought “Oh, well I guess you better not get too attached to your current weight because you’re just a fat girl renting a thin body.” Over the next few months, I gained 20 pounds, then got pregnant with Joyce and gained another 50+.
A very pregnant Marianne and a moderately pregnant Heather in 2011.
It took me a few years to get back to goal weight again and this time I did actively work on changing my identity to one centered on health. I now view weight loss as a happy byproduct of better eating and thinking, not the reason to do it. Changing my identity got tremendously easier once I started formally working on this piece using the principles in Beck. Now I have a system in place that makes the goal attainable and maintainable.
Of course, I still have hiccups (and having them is part of Beck). I still sometimes turn to food when I am stressed—tortilla chips and chocolate chip cookies and pretzels were all harmed during this week’s car saga—but it is not for the same duration, I rarely continue to punish myself for a few suboptimal choices by really piling it on, and slips are far less likely to become a gateway to mulling over all my perceived flaws. I’ve finally accepted that my anxiety is very much proportional to my eating habits and that it can be greatly improved by putting in lots of vegetables or worsened by choosing foods low in nutrients.
Yes, it’s work, but it works. (For corroborating evidence on this perspective, I suggest this week’s podcast #164 or Dimity’s recent post on clean eating.)
Circling back to my stint in Ohio, I ended up shuffling my visit schedule, scurrying to Target after the breakfast with my dad and then getting in the tempo run while I was still in Ohio. My GU wasn’t needed (but the Action Wipe sure was because I cut the timing very close) and Reply All delivered entertaining and distracting content as usual.
I did not, however, have time to make it to the cemetery to see my mom, and that’s okay. The sign next to me in the photo below from after that run reads “Peace to all who enter here.” It’s been on the front porch of my childhood home for as long as I can remember. It is how my mom (and dad) treated people and it is how she would want me to treat myself, including how I think, so I am wishing all of you a week of peaceful miles and thoughts.
Being 5’4 is a disadvantage when posing with signs.
PS: Although Beck has been very helpful, I’ve also been aided by several years of therapy. I started with my current practitioner when I was simultaneously becoming a new mom, going up for tenure, and processing the return of my mom’s cancer. I wanted to mention this as another tool because stigmas around mental health seem to prevent as much talking about this option as might be ideal. If you’re having a tough time with anxiety, depression, relationships, parenting, or anything else, I hope you will seek help. I’m glad I did.