Seven Months Into the Pandemic and I’m…Somehow liking my husband more than ever.
My husband and I celebrated our fifteenth anniversary this September, so I would like to think that we have a sense of what it’s like to be married.
And we do: it’s really hard. (And he’d say the same. I’m far from the perfect lifelong roommate.)
Simon and I have always really loved each other as human beings, but all of the warts, the insecurities, the annoying habits? We haven’t always known how to deal with them.
For instance: When we’re having an issue, Simon, a Brit, and me, an American, both uphold our cultural stereotypes. Simon likes to “keep calm and carry on,” maintaining a stiff upper lip, while I pester him to express his feelings and share hearts so we can find a meaningful resolution. (Yeah, turns out pestering isn’t the best way to get a person to open up.)Â
Then we had kids. Three of them. Boys. You may know the drill: diapers, crying, whining, disagreements on how to parent, lack of sleep, less time for just the two of us.Â
Keep in mind Simon is incredibly loving and patient; he does laundry; he thinks I’m attractive and tells me; and he puts the kids and me first always (sometimes to a fault). Still, sometimes I wondered how we’d make it to the other side of raising three kids still liking each other.Â
Then COVID-19 hit. Would all of the time together create more arguments about the most mundane of things? Would we emerge having said things we wish we wouldn’t have, our hearts a little more calloused?Â
Anxiety crept in as our world shrunk down to five humans, a Wheaten Terrier, and a tarantula.
The thing is, we both kept running, always making time for each other to get in miles, knowing how much we both needed the movement and time alone.
In April, Simon ran my #sexypace to help me match my old half marathon PR that I didn’t think I was capable of. (Simon is the best pacer for me; I think it comes from helping me through three births. Giving birth: uncomfortable and painful. PRs? Also uncomfortable and painful.)
As we ran, he knew not to mention the fact that we’re running. He talked about the kids, current affairs, future plans…all the while knowing I’m not very conversational on the run.
At mile ten he asked, “How’s this going?” I told him I thought we were close to my PR. He’d had no idea. “Well cool, let’s push this. We’ve only got 5k to go.”Â
At this point, I sort of hated him; when I’m struggling, his heart rate is probably at 130. (That speedy bastard!) I trust him to help me get where I want to go. (Both to a PR and also in life.)
In September, I biked alongside Simon while he took on 13.1. The night before, he didn’t want to talk about his goal. He’s not into verbal affirmation or attention. Just wants to get on with it. #british
I’m a mediocre biker at best and honestly worried I’d crash into him. I didn’t let my concern show. Instead, I tried to return the favor and entertain him with stories that didn’t need responses. Being the caretaker he is, he chatted back. I carefully passed him Tri-Berry and Espresso Love GUs, then handed him a water bottle to chase them down.
As we got to miles 11 and 12, things were getting tough, so I reminded him that he’d done the work. At the very end, he hought he was shooting for 13.2, so he was pretty excited when I told him that half marathons end in .1 and that he was done!
It hasn’t been all about running, of course.
We drank red wine and listened to old dance music from our 20s.
We allowed frequent family movie nights that included classics like “The Princess Bride” and “My Neighbor Totoro.”
We got creative using forgotten toys and books and took daily “I spy” walks around the neighborhood to keep the boys entertained and active.
We worked as a team to get work—our kids and ours—done. Simon would wake up early to get ahead on his job as a special education teacher. I was in charge of guiding our then 2nd grader through his assignments while Simon managed preschool skills with our youngest. (The tween was self-sufficient.) In the afternoons and often late into the evenings, I focused on my jobs.
Of course we have our rough times, but that’s to be expected fifteen years into marriage and seven months into a pandemic. I’ll kick him out the door to run—or he’ll do the same for me—and when one of us returns, it always feels better.
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Seven Months Into the Pandemic and I’m…Looking to the Moon
1. Seven months in, and I’m a moon gazer. Summer in July spent on my in-laws front porch, facing southwest. Months after not seeing or hugging them (we still don’t), we sat gazing into the mid evening, pre-sunset sky and took stock of the moon.
Every night, it appeared later, lower in the horizon and further south. or so it seemed. As a novice astrologer, I could discern the shape (gibbous or crescent) and where it fell in its cycle (waxing or waning), but not much else. It seemed like a mystery.
But I could always count on its rising in some form, even if it was not at night, which I’ve often expected.
2. Seven months in, and I’m run/walker. I love the run/walk. Obsessed. Pre-babies life (not too long ago), I pooh-poohed it.
Felt like walking was being “soft”, somehow undercutting my identity as a runner. Returning to the run post baby #2 (and a groin strain, thank you, relaxin) I relish in the walk. The self-care reminder it brings. The pause it allows me to take in order to reset and “notice everything”. That has become my grounding mantra in these unsettled times.
Notice everything. The feeling of the sun. The changing of the leaves of the trees. How the run feels different at different times of day, as the seasons blend into each other. First winter, then spring, to summer, now fall.
The pain in my lungs. The stress in my body. Hoping if I notice it, I can acknowledge it, name it. Then let it go.
3. Seven months in, and I’m owning my identity as a mother. After Maya, my first child, I pretended to see glimmers of my past life. Similar routines of long days teaching/dog walks/dinner prep/long runs on the weekend or training runs before the sun.
Now after Ari, my second, everything has shifted. I’ve been forced to embrace the ebb and flow between rhythms; resistance leads to struggle and disappointment.
But I am able to soak in the sweetness more too: the weight of his body as we sway cheek to cheek singing, Dear Ari Thomas, what to say to you? The light in his eyes when he giggles. The joy of discovering something for the first time.
I am forever changed by all this: hopefully softer towards my family and myself. But also a believer that there is still something out there for me—the moon and the run—no matter the form it currently takes.
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AMR Trains #19: Eco-Challenge with Sonja Wieck, captain of Team Iron Cowboy
Dimity and Sonja Wieck dive into the Fijian waters to relive the World’s Toughest Race, then head to shore. The two chat about bringing more adventure into daily pandemic life and how Sonja has found both clarity and coping skills after a life-altering mental health event.
Dive in with us to find out:
• how Sonja did as Team Iron Cowboy’s only navigator;
• who Ninja Kitty is—and why she rides fat tires;
• how Sonja and 12-year-old daughter fared hiking the John Muir trail; and
• about the four pillars of Sonja’s mental health.
Sonja’s podcast: Tales of Toughness
Sonja on Instagram: @GoSonja
See where you can go with a NordicTrack treadmill with iFit: Visit NordicTrack.com
Ready for more Training? Steaming hot episodes served up here.
Seven Months Into the Pandemic and I’m…Watching my hair grow.
On February 17, I was diagnosed with breast cancer, which would later be classified as triple positive.
As anyone who has been on this journey knows, the first few days and weeks are a blur of appointments and emotions. As it became clear that I would be losing my hair due to the type of chemo I would be receiving, I knew I wanted to go ahead and have it shaved to save me the emotional trauma of having to see clumps of my long (expensively highlighted!) hair fall out.
I made the appointment knowing my mom would be able to join me. Then to my surprise, my older sister flew across country to be with us as well. During the appointment, my mom asked if I wanted to keep a lock of my hair, but I remember telling her, “that part of my life is over, I need to look forward”.
And for me, looking forward also meant physically moving forward. I was determined to continue running through treatment and joked that I was more aerodynamic with my newly bald head. I live in an area where sidewalks and greenways are readily accessible so I continued to run my bald-headed self on the days that I could, through 6 rounds of TCHP chemo, surgery for a lumpectomy and lymph node removal and 20 rounds of radiation.
I have certainly struggled with aspects of having cancer but for me, losing my hair has not been one of those. In fact, silver linings! Not having hair during a pandemic meant not having to worry about getting to the salon!
While I have completed the majority of my treatment, having triple positive breast cancer means continued immunotherapy infusions every three weeks until May 2021 as well as chemically induced menopause at the age of 42.
Lack of estrogen can contribute to osteoporosis and joint aches but another silver lining? For us ladies running through cancer and menopause, these side effects can be mitigated with running!
So, while I continue to watch my hair grow, I will continue to watch my miles grow too.
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Seven Months Into the Pandemic and I’m…Thanking Ultra Runner Gary Robbins.
Feelings of listlessness.
An inability to find a new goal.
A lack of desire to run.
As runners we all know what a race hangover looks like. When I finished my first marathon distance this May, I knew I had achieved something remarkable. Not only had I completed my goal using a Train Like a Mother Marathon Program, but I had done it inside of a pandemic when the physical race itself had been cancelled.
Everyone told me how amazing it was. Heck, I told myself how amazing it was! But once the high and the muscle soreness dissipated, I quickly fell into a deep race hangover with no end in sight as race after race was cancelled and runners were told to run solo wherever possible.
Enter Gary Robbins, organizer of the Coast Mountain Trail Running (CMTR) Summer Challenge. The challenge was teased on the CMTR Instagram page. Scrolling on Instagram, staring longingly at destinations which now felt out of reach, the Summer Challenge post hinted at something different.
“Who’s sick of “virtual races” already!?” was the caption. Me!
I was geared up to see what this virtual, summer long scavenger hunt would look like. Completing 30 unique challenges over 100 days of summer to earn badges was right up my alley as a former Girl Guide.
I ran for ice cream. I ran for flowers. One run even had me carrying a canning jar full of tea leaves – that was the “Shop Local” challenge. I unlocked hidden challenges and I even ran with a stranger. On purpose! I ran up a local stair trail five times in a row. My calves still haven’t quite forgiven me.
I mentioned Gary Robbins earlier, as he is a local trail running legend where I am from. Seriously, look this guy up. He has tried three times in a row to finish the notoriously difficult Barkley Marathons in Tennessee. No Canadian has finished it yet. Gary also happens to be an avid camper. I am an avid camper. Do I sound like a fangirl yet?
During an August camping trip, I was taking a stroll around the campsite when I stumbled across a site with a familiar tent and a vehicle covered in CMTR race stickers.
Could it be?
What were the chances?
Indeed, it was GARY! I summed up my courage and introduced myself. He was super gracious and I kept it short and sweet. My husband and our friends and our children spent the rest of the weekend mercilessly teasing me about “Gary Glitter”, now nicknamed for my starstruck reaction.
I closed out my challenge on September 20 with a four-and-half-hour-hike accompanied by my 8-year-old daughter. We even managed to run parts of it.
I have no idea what the fall holds for me and the running world, but man, that challenge lanyard full of buttons feels glittery and fantastic.
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Seven Months Into the Pandemic and I’m…Missing Marathon Finish Lines.
I miss marathon finish lines. The accomplishment of crossing a finish line is so special. I thought I’d be a one and done kind of marathon runner. Turns out, I got hooked not only on the race, but on the entire experience, even the months of training. The challenge of seeing a plan come together, ultimately ending at that finish line is magical.
Like many other runners, in January I signed up for my 2020 races and planned for my fall marathon. My overall goal is to finish a marathon in each New England state; this year was the Hartford Marathon in Connecticut.
Calendar in hand, I mapped out a year’s worth of training.
Seven months into the pandemic there is no finish line in site, but all those miles of marathon training have helped me deal with life in general. When gyms had to close, I still had my running as a stress relief. Even as races started being cancelled, I stuck to my training calendar because there was a chance that a spring race may happen, and I wanted to be ready.
When the kids came home and shifted to distance learning, I woke up earlier to get miles in before my husband left for work, still holding out hope a finish line was in the future.
Then, there was the winter running streak I just couldn’t give up. I’d already run or walked a mile outside every day from January 3 so why not keep going?
While this year’s marathon hasn’t happened yet, I’ve crossed off many more milestones that I didn’t even realize would be there back in January. There has been more time to include our kids in my miles because they just assume that mommy has a mile to do today and we are going to do it together. Sticking with my training has also helped my patience.  When I just want to scream in frustration after long days balancing work and life while the WiFi struggles to keep up, and I want to throw the modem out the window, I use my marathon mantras that I use to get up over difficult hills in a race to make it through the hard days.
And, just like in a marathon, when I’m feeling depleted and drained, there is a strength hidden inside that I can draw on to get me through to the end. There have been times I have had to take a deep breath when the next depressing headline crosses the screen. Just like digging deep at mile 22 because you’re almost there, I know we are so close to the finish. We might get there a little worse for wear, missing a couple toenails, but I can feel the finish line cheers.
Maybe this race turns into an ultra; I’m on day 294 of my streak so bring it on!
Read more Seven Months into the Pandemic essays.