And this is okay.  Sometimes we simply need to feel what we feel.  One of the best pieces of advice my mother has ever given me is: you cannot argue with a feeling; you cannot get upset with yourself for having a certain feeling because feelings are feelings and we cannot control them.  Obviously this statement, like anything else, cannot be taken to excess (which hearkens back to another one of her great sayings: everything in moderation… she’s a smart lady!).  We cannot wallow in self pity for weeks upon weeks, but sometimes we simply need to feel sad.  We need to let our hearts ache and the tears fall because you know what? Life is not always fair and things do not always go according to plan. Sometimes it takes days, weeks, or months for it to become clear as to why a particular event occurred, or why something took a particular course of action. By not addressing our grievances, though, they simply fester, raging internal wars inside of us, causing us to project feelings and actions born of bitterness and anger.

Everything described above illustrates exactly how I felt this past week, up until Thursday anyway.  For some reason, perhaps because I was home and felt that I was in a “safe place,” or perhaps because it had been nearly three and a half weeks since I had been allowed to exercise, since I had even felt well enough to exercise, I don’t know. Whatever the reason though, negative thoughts tormented my brain, leaving me feeling frazzled and disjointed.  Tears took precedence over laughter and I preferred solitude over company.  The only thoughts my brain could muster were thoughts full of angst and rage, of not being able to run or compete, of not being on the team, of experiencing yet another round of serious health problems.

Then Thursday came; Thanksgiving. My aunt drove down from her vacation in the mountains to surprise me, to make sure that after everything I was really okay.  When she gave thanks at our evening meal she blinked back tears from her eyes as she said, “I’m thankful that we are just here together, that we are finally in good health,” and then she looked meaningfully in my direction.  At Thanksgiving dinner on my father’s side of the family my grandmother’s eyes lit up in ecstasy as I walked through the door. How are you? Are you doing better? The questions flew through the air rapidly, and I cocooned myself in the web of conversations being spun across the room.

I have so much.  Sure, I’ve had some health problems, and yeah my year has definitely NOT gone according to plan, but there has been one constant in my life. Every time I have fallen, every time I feel as though I am about to hit rock bottom my family and friends swoop in and catch me.  I may slip and stumble, or even fall a short way, but I will never hit the ground with these incredible people by my side.

This post is my tribute to being thankful.  I am so thankful for all of the people in my life, and for what they have done for me.  Never would I have accomplished what I have, and never would I have gotten through the past three weeks as gracefully as I have without them.  I am a product of their love, effort, and help.

So, even though Thanksgiving is over, and you’ve probably already done this, I urge everyone to give a special thanks to their friends and family.  And if you’ve been a bit of a “negative Nancy” recently as I have, that’s okay. Accept it, feel it, embody it, and then let it go. Let it go and embrace the things you have because, and I can assure you of this, it feels better than those tears and pity ever will.

Happy Thanksgiving!

This past Sunday I had my “time blinders” on; my mind, spinning in endless circles, could pedal only through the misfortunes of this year and last.  All I could envision were four stress fractures, the medical waiver snatching my athletic eligibility for my senior year, nearly an entire year spent on a bike or in a pool versus running, an internship that had fizzled due to the economy, and a swarm of blood clots that had taken one of my last coping mechanisms: exercise.  I had failed, it seemed, in nearly every part of my life despite unrivaled passion and endless hours of work and dedication.  It almost seemed that the harder I worked, the more I cared, and the more I refused to yield, the more the cornerstones in my life crumbled.

Months later I recognize that yes, sometimes a person can work too hard, and sometimes we need to yield, however, trying to ingrain this thought pattern into my personality, my very being has been and is an exhausting and endless process. I have no idea how long it will take or how I will know when I have reached what I am searching for, and so tears came frequently over the past few days, and my mood became a mental seesaw; up and then down. But then the e-mail came.

Two days ago one of my best friends forwarded me an interview from Competitive Running with Kara Goucher.  The interview focused on “running by feel” and the idea of incorporating modifications into workouts and training schedules.  I thought the interview provided a great professional insight and perspective to a topic that is often met with much resistance by distance runners.  All too often we are unwilling to yield and put a workout off for a day, shorten an interval, or take an afternoon off because we are in auto-pilot mode.  We become so ingrained in a routine and pattern that the mere thought of stepping outside of it, if even for a minute, is petrifying.  It is this precarious balance of OCD, I think, that makes or breaks a champion.  However, what really caused the article to resonate with me are not just the ideas put forth; logically I already know and understand the benefits and importance of modification, and the rationale behind it.  What Kara Goucher did was acknowledge just how hard it is to actually implement those ideas.  She mentioned how important it is to have a coach to rein in an athlete, to lay out the situation objectively, and to be the ultimate decision maker.  She also said it takes a certain amount of hard-headedness to get to the top, thus the recipe for perfection requires a balance of modification, expert advice, and hard-headedness.

As I read her words and her thoughts I could feel a smile start to spread across my face, and my skin tingle slightly.  Here was a professional runner, a female runner doing amazing things that struggled with the same things that I struggle with.  Some people might say, “Well duh,” but I do not think it is so obvious.  There is this aura surrounding professional athletes that bespeaks a more heightened awareness of themselves and their sport as well as a deeper understanding of what truly makes a champion.  I see this aura, I feel this aura; however, I no longer think it is impenetrable by the same fears, doubts, and/or insecurities that I myself battle with, after all we are all human.

Essentially this interview was able to slice through the thick net of depression and frustration that time had woven around me because it provided me with an ally, with a comrade, in a sense.  It does not change my ultimate goal of wanting to mature and become more flexible and more accepting of modification, but it provides me with the comfort of knowing that I am not alone.  It is easy to get down on myself, or to think that I am slightly insane because of the things I struggle with; however, this article proved that this is anything but the case.  Others fight the same battles I fight and are working towards the same goals that I am working towards, and knowing this eases my mind and allows me to cut myself a small break.  All too often we judge ourselves too harshly, forgetting that we are not alone, and while this is no excuse to stop working towards improvement, it is something we can take solace in and use as empowerment.

The music filled the entire room, swirling beneath chairs, around people, and over head.  The ever-increasing tempo caused heart rates to skyrocket so that the entire building pulsed with dancing bodies, beating hearts, and the pounding base.  Movement and rhythm preceded conversation, and my thoughts slid back and forth in my mind, like small beads on a string being tilted first right and then left, they caught the tempo of whatever song happened to be playing.

Catching my roommate’s eye we headed to the bathroom for a break and respite from the noise and crowds.  Chatting through stall doors and laughing about the ridiculous guys we had met at our previous destination; did you know we’re running our third marathon together next year? And that we ALWAYS eat steak, eggs, and sausage JUST before running? Yeah… sure we do

Just beat it, beat it, beat it, beat it
No one wants to be defeated
Showin’ how funky and strong is your fight
It doesn’t matter who’s wrong or right
Just beat it, beat it

Two, three, four, maybe 10 songs later and Ellie and I had a moment of perfect telepathy.  Our hips stopped mid sway, and our eyes widened in realization: THE ICE CREAM.  It just so happened we had a container of birthday cake flavored ice cream, now probably a soupy milkshake, condensating beneath the bar.  You see, we entered the bar on a mere whim, after having embarked on a highly successful and engaging adventure through Shaws Supermarket, an establishment near and dear to our hearts.  Clearly you can see where our priorities lie.  No other thought in mind, utter than pure relief and astonishment that not ONE DROP of the ice cream had leaked through the container, we called it a night.  Bidding new faces ado, we attempted to salvage any shred of dignity possible with a few flirtatious glances thrown over our shoulders as we confidently exited the bar… only to collapse into a fit of giggles the second the door closed behind us.

Several helpings of birthday cake ice cream, garnished with granola, pretzels, and a dollop of peanut butter, later and I sleepily pulled on my t-shirt and slipped between my sheets at an astoundingly late 3 a.m.

Where had we gone?  Nowhere special, just a small bar by the apartment.  What was the occasion?  Nothing really, it was just a regular Friday night, the people around us rejoicing in the fact that tomorrow morning would come without the aid of an alarm clock.  Every weekend countless numbers of college students complete this exact ritual without a thought, except as to which top he or she will wear, and where he or she will go.

“I’m proud of you,” Ellie told me today.  She’s proud because she knows that for me, this isn’t every Friday night.  That for me going out like that involves a detailed plan created days in advance, more for my mental preparation than anything else. She’s proud because that night at 9:00 p.m. I said, “I’m bored, let’s adventure.” And we did, and it was fun.

I’m proud of me.  For the first time, in a really long time, I spent an entire evening living from one moment to the next, never knowing where we were going, what we were doing.  I had no idea where each situation would take us, and the only thing to do was close my eyes and follow Ellie.  I had to surrender control, something that although I might find near impossible most of the time, is going to be essential for my personal sanity and maturation.

Last night was the most fun I’ve had out in a long time, better even than all of the nights I painstakingly planned in order to maximize time and minimize the next day’s tiredness.  All of that energy could finally be used to just be, to participate without worry or care in any and all activities that might be destined to come my way.  And you know what? Everything becomes a lot easier if you can just let go… I know, I’m SLIGHTLY late on the uptake, but you know what they say: better late than never!

As I lay there, head upon the table, eyes closed, stomach churning like a small, smoldering volcano waiting to erupt, I heard the nurse say, “I think she’s just had enough. Her body’s had it. It’s fight or flight.”

Finally the draining finished, the needles removed, and I was left to rest for a few moments on the stretcher.  I couldn’t speak, and the doctors and nurses swam before my eyes as if in a life-size kaleidoscope. I could feel color leave my cheeks nearly as fast as the heat evaporated off of my body.  Again the nurse shook her head and said, “Fight or flight.”

Slowly my mind sharpened and the room regained its original focus, but the phrase “fight or flight” kept replaying over and over and over again in my mind.  Up until today I don’t think I have ever experienced a time in my life where, when faced with a fight or flight decision, I did not, could not fight.  For a brief period today, though, I hit a wall. An honest wall, and whether my mind wanted to or not, my body had had enough and it revolted.

Yes, I powered through, and I attribute that to my belief in that the heart and mind are far stronger and more powerful than the body, and than we give them credit for.  Do I think that I really wanted to stop fighting? Because that would, in essence, mean that I would be giving up on life.  No, I don’t think I wanted that at all, I would never choose to give up on life. I have far too many things left to do, see, and experience, but I do think that I had reached a physical limit.  My body could give no more, and that is scary.

For the first time I felt a complete lack of control over my limbs and my senses.  It was as if I were a bystander watching the entire procedure (although I was a bystander with the awesome ability to FEEL everything as well).  The feeling was horrendous, and I feel slightly panicked just thinking about it now.

The past two weeks have been possibly the most stressful two weeks of my 21 years.  I am tired; my mind is tired, my body is tired.  Neither wants to fight anymore.  I’ve forgotten what it feels like to walk up a flight of stairs without going into oxygen debt, and to laugh without crying, not because of the joke, but because of sheer pain. That’s not life, at least not to me.

And so I think to myself how can I do this? I cannot keep doing this, going to the hospital for various procedures that never lead to answers, only more tests. And then, in a fuchsia pea coat, leather boots, and carrying a gorgeous array of roses and lilies, the girls come in.  Their laughter floods the entire room, overpowering any TV that might be on. Their eyes, half clouded with concern, yet brimming with hope, calm my mind and muscles. Hearing their stories I think how did I miss this? I can’t miss much more of this, I won’t miss much more of this because this is my life, and nothing is going to change that.

Friends make the world go round.  My body may be tired, and every once in a while it may choose flight over fight, but my heart will never make that choice.  Everything will be okay, because in the end everything is okay, and if it’s not okay, then it is not the end.

I must digress for a moment, and say that the main reason I knew about the concert was because my good friend Cayla is a member of Chordially Yours.  Last year I went to their annual spring concert for the first time because I knew it meant a lot to her and wanted to support the group.  Well, I was blown away.  Chordially Yours is an entirely female a capella group, which is pretty unusual I believe, and they are amazing.  The talent these girls possess is absolutely unreal, and their voices are incredible, so rich in vocal variety.  If you haven’t already, definitely check them out here.

Back to the concert.  As Cayla took the stage I settled back into my chair, ready to let her voice wash over me, and transport me, at least for a few minutes, away from the week’s stresses and difficulties.  Taking a deep breath she began, her normally higher, more girlish voice transformed into something incredibly deep and powerful, rising and falling in perfect cadence and time.  Each note resonated through her entire body, creating a dizzying aura that caught and stilled the entire auditorium.  We were mesmerized.

For some reason in that moment I stepped outside of myself; my mind removed itself from the scene for a moment and simply watched.  Her face glowed, her entire body radiated joy.  The song, the performance, it was all effortless.  Her passion was her element, and at that moment she was entrenched in it.  She embodied the dream; the dream of doing what one loves.

I want that. It will come I know, in good time and with sound decisions, but it seems so far.  Ready am I for the day when I race along the roads in competition with no one but the wind, ticking through the miles effortlessly, letting my feet follow their own predetermined path.  Having the ability to live the dream is an amazing gift, and the only negative is that once you’ve gotten a taste of it, it’s impossible not to want more.

After developing a severe chest cold the previous Wednesday and spending Halloween at home, tears I know (although a fantastically frosted, special edition Party Favors cake did helped ameliorate my mood), I began to feel better towards the end of the weekend.  Monday arrived and per usual I bounded out of bed full of energy exhaustedly yanked my body off my mattress and forced myself out the apartment door, at 5:30am to head to the gym.

As my workout progressed I noticed things were not quite normal; my breath caught in my chest several times, causing me to gasp, and my collarbone ached relentlessly.  Finally completing the session I headed back to my apartment unsure of what exactly was happening.  The left side of my body ached hours later, and it felt as though someone was continually puncturing the space between each of my ribs with finely sharpened daggers with each and every breath.  My collarbone throbbed relentlessly, the feeling radiating up my neck and down my left arm.

As the symptoms worsened, one thought kept flashing before my eyes: this feels an AWFUL LOT like the blood clot/pulmonary embolism I had during my sophomore year.  Forcing myself to humor the Student Health facility, I waited 45 minutes to see a campus doctor, who quickly dismissed my concerns, telling me I had a simple chest infection and to take some Advil.  I’d like to say he then sent me off saying, “And you’ll be right as rain in a few days!” but I don’t want to be too cliché here.

I took the Advil and decided to call it an early night, praying I’d wake up miraculously cured in the morning.  Well, as I went to lie down an excruciating pain shot down the length of my left side.  It was as though some little demon repeatedly stabbed my left lung and collarbone with a blazing, white-hot fire poker.  At this point I think it was pretty clear: THOSE ARE NOT NORMAL CHEST INFECTION SYMPTOMS.

A quick cursory analysis of my calves showed that the right was visibly bigger than the left, and without another thought my roommate rushed me out the door and into a cab headed straight to the Boston Medical Center emergency room. Far too many hours, tears, needles, and tests later doctors determined the source of my pain: a blood clot that had formed in my right calf split into multiple fragments and shot to my lung, resulting in multiple pulmonary emboli.

Disturbing as the news was, perhaps more disturbing is the fact that this is rather “old hat” to me, as I suffered from the same thing just a year and a half earlier (on my birthday!).  Meds? Coumadin, probably for life, and Lovenox injections for the first four to five days, until the Coumadin kicked in.  Recovery?  No biking, swimming, running, anything cardio essentially, for two weeks.  Visits to the doctor? Multiple visits to the lab for blood work each week, gradually decreasing to once a month as my blood INR stabilizes. I don’t know whether to be impressed or disgusted with myself seeing as I’m only 21 years old…

Even though I’ve been through this before, this event completely blind-sided me and the doctors.  There was no reason for it, no triggering event.  Its almost like I’m a  sort of medical anomaly!  I realize, though, how lucky I am to have such observant and caring roommates.  If it hadn’t been for them I never would have gone to the hospital, at least not until things had gotten significantly worse.

The hardest part for me though, out of all of the doctor visits, blood work, medications, and injections, will be mandatory rest.  The logical part of my brain knows that that is insane, and the last thing I should be worrying about is going for a run, or getting on an exercise bike.  But I can’t help it, and I can’t ignore it.  That is the fact of the matter.  However, I think this is a test, albeit a slightly cruel one, but a test nonetheless of my resolve to truly accept the unexpected and to modify my life and accommodate these events.  Clearly any life is more important than any day at the gym, any workout, or any race.  To prove I understand that I need to listen.  And I will because I am ready to better.  I am ready to embrace a life that is more malleable than rigid, and I am reading to peel away yet another layer of my plastic bubble.  Though difficult, especially as I begin to feel better and my breathing normalizes, I am going to try to view these two weeks as an opportunity to enjoy life and deviate from my daily, and inevitably monotonous at times, routine… whew, if I can even find a silver lining to a blood clot, I can find one anywhere!

As the train pulled into Boylston another man slowly climbed the steps.  He was older, with tanned skin and a weathered face, and holding a large plastic bag.  Every movement radiated tiredness as he slowly moved to the back of the train, claiming an empty seat.  His eyes never smiled.  And that was when the thought struck me: we don’t see people.  We watch them, our eyes glaze over them, but we don’t see them because seeing requires a registration in the mind, an acknowledgement of the scene or site and the formation of a thought or connection about the image before us.

Why was that man so tired? Why did he look so exhausted? Was it something that happened earlier today, a year ago, 20 years ago?

And the boy or young man I guess I should say, why so solemn? Was he just returning from time spent abroad, with only the companionship of his comrades? Were violent images reeling through his mind like those old film player machines, the kind with the enormous roles of tape and antique-looking projectors? Or maybe he was simply returning from some sort of commemoration or ROTC event? And why, for seemingly the first time, was I noticing these things? When asked to describe me, my closest friends have never once used the word “observant,” and I doubt they’d start now.

Of course there are a million different reasons why two complete strangers piqued my interest on this gray and rainy day, but I think that for the thoughts to have even pitter-pattered through my mind belies something more than say melancholy boredom on a Saturday afternoon T ride.  I think it ties into my deep-rooted desire to “be present,” to look around and see each moment for what it is; essentially be mindful.

After several years in a tangle of injuries, self-doubts, and highs and lows, where I based self-worth and acceptance on athletic accomplishments and fitness, I’m exhausted with the drain that comes with a self-obsession, in a sense.  Clearly the world exists, the sun rises, and people still call me when I don’t run and don’t compete.  I want to see that world, really see it.  My mind hungers for something much bigger than myself, something far less tangible one could say, and as petrifying as that thought it is, it is just as refreshing.

So I recommend leaving your iPod at home for a day, and keeping your cell phone in your pocket, instead of clutching it in your hand, ready to pounce on the latest text, e-mail, or Facebook update.  Step outside of yourself and your mind and let yourself see for a while.

Several years ago I fought the confines of my own self-created bubble after developing an irrational and ridiculous relationship with food.  My reasons?  It was freshman year and for the first time in my life things were just not going according to plan, no matter how hard I worked or how much I planned.  Injuries, dismal track performances, and a hatred for my major left me grasping for something tangible that I could control, and that something turned into food.

I pushed my closest friends and their concerns away, and I turned off the logical side of my mind.  I heard people talking, I even heard what they were saying, but it didn’t penetrate me, my bubble made sure of that.  And me, was I talking? Not really.  I lived in a world of my own, and managing my irrational fears in the least obvious way became a full-time job. The best thing I can liken my consciousness to would be the feelings one has upon waking from anesthesia; your mind is slightly numb, your thought processes cloudy.  People are talking at you, and events are happening around you, but you yourself are just sitting there, watching, observing.

Three years later my bubble hasn’t completely dissipated, but the walls are more malleable than rigid, and each day they weaken a little more.  The key to my recovery? I don’t know exactly, but I believe it has something to do with the power of voice.  With the relentless support of family and friends, and the desire to live and be better, I somewhere along the way found my voice and I started talking.  The talk was dark; full of illogical self-doubts and insecurities, but the clincher was that the more I talked, the more I heard the ridiculousness of each fear and doubt in every word, every sentence.    Physically hearing the words slice through the still air ignited my spirit, and empowered my mind to push past my dark and leering demons.  I could once again take a deep breath and drop my shoulders, letting the tension flow off of me as the streams of water sluice over one in the shower.

I took my skeleton out of the closet and liberated myself from the ever-constricting bonds of insecurity, and I accomplished things I never thought possible.  Thus, in a spirit reminiscent of Halloween this past weekend, considering emptying your closet of any skeletons you may be hiding. Once you do, you open yourself up to a whole new host of feelings and sensations, and although scary, they are extremely revitalizing.

Anyway, three weeks ago my coach and I decided I was finally ready to take those first few steps.  My stress fractures had healed; the bone scans showed improvements as well as a trend towards the better. It was now or never, and so after nearly an entire year off, I laced up my trainers, pulled on my favorite pair of spandex, and approached the opening of the indoor track.

The first few steps? I floated. That first mile? Bliss; a pure transport to heaven or some other Utopia.  As my body instinctively curved around the indoor track, a self-created wind combed my hair and my steps fell firm and sure. I felt effortless and natural. “Wow,” I thought, “I didn’t think I’d feel like this.”

The remainder of that week, and the next, in which I bumped my one mile up to two (!), continued in much the same fashion. Each mile was amazing, and I was in my element. Running felt so GOOD, so cleansing. I imagine it’s sort of the way a musician feels the first time he picks up his guitar after a long hiatus; innately comfortable and as though no time lapsed between his first and last songs.  Each note savored, as it resounded through his entire body.  The world stills, and like the musician, I savor each step, each breath, the combination creating its own special melody and cadence that plays in perfect unison.

With those experiences dancing across my mind, I eagerly awaited the arrival of this past Monday. Monday marked week three of my slow and steady comeback (I’m actually aiming to be the tortoise, and NOT the hare for once, during this recovery), and an increase from two to three miles! I know, you’re thinking what I’m thinking; “Three miles?! That’s almost legitimate! I’m nearly back! Holler!”

That entire day I counted down the minutes until my run. Each moment I wasn’t counting I was planning, a favorite activity as we know. Where would I run? Should I try a new loop? Coolidge Corner? The river? You can go nearly ANYWHERE in twenty odd minutes! After an arduous internal debate I opted to run along the river. Ironically I normally despise river runs because: a. the river is one ginormous wind tunnel, b. boring, and c. unnecessarily crowded.  However, I am pleased to report that running along the river during a “comeback run” as opposed to a “training run” is incredibly enjoyable.  The view is fantastic, and the joggers and bikers create a community feeling, while the river creates conjures its tranquil aura.

Sailing out the door I bounded down Commonwealth Avenue, thriving off the energy from the herd of surrounding students, instead of loathing it in my usual fashion. The plan: out for 12 minutes, back in 12 minutes.  Six minutes in I glanced at my watch, sure the turn-around point would be in seconds… umm NOT THE CASE WHATSOEVER!!  As my breaths grew shorter and shorter, eventually turning to gasps, and my legs felt more and more like lead, I began to wish, for the first time in my life, that I could just stop. Suddenly I felt transported to another person’s body, a body foreign to running, and perhaps even the concept of an increased heart rate.

The remainder of the run passed in much the same manner, although it grew particularly worse as I hit the slight grade going back up Comm. Ave. And for the record, it is incredibly embarrassing to admit that as that grade does not even come close to resembling a hill so never laugh in a person’s face if they tell you that, behind closed doors is an entirely different story.

Upon finishing the run I moped my way back to my apartment.  Not angry, not hurt, just sad and confused. The fitness I thought I had seemed, in the words of Shakespeare, “the child of an idle brain,” a manifestation my mind cruelly created. However, as I continued to agonize and lament over the past 24 minutes, a small act of divine intervention occurred. And to change the subject for a moment, I use the words “divine intervention” very loosely, and along the same vein as my belief that everything happens for a reason. I think each situation and event has its purpose, and thus certain things can be taken as signs, which is exactly how I interpreted the next event.

As I perused the various blogs I check fairly regularly (and by that I mean daily, and most of which are baking) I saw, thanks to my nifty RSS feed (!), that professional distance runner Lauren Fleshman had just posted a new entry to her Dyestat blog. I don’t generally read running blogs, but I really enjoy Lauren’s because it’s not only very relatable in that you don’t have to be an Olympian to connect with her stories and advice, all you need is a love for the sport and a desire to compete. Each post she has written contains an aura of perspective and an unusually heightened awareness of the future as well as an appreciation for the present. To her time frames are fluid while to the majority of the distance running community timelines are harder to break than diamonds, which is exactly what that post discussed.  After a year of injuries, setbacks, and the inability to compete in several key races Ms. Fleshman reached a brilliant conclusion: it was time to turn off the auto-pilot and grab hold of the steering wheel, because if not the plane was going to crash.

We train nearly 365 days a year, we plan workouts, we plan races. Then we get injured, and our timeline gets a little tangled, but because plan A foiled, we attempt to make a plan B: the injury plan. Doctors say it GENERALLY takes six to eight weeks for a stress fracture to heal; well most of us interpret that general statement as a law more tightly enforced than current airport security measures rather than a loose guideline.  When I actually stop and think about it I laugh out loud. It seems absurd that I would actually try and hold such a trivial statement to incredibly high and immobile standards, especially considering the extremely individual nature of the human body. But I do. We all do. We try running, we try workouts, and when aches linger and muscles continue to strain we sit down in utter disbelief, and in my case tears, thinking, “The doctor SAID I would be ready!”

No, in actuality the doctor offered me a general timeframe based upon medical school and previous experience, whatever that may be. My body will completely disregard this arbitrary opinion if it needs to.  This is auto-pilot, and this is dangerous. It creates tensions and pressures, extreme elation and depression.

What we need to do is breathe. Just breathe. The human body can heal itself, all it desires is the gift of time. And this is amazing because it is such a simple, easy request, yet we forget it or we ignore it.

Thinking back upon my three runs this week, none of which were anything stellar, and I shrug my shoulders in defiance. It is what it is. This is my journey, and if the destination has yet to be determined, how can I expect to know which turns I will take and which obstacles I will encounter? I can’t, and for peace of mind as well as future successes, I need to learn to turn off the auto-pilot. Days of flawless training will come, but until then I can bask in the simple joy of just being able to run. Thank you Lauren Fleshman for providing the first lantern along the sometimes twisty and dim road of recovery.

Riiingggg. The sound of my unforgiving alarm clock slices through the silent air.  After smacking the snooze button I lay perfectly still for one moment, contemplating the possibility of re-entering the peaceful oblivion of sleep.  But in five, four, three, two, one and I am up!  The morning rays dapple the Charles River as I glance out the window.  A crew boat slides through the waters, the rowers hard at work, and I take comfort in their distant presence; I am not alone.  Fifteen minutes later my feet rhythmically pound the relentless pavement while my short bursts of breath form small, foggy clouds in the frosty air.

After several hours of scholarly devotion to books, reading, and classes I find myself pulling on the same battered pair of trainers and a new pair of spandex.  This time I am not alone; my teammates and I wind our way through the city of Boston, a small herd of energy and warmth in the impersonal and busy streets.  Our feet rhythmically pound the relentless pavement and our short bursts of breath form small, foggy clouds in the frosty air.

The most frequent question posed to me is how- how do I do it.  How do I run twice a day?  How do I run every single day?  How do I want to do this day in and day out 365 days a year?  The answer became standardized and the response mechanical as though both assembled in one of those old Henry Ford factories: “I just do it.”  The question-asker then smiles and nods, as if in complete understanding, but the look in his or her eyes is sheer bewilderment.  Most of the time the exchange is left at that, but after the news of my fourth stress fracture in eight months I am left asking myself the same question.  The truth is that I do get tired, and I do sometimes wonder, “Does it ever end?” or “What exactly am I chasing, and what is causing me to chase it?”

Starting with the most obvious seems to make the most sense.  I am chasing the NCAA championships, and all of the girls ranked ahead of me.  But it’s more than that; I am chasing something far more elusive and less tangible than a national championship or an All-American ranking.  I am striving to satisfy a crazy, innate desire to run as fast as I can, to go as fast as I am physically capable of.  Do I know when that will happen, or if it is even possible?  I have no clue, which leads me to believe that my mental tiredness, which far supersedes any physical tiredness, is due in part to this seemingly impossible and limitless goal.  Imagine physically exhausting yourself every day in an effort to satiate some deep desire within you that has no timeline and cannot be made tangible through medals, trophies, or other material accolades.  The mere thought exhausts me now!

And how does one go about attaining the intangible?  I, like most distance runners, have developed a minor case of O.C.D., which sounds ridiculous but is the absolute truth and is an absolute necessity.  Without this O.C.D. the normal pangs of anxiety that accompany days without running would cease to exist; physically my legs welcome a day off, but the rest of me feels disconnected, and out of sync.  My thoughts meander aimlessly, always hovering around tomorrow- when the world will right itself and I will go out for a morning run.  While part of me is relieved that I do not have to brave the elements for a day, or move faster than a brisk walk, that part is very small.  The larger part panics slightly; what will I do to fill the hours normally spent practicing?  Will my legs feel flat tomorrow?  Am I lazy or weak?  Do I not have what it takes?  In that one day off I can create a novel’s worth of scenarios in which I convince myself that by not running I am doing myself and my career a massive disservice.  Anxiety levels rise until the only thing left to keep me sane is the knowledge that tomorrow will come, the sun will rise, and I will run.

In this way running is as much a part of my day as showering or brushing my teeth; it never needs to be “penciled in” because it already has a permanent place. Without it the day never feels quite right, kind of like when you wake up late or miss a step when climbing a flight of stairs.  Thus, these feelings and these pangs are as much a part of the motivation to leave my apartment each morning as my dream of going to nationals or becoming an All-American.

I guess the real answer to the question, “How do you do it?” really boils down to several key elements: a tangible dream- Nationals, an intangible desire- to push my body to its utmost physical limit, and a self-developed obsessive compulsive disorder.  And if I am going to be completely honest I would have to say that the primary element enabling me to “just do it” would be the O.C.D.  Because let’s be honest: no one really wants to run 365 days a year.

That was my life up until last May, essentially. Yes, there were days I didn’t run, and yes there were injuries, more common than this excerpt actually implies, but my attitude, my desire, and my drive were all the same.  They still are, and my goals haven’t changed, but I recently learned that circumstances can and do change, regardless of whether we want them to or ready for them to change.  Sometimes you can work so hard for something that you essentially make it physically unattainable.  The life you’ve cultivated for years suddenly bears no resemblance to the original plan, and your identity is shaken.  At least that is how it felt to me, when I discovered that my collegiate eligibility was being terminated just before my senior year after my fourth consecutive stress fracture in eight months.  Learning to adapt to a life suddenly lacking structure, order, competition, and intense training seemed impossible, and for the first time the world looked large, complicated, and uninviting.

Looking back at that entry, in between the lines and past the girl so determined to make it to nationals, I see a girl who really didn’t SEE at all.  A one track mind so entrenched in a mind-set and way of life that it ultimately led to an unfortunate, premature demise.  The only things I could think about and lust over were running, racing, and qualifying for nationals.  I spent that year in a future-oriented fog, never connecting with the present, or being mindful of my body and the signs it kept sending me, telling me that it was tired.  Telling me that enough was enough.  Eight months and four stress fractures later doctors told me the same thing; that enough was enough.  Their words were cold and blunt, though, and they carried with them a consequence only authority can enforce:  the disqualification of my collegiate athletic eligibility for my upcoming senior year.

At that point my days turned into nightmares and my dreams crashed down, the shards scattered around me as painful reminders of all that I had lost due to a lack of external and internal awareness.  For three years I wasn’t present, I didn’t live in each moment and I missed every warning, every sign foreshadowing an unpleasant end at the end of a dimly lit path.  It was at that moment that I realized a life-evaluation was in order, and that a quest to live mindfully and in the present was a necessity, if I truly wanted to heal, and one day run again.