Forward Momentum

I recently picked up running.

Why?

Because I despise it.

You read that right.

I dislike running SO MUCH!

I almost “H” word it.

I used to play on an AAU traveling basketball team from 7th grade - sophomore year.

As many athletes can attest, running was a punishment.

Turnover in a game? The entire team runs suicides (down and backs, gut crushers - these running drills have many different names).

Silly foul? More running.

No reason at all? Get on the line and run!

Our team played against a VERY difficult team one week and our coach told us, “You are going to run until you cry or throw up, or both.

I don’t care. We have a three hour practice, start running now.”

As you can see, my dislike for running runs deep.

It feels engrained in my bones.

So why on earth am I running, willingly, when I dislike it so much?

Because there are hidden lessons in doing things we dislike.

Every time I run and I feel my mind quitting before my body actually needs to, I play with that edge.

What narratives do I tell myself when things get hard?

What lies do I convince myself when things get difficult?

What are my tendencies when I feel like quitting?

All of these lessons show up for my when I run and I stare all of my ugly internal bits in the face.

I am trying push through the barrier that I created years ago because parenthood will throw me a similar situation where I need to show up better for my children.

My hope is that my kids see me doing the difficult tasks and breaking myself down to build a better, stronger, more mentally sound me.

I want my kids to be inspired to do hard things because they see me facing my fears and trying to be courageous.

(Not fearless, courageous is feeling the fear and doing it anyways. Not lack of fear, feeling the fear and telling it, you have a lesson for me and I’m going to learn while I face you, bravely.)

I won’t be strong and courageous all of the time, and my kids will see that too.

They will see that their mom has many faculties, good, bad, indifferent, and that makes me human.

I try to release my perfectionist tendencies and they show up time and time again, but the weight of my past and my dislikes won’t be passed down from my generation to the next.

It all starts with me, getting on the treadmill or outside and letting my feet hit the pavement.

One step at a time.

One foot in front of the other.

It will be messy.

It won’t be perfect.

But it’s progress.

Slow. Steady. Progress.

Not only for myself,

but for my kids.

TANCKS for reading!