What Running a Marathon Taught Me About Life

This post has been written and rewritten so many times. My mind often drifted here as my feet struck the pavement over and over, sometimes for hours at a time. Running a marathon is an interesting experience. There are few things so simple and so all-consuming. After all, running is literally just putting one foot in front of the other. Again. And again. And again.

I learned so much in those short five months, and almost none of it even had to do with running. The marathon was truly a life-changing experience and something that has taken so much to fully process that I’m just now being able to catch all the wild thoughts and (hopefully) deliver them coherently. So this is what I learned from all those miles.

Whether you think you can or you think you can’t, you’re right

Whenever the fact that I was training for a marathon came up in conversation, the response was usually some form of, “Good for you. I could never do that.” Or, “Wow! Wish I could do that.”

Side note: I tried to minimize my talk about the marathon. I get it. Most people generally hate hearing about it (which I don’t personally understand), but it comes up sometimes when you are turning down plans so you can run for four hours on a Saturday.

Anyway, I often found myself meditating about these sentiments on my runs. The reality is, there is nothing special about training for a marathon. Really, it sounds much bigger than it actually is. Almost anyone with the right training (and medical supervision if you have certain health issues), the right nutrition and the right mindset can do it. The more and more I thought about it, this statement rang true for most things, running or not. Any huge goal is within reach if we’re willing to continually dedicate ourselves to it.

Whenever we say we can’t do something, we’re giving up before we’ve even tried. We’re the victim of our schedules, our knees, our families… whatever litany of excuses we’ve built up as to why we can’t. But that’s exactly what they are—excuses. And pre-marathon I had TONS of them. I worked too much, hated running, was too thicc to be a real runner, etc., etc.

Then there was one day in June, where curiosity overcame all the excuses. It poked its head in and quietly said, “But what if you CAN? Don’t you want to know?” And I did want to know. More importantly, I found out I actually COULD after all.

Post-marathon, I removed can’t from my language. It’s never a question of can, because I now know with the right amount of patience and hard work anything is within reach. It’s a choice to either direct my energy toward or away from it.

It also means whenever someone I know is doing something a little scary and amazing, I say, “Wow! I’ve always respected people who do that. How can I support you?” I’ll celebrate your victories with you, and remind you of who the hell you are if a setback causes you to forget, but I won’t put myself down to elevate you. We rise together.

The why

Before I ever laced up my shoes, there was that blind moment of faith. The proverbial jumping first and hoping to learn to fly on the way down. At that moment the why was so clear—I wanted a challenge. It was the same feeling I had when I wrote this post.

Training started in rainy late-September. I found myself listening, truly listening, to the lyrics of my playlist and every damn song reminded me of my husband. Sometimes they would hit me so hard, I would choke on my own breath. The rain masked the tears in my eyes. I ran as if it would somehow magically close the physical distance between us. My strides hard, fast… determined. It was cathartic. That’s when the why shifted to him. For him.

After the half marathon in Las Vegas, I was terrified of the miles. It was all uphill from here, unchartered territory. Would my not-so-runner body be up to the task? I quickly developed a mantra. I told myself it was okay to go slow. It was even okay to walk, but it was not okay to stop. It was not okay to quit. Do what you must, but you only know how to go forward. I soon saw my body was more than capable. It would keep going on forever. My mind would be the weak link. The why shifted once again to finish—hell or high water.

As training peaked, my life launched into hyper speed. My list of deadlines and to-dos quickly became longer than a CVS receipt. With a body in near race-day shape, the why shifted for a final time. The why now was for my mental sanity. I looked forward to training days because that was my time, the pure celebration of my body and all that it was capable of.

After crossing the finish line, the importance of the why truly hit. Sure, it shifted many times during those months, but there was always a purpose for the pain. At any given moment, there was a reason for all of the madness. A reason to look fear in the face and say, “Not today, Satan.” There was no choice but to continue to dedicate myself to that reason. I owed at least that much to the why.

It saved my life

When I signed up for my first half marathon three years ago, I would dissect my long runs with my coworker at the radio station every Sunday. She was a real runner with multiple marathon finishes. I’d ask her all my stupid questions and vocalize every single fear I had.

One day I told her I thought I was too old to start running. She then told me her story. She talked about how she hadn’t started running until her mid-30s. At the time her life was in crisis, so she started running as a coping mechanism. She told me running and racing literally saved her life. I nodded along to her story, not really understanding what she meant. To me running was just something I was forcing myself to do. Another checked box on a have-you-ever quiz.

I get it now. Dealing with this odd gap year of life, I developed my own coping mechanisms. Most of them were rather unhealthy. All of the running and the miles brought everything into focus. It shut up the bad, sad thoughts. It made me forget about all of it, just for a little bit. It showed me how to reduce a mountain to single steps.

Just like with my life, the end seemed so far away. How will I ever make it? Simple. One week, one run, one step at a time. Could I run 26 miles at the very beginning? Hell no. But, could I run just one? Yeah, sure, maybe. Better yet, could I take the first step? Absolutely.

On race day, I did the exact same thing. I was so nervous. Going into the race, I was so unsure about everything that I didn’t even list finish a marathon on my 19 for 2019 list!

Side note: Confidence is a whole different issue I’m actively working on as a result of all this.

As we moved up in the corral, everything from the past few months flooded through my mind: I only go forward. I don’t know how to quit. It’s just one step. You can do just one step, right?

After taking the first step, and the next several thousand to the finish line, I realized the way I was looking at this year… and life in general, was all wrong. This wasn’t a gap year. This was a gap day-by-day. Did I have the courage to make it through the day? Probably. What about the morning? Or even this hour? Yeah, I can do that.

I started taking the mountains in my life and at work and breaking them down to the several hills that they actually were. If that still felt like too much, I’d break them down even further until it seemed silly to even be asking the questions. Of course, I can make it through the hour. Of course, I can send the one email. Of course, I can take one step. The hardest part of the journey is finding the courage to start. Just go, and the rest will work itself out along the way, day by day. Hour by hour. Step by step.