Who are you when one of your main identifiers is no longer an option?
We wrap ourselves in our identity; this can be anything from a job to a hobby to an athletic ability. It's our comfort zone, something we are often proud of, and something others know us for. I have always been a runner, daughter of two ridiculously awesome marathon-running parents, with a daughter of my own who also runs. Yeah, it's in the genes. Three generations of dominating a sport that serves as other sports' punishment. AKA: we're crazy.
We all have those moments (even when we don't want to admit it) where we know we should have listened to our parents. My parents were absolute beasts in the marathon running world; combined, they've run over 70 marathons with PRs I will never touch of 3:02 for my mom and 2:44 for my dad. I never dreamed I'd run one of my own, and then, I was introduced to my crazy running friend Patty. I had only run 8 miles when I met her, and she has since talked me into running half marathons, full marathons, ultras, and even a 50 miler. I was injured with every single training season, and though my parents were proud of the running genetics they produced, their own injuries had them discouraging me from continuing.
My mother developed spinal stenosis as well as degenerative disc disease. My father was ridden with arthritis and recently needed a hip replacement. Though distance running may not have caused these ailments directly, it certainly didn't help. As for me, I was stuck in my naïve bubble of thinking I had many more years and miles ahead of me, until I fractured my spine.
In an attempt to avoid the injuries my parents endured, I incorporated strength training into my work out routine with great help from my Olympic and power-lifting hubby. One morning after completing a less than impressive over head lift, I felt a pop in my low back. It seized immediately, causing me to crawl from our detached garage home gym into our house, where I spent the next several days on the couch, cancelling clients, and rotating between heat and ice. After the amazing care of my chiropractors, my back got better and I went on to train and complete the Boston Marathon. I had no idea that pop was actually a fracture until years later when we moved south, where I worked for a new chiropractor who took x-rays.
The back pain came and went, and was mostly due to some idiotic move on my part, like deadlifting heavy, or challenging my kids to some weird cartwheel dance off. It wasn't until recently when the pain became chronic that I knew things had to change.
Suddenly, I couldn't perform simple daily tasks without a great deal of pain. I signed myself up for physical therapy, where I was told to cut way down on my running miles. At the time, I was signed up and just beginning to train for the Wilmington Marathon in February. So, that went out the window fast. Once I noticed that I was struggling to even get through short runs without pain, I had to face the fact that my marathoning days might be behind me.
Me. The runner. The daughter of runners. The mother of a runner...might not be able to run much anymore. I've identified as a runner ever since I was 6 years old and ran my first "race": a whopping loop around Worcester's Elm Park. Now nearly three decades later and that identity is shrinking before my eyes. Running brought me some of my best friends. It brought me a community. It gave me confidence because, genetics or not, I was good at it. It gave me a sense of belonging. But, as genetics have it, I was also diagnosed with degenerative disc disease and arthritis. And my vertebrae fracture is no help, either. Mom and Dad, I know you'll love hearing this, but you were right. Marathon after marathon, injury after injury...I can't say it was worth it.
From distance running to barely running, the main thing I've had to do it reroute my mind to accept: accept doing less because it's doing more for my body; accept the days where I'm only up for some stretching and a heating pad; accept that I can't compare to the old me and my previous abilities. After experiencing many days where I was couch bound, I am happy on days where my body can move at all, and that's what I focus on; not the calorie burn, not the muscle gain, just movement: a walk, simple yoga, even house chores. I appreciate the few miles that feel good and the lighter lifts that don't cause pain. 5 years ago I would have panicked. I would have found new ways to over exercise, more ways to cut calories, and would have been 100% miserable. But today, I can see the discomfort my parents are in and feel the damage I've done to myself. Further testing will tell me more, and I know there's a light at the end of the tunnel for pain management, but I also know that even if I get to a point of feeling better, long runs and deadlifts may remain in the past.
So, here's to accepting. To changing. To learning. To letting go of what I used to be able to do and moving forward with what I can do. And please, send my husband some beer because I'm sure there will be cranky, frustrated days ahead. For now, I'm looking forward to more answers and pain relief, and finding new ways to honor this broken bod.
