I woke up today feeling optimistic, after a few rough weeks of nothing but negativity.
A couple of weeks ago, a client shared her story of house selling struggles, and told me about this statue; you bury it upside down in your front yard, and it brings your home luck in order to sell. I hadn't given it much thought, thinking it was a religious something-or-other that I'd be unfairly dabbling in for the house to sell, until Hannah came home from class last night with the same statue-story from a classmate's mother. After nearly 8 weeks of our Acushnet house on the market and not a single offer (despite what seems to be endless "interest"), I am willing to try anything. Amazon Prime will be delivering our new little friend tomorrow, where I will hope and wish and pray as I bury it with crossed fingers.
I don't know if it's new hope from the statue stories, or just my body being exhausted from all the unknowns, but today is a day I will focus only on the thought of our house selling; not the what-if's, not the unknowns, not the preferable timeline or our bottom dollar or our current financial struggles - just the thought of that perfect family coming in, falling in love with our home, and presenting us with our first offer. According to our realtor, it's all or nothing; she says that you either get no offers or a lot at once. I'm focusing on the ladder. Now that the summer holidays are settling down, maybe it's time for buyers to get serious. Maybe our next open house will be our biggest success, with multiple showings and multiple offers. Maybe all this worrying was for nothing, because we're being impatient and controlling and anxious. Maybe this is a time we will look back on and think "remember when we thought that house would never sell and this move would never happen?"
We've been realistic, too realistic, about what not moving would look like. We've put our minds through hell thinking of how we can't afford not to move, how I will feel having to endure another New England winter, how utterly disappointed, angry, and devastated we would be to watch this dream slip away simply because we can't sell our house. And today, I feel like I have thought about all of that quite enough. It would royally suck, and I am aware of that, but focusing on the potential suck-factor isn't selling our house. It's preventing me from enjoying summer, the season I wait 9 months each year for. It's filling our house with negative vibes, and that can't be helping the process at all!
This house will sell. It will sell to the right buyer, in the right time frame. Do I hope that time frame is this summer? Absolutely. However, if it's one thing the fear of not moving at all has taught me, is that the ultimate goal is just to make it to North Carolina; even if that means losing the house we're under contract with, even if that means the kids have to start school here, even if it takes longer than we had hoped for...we just want to be down there. And so we will be, because it's what we want, what we've worked so hard to achieve, what we've spent the last 4 months planning for, drained our accounts for, and turned our lives upside down for.
Our relationship has always been based on signs, and all the stars have aligned for us in terms of this move so far. Our only stall has been the house selling, and as people keep reminding me, 8 weeks on the market is still not that long. We are being impatient, that's simply it. We heavily believed that the house would sell in days or weeks, not months. We had high expectations (fuck expectations) that failed us and we let it get us down. No more. Today I choose optimism, positivity, and encouragement. THIS HOUSE WILL SELL. It will because it has to, it's our dream, our adventure, our life. We will get down to North Carolina, and possibly (hopefully!!) with the help of our new little statue arriving tomorrow. The shovel is ready and my hopes are high. Let's get this thing sold!!!
Thursday, July 11, 2019
Sunday, June 2, 2019
North Carolina Bound
This decision to move has been absolute craziness.
Despite the fact that my husband has talked about moving to North Carolina since I met him, there were two big factors this year that solidified the decision for us; one was being on a beach in Florida during the winter, and thinking "hmmm...this not being cold thing is pretty nice". The other, was a co-worker of my husband who was about to enter retirement and found out he had cancer with a limited amount of time to live. These two different perspectives on both location and living life gave us the permission we needed to really look into this move for ourselves. And, as excited as we were to take this risk, it's been anything but easy.
No one wants to see their children, grandchildren, best friends, or massage therapist (wink) move away, so telling people our news hasn't quite been filled with hugs and congratulations, but more with tears, disappointment, worry, and lack of support. Understandably so, but not the best feeling nonetheless.
And of course we are scared ourselves! We are leaving everything and everyone we've ever known. It's an even bigger leap for my husband who has lived in this same area for 32 years, and has a state job with all the bells and whistles. But, at this point, it's scarier for us to not try. After all these years of talking and wondering and wishing, we have to make the jump and just see. Even if it means falling on our faces. Even if it doesn't turn out to be what we've imagined. We have so many questions that can only be answered by just going for it. There are no failures, just lessons learned. Because it could be everything we want it to be, and could be the perfect decision for our family - and there's only one way to find out.
Our incredible therapist has been instrumental in this big decision by showing us what a gift it is for our children. He explained how we tend to feel stuck where we are raised; our family is there, our friends our there, our familiar doctors, gyms, restaurants - you name it - it's all in one place. And the longer we stay, the harder it is to leave; family member's get sick, children become more attached, work ladders are climbed - the thought of leaving it all can seem impossible. And that's exactly why we are doing it. Our daughter's are young enough that they can make new friends and adapt, and yet old enough that they need babysitters less and less. Our parents are in good health and don't rely on our care. Our relationship with our friends has become so strong that we don't doubt they'll visit - and vice versa. We can't thank our therapist enough for shining light on these realities and supporting us throughout the process.
The strength in our little family of 4 has never been more visible, as we know we are all each other will have for those first several months of moving and adjusting. We communicate with the kiddos every step of the way, and have each others backs when support is limited. We talk endlessly about our fears, the potential struggles, the what-ifs, and together come up with a game plan for when those tough times hit. We talk with excitement about our new possibilities (the girls are particularly excited about learning to surf), and all we could make possible in our new southern life together. If it weren't for years of personal growth, a willingness to work hard, growing along the same path, and supporting each other along the way, this move wouldn't be possible. I am so proud of my husband for taking such a big risk to live out a lifetime dream, and the work he's put into himself as an individual, a husband and a father. I am so proud of my daughters for voicing their doubts and desires about the move, and for being our little buddies through it all. I'm excited for our 3 dogs to have the outdoor life they deserve, and for myself as a runner to have less mitten-wearing months on the pavement.
This move is terrifying, heart breaking, stressful, anxiety-ridden, and yet despite all of that, still something we want more than anything. Here's to risk taking, the strength of our family, and to figuring it all out as we go.
Despite the fact that my husband has talked about moving to North Carolina since I met him, there were two big factors this year that solidified the decision for us; one was being on a beach in Florida during the winter, and thinking "hmmm...this not being cold thing is pretty nice". The other, was a co-worker of my husband who was about to enter retirement and found out he had cancer with a limited amount of time to live. These two different perspectives on both location and living life gave us the permission we needed to really look into this move for ourselves. And, as excited as we were to take this risk, it's been anything but easy.
No one wants to see their children, grandchildren, best friends, or massage therapist (wink) move away, so telling people our news hasn't quite been filled with hugs and congratulations, but more with tears, disappointment, worry, and lack of support. Understandably so, but not the best feeling nonetheless.
And of course we are scared ourselves! We are leaving everything and everyone we've ever known. It's an even bigger leap for my husband who has lived in this same area for 32 years, and has a state job with all the bells and whistles. But, at this point, it's scarier for us to not try. After all these years of talking and wondering and wishing, we have to make the jump and just see. Even if it means falling on our faces. Even if it doesn't turn out to be what we've imagined. We have so many questions that can only be answered by just going for it. There are no failures, just lessons learned. Because it could be everything we want it to be, and could be the perfect decision for our family - and there's only one way to find out.
Our incredible therapist has been instrumental in this big decision by showing us what a gift it is for our children. He explained how we tend to feel stuck where we are raised; our family is there, our friends our there, our familiar doctors, gyms, restaurants - you name it - it's all in one place. And the longer we stay, the harder it is to leave; family member's get sick, children become more attached, work ladders are climbed - the thought of leaving it all can seem impossible. And that's exactly why we are doing it. Our daughter's are young enough that they can make new friends and adapt, and yet old enough that they need babysitters less and less. Our parents are in good health and don't rely on our care. Our relationship with our friends has become so strong that we don't doubt they'll visit - and vice versa. We can't thank our therapist enough for shining light on these realities and supporting us throughout the process.
The strength in our little family of 4 has never been more visible, as we know we are all each other will have for those first several months of moving and adjusting. We communicate with the kiddos every step of the way, and have each others backs when support is limited. We talk endlessly about our fears, the potential struggles, the what-ifs, and together come up with a game plan for when those tough times hit. We talk with excitement about our new possibilities (the girls are particularly excited about learning to surf), and all we could make possible in our new southern life together. If it weren't for years of personal growth, a willingness to work hard, growing along the same path, and supporting each other along the way, this move wouldn't be possible. I am so proud of my husband for taking such a big risk to live out a lifetime dream, and the work he's put into himself as an individual, a husband and a father. I am so proud of my daughters for voicing their doubts and desires about the move, and for being our little buddies through it all. I'm excited for our 3 dogs to have the outdoor life they deserve, and for myself as a runner to have less mitten-wearing months on the pavement.
This move is terrifying, heart breaking, stressful, anxiety-ridden, and yet despite all of that, still something we want more than anything. Here's to risk taking, the strength of our family, and to figuring it all out as we go.
Thursday, November 15, 2018
FeELinG FuNnY
I think I'm having my mid-life crisis early.
And no, I don't want to go out and buy a fancy sports car or leave my family to travel the world. But I do think I have an idea of where it's coming from: really thinking about who the heck I am.
Nearing 30 has me stopping to think how did I even get here? Married, 2 kids, 3 dogs, home owner, successful business - sure, all good things to be grateful for. But who was the person inside who lead me to those decisions and, am I still that same person today?
So much of my life could be defined as trying to be like someone else, or impress someone else.
I remember being in middle school, and was so insecure about fitting in and who liked me, that I made my parents buy this one girl a load of gifts for her birthday simply because I was convinced she was having a birthday party and not inviting me. Manipulation seemed like a solid choice. I never found out whether or not she had that party, because if she did, I wasn't on the guest list.
I remember being in high school and spending 2 hours straightening my hair because everyone seemed to have this perfectly shiny, amazing straight hair. Even though my outcome was more like a burnt-to-a-crisp, static-ridden flat mess, I still killed myself over that hair style. I also remember spending nearly $100 on Abercrombie and Fitch jeans that were so tight I could barely breath in them, but hey, being a size 00 was a thing, too.
I remember visits from my brother, my one sibling who is 13 years older than me, who I looked up to like a God. I hated being like an only child when he was away, but I loved having this cool, musician, smart as hell older brother to brag to my friends about. I remember him asking me for shoulder rubs and him telling me how good I was at them, and, I remember this being a big part of my decision to apply to massage therapy school after high school.
I remember an 18 year old relationship that I stayed in longer than I should have just because other girls were interested. I remember the drama and the fabrications created to keep us together for as long as it lasted.
I remember the choices I had when I found out I was pregnant at 19, and how I cared more about what others would think rather than what this meant for my life and my future.
I remember being a great mom, sometimes even too great with my helicopter parenting and my homemade organic baby foods, because I had to prove that getting pregnant young and becoming a mother at 20 didn't mean I had to suck at parenting.
*I remember not wanting to relive parts of my childhood where there was endless screen time and distracted parents, and to this day am still overbearing about TV and devices.
I remember meeting Eric, and how quickly we fell in love and got married. I remember everyone telling me to slow down, take a step back, and think. I remember promising we would prove them all wrong.
I remember getting pregnant with Hannah on our honeymoon, and how nervous we were to tell people because we knew we wouldn't get the reactions we wanted. I remember a friend asking "is this a good thing?" and needing to tell an in-law after a comment about waiting for more children. I remember, once again, being determined to prove everyone wrong.
I remember signing up for my first marathon, because my parents had run 70+ combined marathons, and why not follow in their footsteps?
So, when I look back and remember all of these things, it makes me question my motives in a lot of very big decisions.
Could I have had friendships with a better foundation had my insecurities not gotten in the way?
Could I have learned that I looked way better with my wild, wavy hair and embraced a part of who I was?
Would I have been a stronger partner in relationships if I was in them for the right reasons?
Would I even have applied to massage school if my brother didn't make me think it was cool?
Could I be a more relaxed parent had I not made it such a habit to over-involve myself in my kids lives?
Would I have been able to enjoy my first pregnancy, planned or not, if I could have let go of what others were saying behind my back?
I know for a fact that Eric and I would have had a very different wedding with very different guests had we been a bit more established and further along in our lives together before walking down the isle.
I know I would have loved to announce our pregnancy with Hannah and received hugs and excitement.
And maybe I would have run a marathon, but who knows.
These unknowns drive me bananas. There's so much I would go back and change. So many questions I would ask my younger self. I feel like I really had no idea who I was growing up because being like others or doing things based on what others think mattered more at the time.
And now, months away from turning 30, I want to know who I am, what choices I could and would make for myself with only me driving those decisions, what clothes I would wear or what hobbies I would take up, which books I would like or places I'd want to travel. I want to rediscover myself as myself.
So yeah, when you question your motives behind each and every decision that got you here today, the person you've identified yourself to be all this time, it gives you quite the shake. Quite the "crisis" feeling; like living with someone all this time and realizing you don't know a thing about who they really are.
And now there's nothing to do but become my own blank canvas. A clean slate. Start with the basics, like loving my husband and our marriage, my children and the relationship we have, and our 3 crazy dogs, and the rest will be an endless journey of discovery. I feel all "hey, Lauren, nice to meet ya!"
And maybe a new sports car would help a little.
And no, I don't want to go out and buy a fancy sports car or leave my family to travel the world. But I do think I have an idea of where it's coming from: really thinking about who the heck I am.
Nearing 30 has me stopping to think how did I even get here? Married, 2 kids, 3 dogs, home owner, successful business - sure, all good things to be grateful for. But who was the person inside who lead me to those decisions and, am I still that same person today?
So much of my life could be defined as trying to be like someone else, or impress someone else.
I remember being in middle school, and was so insecure about fitting in and who liked me, that I made my parents buy this one girl a load of gifts for her birthday simply because I was convinced she was having a birthday party and not inviting me. Manipulation seemed like a solid choice. I never found out whether or not she had that party, because if she did, I wasn't on the guest list.
I remember being in high school and spending 2 hours straightening my hair because everyone seemed to have this perfectly shiny, amazing straight hair. Even though my outcome was more like a burnt-to-a-crisp, static-ridden flat mess, I still killed myself over that hair style. I also remember spending nearly $100 on Abercrombie and Fitch jeans that were so tight I could barely breath in them, but hey, being a size 00 was a thing, too.
I remember visits from my brother, my one sibling who is 13 years older than me, who I looked up to like a God. I hated being like an only child when he was away, but I loved having this cool, musician, smart as hell older brother to brag to my friends about. I remember him asking me for shoulder rubs and him telling me how good I was at them, and, I remember this being a big part of my decision to apply to massage therapy school after high school.
I remember an 18 year old relationship that I stayed in longer than I should have just because other girls were interested. I remember the drama and the fabrications created to keep us together for as long as it lasted.
I remember the choices I had when I found out I was pregnant at 19, and how I cared more about what others would think rather than what this meant for my life and my future.
I remember being a great mom, sometimes even too great with my helicopter parenting and my homemade organic baby foods, because I had to prove that getting pregnant young and becoming a mother at 20 didn't mean I had to suck at parenting.
*I remember not wanting to relive parts of my childhood where there was endless screen time and distracted parents, and to this day am still overbearing about TV and devices.
I remember meeting Eric, and how quickly we fell in love and got married. I remember everyone telling me to slow down, take a step back, and think. I remember promising we would prove them all wrong.
I remember getting pregnant with Hannah on our honeymoon, and how nervous we were to tell people because we knew we wouldn't get the reactions we wanted. I remember a friend asking "is this a good thing?" and needing to tell an in-law after a comment about waiting for more children. I remember, once again, being determined to prove everyone wrong.
I remember signing up for my first marathon, because my parents had run 70+ combined marathons, and why not follow in their footsteps?
So, when I look back and remember all of these things, it makes me question my motives in a lot of very big decisions.
Could I have had friendships with a better foundation had my insecurities not gotten in the way?
Could I have learned that I looked way better with my wild, wavy hair and embraced a part of who I was?
Would I have been a stronger partner in relationships if I was in them for the right reasons?
Would I even have applied to massage school if my brother didn't make me think it was cool?
Could I be a more relaxed parent had I not made it such a habit to over-involve myself in my kids lives?
Would I have been able to enjoy my first pregnancy, planned or not, if I could have let go of what others were saying behind my back?
I know for a fact that Eric and I would have had a very different wedding with very different guests had we been a bit more established and further along in our lives together before walking down the isle.
I know I would have loved to announce our pregnancy with Hannah and received hugs and excitement.
And maybe I would have run a marathon, but who knows.
These unknowns drive me bananas. There's so much I would go back and change. So many questions I would ask my younger self. I feel like I really had no idea who I was growing up because being like others or doing things based on what others think mattered more at the time.
And now, months away from turning 30, I want to know who I am, what choices I could and would make for myself with only me driving those decisions, what clothes I would wear or what hobbies I would take up, which books I would like or places I'd want to travel. I want to rediscover myself as myself.
So yeah, when you question your motives behind each and every decision that got you here today, the person you've identified yourself to be all this time, it gives you quite the shake. Quite the "crisis" feeling; like living with someone all this time and realizing you don't know a thing about who they really are.
And now there's nothing to do but become my own blank canvas. A clean slate. Start with the basics, like loving my husband and our marriage, my children and the relationship we have, and our 3 crazy dogs, and the rest will be an endless journey of discovery. I feel all "hey, Lauren, nice to meet ya!"
And maybe a new sports car would help a little.
Tuesday, May 1, 2018
Born To Run, Built To Break
My parents have raced over 70 combined marathons in their lives. Because of this, growing up, my pantry was packed with power bars. Banana halves and orange slices were the highlight of my weekends. Dinners were perfectly portioned protein-carb-veggie plates. And, I kicked off my own running at the age of 6 with an adorable half mile race around our local park. I guess you could say that running is in my blood; if only my body could get the memo.
As I always like to say, I am not put together well. My knees buckle in and face each other when my feet are together, causing a windmill looking stride when I run. This is a nicer way of saying that I look like the scarecrow from the Wizard Of Oz while running, which my high school cross country coach actually said. Despite my awkward stride, I was naturally fast. I could place fairly easily in our team's 5k races without much effort, but was endlessly injured. At the age of 14 during a meet in Boston, I fractured the growth plate in my hip - without falling. Four years later, after experiencing constant knee pain, an MRI revealed a tear in my left meniscus, even though the pain was in my right. After the left was repaired, they humored my complaints about the right side by agreeing to go in and "clean it up", where they found another meniscus tear so severe it had twisted itself around several times. All I remember from that experience was waking up from the anesthesia and telling the surgeon "told ya so". And, finally, a non-running related injury (aka idiotic teenage trampoline shenanigans) totally wrecked my ankle, wiping out what would have been my senior year on the cross country team. So, that was my (lack of) running career up to that point. And to be honest, I didn't care much. I didn't have any true running goals at the time, and I wasn't a reliable team member since I could practically sneeze and injure something else, taking any responsibility or pressure off the table.
Motherhood gave me a reason to run again: lose baby weight, gain freedom - yes please! This was all good and fun until I decided to train for my first half marathon where the shitty body mechanics decided to strike again. Enter metatarsal and Achilles tendinitis, and I had to drop out. This was a particular bummer because my dad had also trained for this race, and it would be his last long distance race in his running career. The following year, I did make it to that 13.1 mile finish line injury free. So what does this smarty do? Decide doubling that mileage would be a fantastic idea. Marathon training, here I come! And what do you know? I did it. I did it 4 times, and decided to add a few more miles to my running resume and toughed out a 50 mile trail race too.
Now, I may have made it to each of those races, performed well, and thanked my lucky stars for that running blood coursing through my veins...but my body constantly reminded me that I was not built for this nonsense. In order for me to train to this capacity, it takes so much work. It's exhausting, frustrating, and yet exhilarating and rewarding all at once. I limp around for hours after long runs, submerge myself in ice baths, endure painful deep tissue massage treatments, and worry about every little ache or pain. On the other hand, I feel a world of accomplishment, thankful for my wobbly body's abilities, and enjoy overcoming the challenges poor mechanics throws my way. But, man, this being-an-athlete stuff takes a lot of work, especially when you're as injury prone as I am.
My daughters have a pretty rough understanding of "no pain no gain" when it comes to running recovery as they watch me foam roll and perform cupping therapy with a harsh grimace on my face and watering eyes. They are my biggest supporters. Every day when I come back from a long run, they love to guess how far I ran, followed by rounds of high-fives. The best part is the fact that they never ask me why I keep doing this to myself, despite old lingering injuries or those new ones that pop up; they always tell me how proud they are of me, and take note of just how hard I have to work my body to keep it up. You'd think that seeing their mom head out for a 3 hour training run and come home to what seems like torturous ice and stretching routines would scare them away from running, but it's done quite the opposite - they love it. Our 5 year old will hop on our treadmill and follow it up with some foam rolling. Our 8 year old loves to run the local 5k's, and is a speedy little thing already. Instead of getting discouraged when they feel tired or the burn of their little muscles working hard, they always end their runs feeling proud of themselves. The littlest people in my life are my biggest motivators.
Distance running is a constant struggle. What makes it more tough is the mental games it plays along the way; I feel a twinge of pain and then start worrying about whether or not I should continue, followed by the frustration of that choice, which can make every step of every mile seem eternal. Motivational research has been one of the few things to keep me going. I am endlessly inspired by elite runners and am constantly trying to better myself as an athlete through their guidance; whether it's Shalane Flannagan's cookbook Run Fast Eat Slow, Meb Keflezighi's book Meb For Mortals, Eric Orton's book The Cool Impossible, or Matt Fitzgerald's book How Bad Do You Want It, I've been able to take something from each and every one of these reads and apply it to my own training, meals, and mentality. I've since been able to turn each injury into a learning experience (which subsequently helps my profession as a Sports Massage Therapist), inherit new breathing and form techniques that have improved my gate and cadence, use food as fuel on a daily basis, and when the miles get tough, remind myself that it's "mind over muscle".
I may not be built for what I do, but I have to work damn hard every single day to stay in one piece and accomplish the goals I set for myself. And, as long as my poorly-put-together body allows, I'll keep setting new goals and push myself toward further achievement. After all, thanks to my marathon-crushing parents, I was born to do this.
My daughters have a pretty rough understanding of "no pain no gain" when it comes to running recovery as they watch me foam roll and perform cupping therapy with a harsh grimace on my face and watering eyes. They are my biggest supporters. Every day when I come back from a long run, they love to guess how far I ran, followed by rounds of high-fives. The best part is the fact that they never ask me why I keep doing this to myself, despite old lingering injuries or those new ones that pop up; they always tell me how proud they are of me, and take note of just how hard I have to work my body to keep it up. You'd think that seeing their mom head out for a 3 hour training run and come home to what seems like torturous ice and stretching routines would scare them away from running, but it's done quite the opposite - they love it. Our 5 year old will hop on our treadmill and follow it up with some foam rolling. Our 8 year old loves to run the local 5k's, and is a speedy little thing already. Instead of getting discouraged when they feel tired or the burn of their little muscles working hard, they always end their runs feeling proud of themselves. The littlest people in my life are my biggest motivators.
Distance running is a constant struggle. What makes it more tough is the mental games it plays along the way; I feel a twinge of pain and then start worrying about whether or not I should continue, followed by the frustration of that choice, which can make every step of every mile seem eternal. Motivational research has been one of the few things to keep me going. I am endlessly inspired by elite runners and am constantly trying to better myself as an athlete through their guidance; whether it's Shalane Flannagan's cookbook Run Fast Eat Slow, Meb Keflezighi's book Meb For Mortals, Eric Orton's book The Cool Impossible, or Matt Fitzgerald's book How Bad Do You Want It, I've been able to take something from each and every one of these reads and apply it to my own training, meals, and mentality. I've since been able to turn each injury into a learning experience (which subsequently helps my profession as a Sports Massage Therapist), inherit new breathing and form techniques that have improved my gate and cadence, use food as fuel on a daily basis, and when the miles get tough, remind myself that it's "mind over muscle".
I may not be built for what I do, but I have to work damn hard every single day to stay in one piece and accomplish the goals I set for myself. And, as long as my poorly-put-together body allows, I'll keep setting new goals and push myself toward further achievement. After all, thanks to my marathon-crushing parents, I was born to do this.
Monday, May 1, 2017
My Boston Marathon
I am officially a humbled runner, and it took me 4 marathons to get here.
Ever since I began training for my first marathon in the summer of 2015, advice such as "respect the distance" or "the race doesn't start until mile 20" was handed out like candy at a parade, and fear of "hitting the wall" - the point in which you are mentally done and physically exhausted - was instilled. Still, training went on and race day finally arrived. In their day, my parents had, to me, untouchable marathon finishing times, so I set my own goals on qualifying for Boston instead of a little family competition. I needed a 3:35. I crushed it with 3:25, and finished with energy to spare. I couldn't help but think that this marathon stuff wasn't so bad. The wall never hit, mile 20 came and went without notice, and the distance was nothing more than my latest PR.
A few weeks later, I ran a trail marathon, and felt so great at the finish that I was talked into signing up for the 50-mile distance the following year. And, for the hell of it, the next fall I repeated my first marathon in an attempt to beat my time, which I did by another 10 minutes, putting me at a 3:15 finish and once again getting me into Boston for the following year. That 50 mile trail race was an entirely different animal, but up until that starting line for Boston on Patriot's Day, I had never experienced a "tough" marathon, and was able to get a humbling smack down out on that famous course.
The first miserable thing about the Boston Marathon is the training season. I had been spoiled with my previous fall marathons and summer training schedule, and now had to switch to winter training where the weather was watched like a hawk for snow, ice, and temperatures that dipped below 20 degrees - the point in which my training partners and I would gladly opt for the treadmill instead. The weather-watching only increased as race day arrived, where we learned to our horror that it would be a sweaty 75 degrees. After training in the 20's-30's for months, I knew this would be my first challenge. The second, better known challenge, were the hills that made their lovely appearance after mile 17 when you are already exhausted from miles of pavement pounding. I had also managed to rupture a bursa in my knee during training, so that was of concern too, but not nearly as intimidating as the course itself. Pain I could run through, heat and hills, I would learn, were another story.
The race took off with a very casual starting line; one minute you are walking up to your corral, the next you are running and the race begins. My nerves were calmed by pure excitement, and my eyes were fixed on the overwhelming amount of runners on that street in Hopkinton. I looked forward to my "check-point-goals" of shared stories with my running gals at mile 10, FaceTiming my daughters and mom at mile 15, keeping an eye out for my dad at mile 20, and crossing that finish line where my husband, brother, sister-in-law and friends were waiting.
From mile 1, the heat got to me. My breathing was heavy, my body felt exhausted, and despite my efforts to talk myself out of any negative mindset with the use of motivating self-talk ("you're part of THE Boston Marathon! Woo!") - my anxiety was building with each exhausting mile knowing that a rough series of hills lay ahead. Still, my two training partners and I trotted along, collecting miles as we went. The first 15, though tiresome, went the fastest. Stories at mile 10 never happened, despite the fact that my friends and I avoided each other like the plague in order to have fresh, detailed stories to occupy the time - we were simply too tired and out of breath to speak. I was thrilled to see the 15 mile marker where I excitedly called my tiny cheerleaders and mom before venturing off into the remaining 11 miles.
At mile 16, one of my friends fell behind. As we hit mile 17 and turned a sharp corner, my other friend warns me "this is the first hill" - I'm sorry, you mean that thing we just ran up and over wasn't one of these "hills" you speak of? Shit. Starting to tackle the climb, I kept my head down and could focus on nothing but the burning sensation in my quads. As my friend got a little further ahead, she kept checking back on me where the words "still here!" managed to escape me. One hill down, two to go. And still nearly 9 miles to the finish. Panic started to sink in a bit as the combination of hills and heat started to tear me apart.
On the 2nd hill, I fell behind. I was crushed as I watched the distance between my friend and I lengthen, but knew at this point it was not my race. Finishing, not time, was all that mattered now. I hit every water station along the way to refill the bottle attached to my fuel belt, and was sure to drench myself with every spraying hydrant or hose out there. As mile 20 approached, I knew that seeing my dad's familiar face would be just what I needed. 20 years ago, he ran his final Boston Marathon, and he was now spectating where his parents used to watch him. I saw his waving arms and ran right over to him to hold his hand. I wanted so badly to regress to a baby and just curl up crying in his arms. Instead, the only thing I could say was "it's hot out here, dad!" - and pushed myself to continue onto Heartbreak Hill.
Admittedly, this third and final hill was the easiest of them all. Maybe it was simply knowing that the dreaded series of hills was over, but even so, seeing those "you made it to the top of Heartbreak Hill" signs were the most amazing site. Piece of cake from here on out, I thought to myself. The hills were over, and I just had 4 miles to go. I could run 4 miles any day. I got this.
Nope. Not the way that went at all.
The hills, though nothing compared to the recent few, still rolled along. Every mile mark seemed to take (Sandlot reference) FOR-EV-ER. I had never wanted to stop so badly during a race. There were moments of panic where I thought I may not be able to finish. The only thing that was still able to motivate me was the $300 I spent on " yay go me I ran Boston!" attire at the expo - all in which would be pointless if I let this course take me down. And then, at mile 24, my legs decided they were done.
Still moving but what felt like barely, I tackled the last 2 miles with legs that felt like lead. I tried to go faster to reach that finish line sooner, but they wouldn't give. I yelled at them ("come ON!!"), I punched them, I willed them - nothing. I have never experienced a longer 2 miles. This was it, this was the wall. I officially hit the wall, and it sucked beyond all belief. I wanted to stop. I wanted to cry. I wanted a goddamn beer. But, I also really really wanted to rock my finisher's jacket and 15 other blue and yellow swag that burned a hole in my wallet. Then I realized that all of those things were possible - after I cross that finish line.
Reaching the 26 mile marker, I thought I was golden. That was, until you turn down that finishing stretch and realize that the final .2 miles to the finish still seemed like forever. I knew my friends and family were there waiting, but I didn't have the energy to pick them out of the wild crowd. I still wanted to stop. I actually considered it. Crawling to the finish sounded better than another moment of running. Slowly but surely, the yellow triangle hung high over the finish crept closer and closer until, finally, with my hands in the air, I stepped over that blue line, where my legs immediately decided they were all sorts of pissed off and collapsed.
After spending some time in the medical tent, I finally met up with my husband who showered me in hugs and congratulations, and I drank the best tasting, most refreshing, well deserved beer (or two) I've ever experienced. And that's exactly what this entire thing was - an experience. Maybe I was miserable for 26 miles, but I also accomplished something huge that day. And, the fact that I've always given credit to my natural running ability was knocked down a few notches; marathon-running parents or not, easy previous races or not, that was without a doubt one of the hardest things I've done. I now know what "respect the distance" truly means, what it means to not experience the hardships of the race until mile 20, and I definitely know what it feels like to hit the wall. The days that followed were filled with soreness and nausea, but I was glad to have those post-race aches while snuggled up in my overpriced 2017 Boston Marathon sweatshirt, because I did it.
Ever since I began training for my first marathon in the summer of 2015, advice such as "respect the distance" or "the race doesn't start until mile 20" was handed out like candy at a parade, and fear of "hitting the wall" - the point in which you are mentally done and physically exhausted - was instilled. Still, training went on and race day finally arrived. In their day, my parents had, to me, untouchable marathon finishing times, so I set my own goals on qualifying for Boston instead of a little family competition. I needed a 3:35. I crushed it with 3:25, and finished with energy to spare. I couldn't help but think that this marathon stuff wasn't so bad. The wall never hit, mile 20 came and went without notice, and the distance was nothing more than my latest PR.
A few weeks later, I ran a trail marathon, and felt so great at the finish that I was talked into signing up for the 50-mile distance the following year. And, for the hell of it, the next fall I repeated my first marathon in an attempt to beat my time, which I did by another 10 minutes, putting me at a 3:15 finish and once again getting me into Boston for the following year. That 50 mile trail race was an entirely different animal, but up until that starting line for Boston on Patriot's Day, I had never experienced a "tough" marathon, and was able to get a humbling smack down out on that famous course.
The first miserable thing about the Boston Marathon is the training season. I had been spoiled with my previous fall marathons and summer training schedule, and now had to switch to winter training where the weather was watched like a hawk for snow, ice, and temperatures that dipped below 20 degrees - the point in which my training partners and I would gladly opt for the treadmill instead. The weather-watching only increased as race day arrived, where we learned to our horror that it would be a sweaty 75 degrees. After training in the 20's-30's for months, I knew this would be my first challenge. The second, better known challenge, were the hills that made their lovely appearance after mile 17 when you are already exhausted from miles of pavement pounding. I had also managed to rupture a bursa in my knee during training, so that was of concern too, but not nearly as intimidating as the course itself. Pain I could run through, heat and hills, I would learn, were another story.
The race took off with a very casual starting line; one minute you are walking up to your corral, the next you are running and the race begins. My nerves were calmed by pure excitement, and my eyes were fixed on the overwhelming amount of runners on that street in Hopkinton. I looked forward to my "check-point-goals" of shared stories with my running gals at mile 10, FaceTiming my daughters and mom at mile 15, keeping an eye out for my dad at mile 20, and crossing that finish line where my husband, brother, sister-in-law and friends were waiting.
From mile 1, the heat got to me. My breathing was heavy, my body felt exhausted, and despite my efforts to talk myself out of any negative mindset with the use of motivating self-talk ("you're part of THE Boston Marathon! Woo!") - my anxiety was building with each exhausting mile knowing that a rough series of hills lay ahead. Still, my two training partners and I trotted along, collecting miles as we went. The first 15, though tiresome, went the fastest. Stories at mile 10 never happened, despite the fact that my friends and I avoided each other like the plague in order to have fresh, detailed stories to occupy the time - we were simply too tired and out of breath to speak. I was thrilled to see the 15 mile marker where I excitedly called my tiny cheerleaders and mom before venturing off into the remaining 11 miles.
At mile 16, one of my friends fell behind. As we hit mile 17 and turned a sharp corner, my other friend warns me "this is the first hill" - I'm sorry, you mean that thing we just ran up and over wasn't one of these "hills" you speak of? Shit. Starting to tackle the climb, I kept my head down and could focus on nothing but the burning sensation in my quads. As my friend got a little further ahead, she kept checking back on me where the words "still here!" managed to escape me. One hill down, two to go. And still nearly 9 miles to the finish. Panic started to sink in a bit as the combination of hills and heat started to tear me apart.
On the 2nd hill, I fell behind. I was crushed as I watched the distance between my friend and I lengthen, but knew at this point it was not my race. Finishing, not time, was all that mattered now. I hit every water station along the way to refill the bottle attached to my fuel belt, and was sure to drench myself with every spraying hydrant or hose out there. As mile 20 approached, I knew that seeing my dad's familiar face would be just what I needed. 20 years ago, he ran his final Boston Marathon, and he was now spectating where his parents used to watch him. I saw his waving arms and ran right over to him to hold his hand. I wanted so badly to regress to a baby and just curl up crying in his arms. Instead, the only thing I could say was "it's hot out here, dad!" - and pushed myself to continue onto Heartbreak Hill.
Admittedly, this third and final hill was the easiest of them all. Maybe it was simply knowing that the dreaded series of hills was over, but even so, seeing those "you made it to the top of Heartbreak Hill" signs were the most amazing site. Piece of cake from here on out, I thought to myself. The hills were over, and I just had 4 miles to go. I could run 4 miles any day. I got this.
Nope. Not the way that went at all.
The hills, though nothing compared to the recent few, still rolled along. Every mile mark seemed to take (Sandlot reference) FOR-EV-ER. I had never wanted to stop so badly during a race. There were moments of panic where I thought I may not be able to finish. The only thing that was still able to motivate me was the $300 I spent on " yay go me I ran Boston!" attire at the expo - all in which would be pointless if I let this course take me down. And then, at mile 24, my legs decided they were done.
Still moving but what felt like barely, I tackled the last 2 miles with legs that felt like lead. I tried to go faster to reach that finish line sooner, but they wouldn't give. I yelled at them ("come ON!!"), I punched them, I willed them - nothing. I have never experienced a longer 2 miles. This was it, this was the wall. I officially hit the wall, and it sucked beyond all belief. I wanted to stop. I wanted to cry. I wanted a goddamn beer. But, I also really really wanted to rock my finisher's jacket and 15 other blue and yellow swag that burned a hole in my wallet. Then I realized that all of those things were possible - after I cross that finish line.
Reaching the 26 mile marker, I thought I was golden. That was, until you turn down that finishing stretch and realize that the final .2 miles to the finish still seemed like forever. I knew my friends and family were there waiting, but I didn't have the energy to pick them out of the wild crowd. I still wanted to stop. I actually considered it. Crawling to the finish sounded better than another moment of running. Slowly but surely, the yellow triangle hung high over the finish crept closer and closer until, finally, with my hands in the air, I stepped over that blue line, where my legs immediately decided they were all sorts of pissed off and collapsed.
After spending some time in the medical tent, I finally met up with my husband who showered me in hugs and congratulations, and I drank the best tasting, most refreshing, well deserved beer (or two) I've ever experienced. And that's exactly what this entire thing was - an experience. Maybe I was miserable for 26 miles, but I also accomplished something huge that day. And, the fact that I've always given credit to my natural running ability was knocked down a few notches; marathon-running parents or not, easy previous races or not, that was without a doubt one of the hardest things I've done. I now know what "respect the distance" truly means, what it means to not experience the hardships of the race until mile 20, and I definitely know what it feels like to hit the wall. The days that followed were filled with soreness and nausea, but I was glad to have those post-race aches while snuggled up in my overpriced 2017 Boston Marathon sweatshirt, because I did it.
Friday, January 6, 2017
Sugar Detox, My Story
Hi, my name is Lauren and I am a sugar addict. (Hiiiii Laurennnnnn)
From an early age, I knew I had a rather large and in charge sweet tooth. It used to be tamed by the candy bars my grandfather bought for my every week, because as a child of marathon running parents who forced healthy eating upon me, I was thought to be deprived of these sugary, carb and calorie loaded bars of deliciousness. Every Wednesday after school, he'd pick me up from the bus stop and immediately drive me to the corner store where I was allowed to pick out two king sized candy bars - and eat them both right away. I remember the cookies and cream Hershey's bar being a solid staple in that decision making. In high school, I would buy a candy bar daily from the sports teams selling them, and I often passed on the tuna sandwich my dad packed me for lunch and opted for two, insanely huge, soft chocolate chip cookies from the cafeteria. I was lucky to have inherited my dad's speedy metabolism, but still remember the feeling of the sugar highs and lows, and the comment from one classmate about how I looked good with the few extra pounds I recently put on; a line no teenager, even as rail thin as I was, liked to hear.
Those teenage years of craving sweets but not wanting to gain weight were the start of poor habits that lasted well into my twenties. I'd skip meals to accommodate the "gotta have it" size cake batter ice cream with mashed Heath Bar from Cold Stone Creamery. As an adult, I'd calorie count in order to have a dinner out with a couple glasses of wine, but would end up with that sugar craving when the buzz kicked in and end up eating well over my allotted number anyway. I would over exercise the next day to make up for it, mentally yelling at myself for having no control, thinking about how many miles I'd have to accomplish in comparison the calories consumed. I'd restrict my eating to further punish myself. Food, alcohol and exercise became so apparent to me that I could think back to any gathering or event, and would first remember my choices. Did I over drink, did I over eat, did I run twenty mikes the next day...I knew and remembered all these things before remembering conversations, laughter, or other important events from that day. I was uncomfortable in my decision making and was so guilt ridden beacause of it. It was a miserable cycle, but I had the power to change it. I first had to identify my weaknesses, and then crush them. Case point: sugar.
Everything triggered my sweet tooth. The end of a meal meant a little sweet treat to top it off. The end of a busy work day meant a well deserved glass (or two) of wine. The aroma of a cake scented Yankee Candle had me searching Pinterest for microwave mug cake recipes. Before bed it was always a toss up between hot cocoa or tea with extra honey. Sugar surrounded me, and it only intensified the more I catered to it. I used to ignore the amount of sugar I gobbled up, because I had eliminated white sugar from my diet years ago, and used coconut palm sugar, pure maple syrup, raw honey, or fruits to sweeten things. But recently I noticed a sincere crave for more. Where I used to be satisfied with a teaspoon of coconut sugar in my coffee, I suddenly needed 2 tablespoons to tame the tooth. I needed a little dessert after both lunch and dinner, instead of every now and then as a treat. And, I'm sure the amount of sugar in wine contributed to my enjoyment and ease of having more than one hefty glass.
The New Year was an easy time for me to hit my re-set button; especially after celebrating Christmas on 5 different occasions. The amount of wine and Honey Jack sipped lead to a taste test of any and all desserts I could find. I knew these things were treats, and that it had little to do with weight gain based on the amount I exercise and eat clean the other 98% of the time - but I simply felt gross. I knew as part of my resolution that I wanted to do something about it, but I also knew that I didn't want to be so drastic in my decision such as "quit sugar" or "quit drinking" because I enjoy these things, especially when sharing a night off with my husband or gathering with family and friends. It was important for me to conquer this weakness in a sense of gaining control, not cutting it out and depriving myself completely. Plus, I just wanted to do something good for my body in the form of a detox, and so the 21 day sugar free diet came into play.
So far, it's been the perfect challenge. Not only is it forcing me to take a much needed break from sugar and alcohol, but it's also forcing me to think outside the food box - a place I often landed myself when the kids went to bed. I'd be tunnel visioned to their bedtime in order to enjoy a little dessert, maybe a glass of wine, a mug of hot cocoa or some form of sweet snack. It was what I considered my daily "me/mommy" time, and I loved this time. Seeing these words written down makes it seem pretty lame, but I nearly didn't know what to do with myself on those first few nights without having sugary foods to look forward to. I'd depressingly look at my dinner and think to myself "well, this is it". It has, however, effected my parenting in a positive way, because I no longer feel like rushing my kids off to bed in order to gain the alone time I craved - because I have nothing to look forward to! So for the last 5 days, bedtime has been much more gradual and relaxed.
This challenge is also a much needed boost in my ability to say no. Some nights, I may not even feel like having that glass of wine or those sips of whiskey, but I do simply because. Because it's our night off together. Because we are socializing. Because a friend stopped by unexpectedly. Because it's expected of me. So, I started my challenge a day early with a sober New Year's Eve - something I've only done twice before, and because I was pregnant. It was somewhat easy, since I was out with the girls and never have anything to drink if I'll be driving them, but the ease of it came with my early decision on the matter. I didn't give myself the option. I said "no alcohol tonight" and that was that. I needed to show myself that time with friends could be just as fun with a tea in hand as it was with a glass of red. Plus, with lots of yummy treats surrounding me, it was a good reminder that because I wasn't sitting in a cozy buzz, I wouldn't make sugar indulgences that were out of my norm.
Tell you what though - this is not a feel good challenge. With limited food options (including fruit), I have been rocking a serious bloat-belly from all the extra veggies I'm forced to go to when hunger strikes. Because I had to further eliminate foods - and already ate so strictly - I was forced to reintroduce foods into my diet that were allowed within the 21 day sugar detox, but that I didn't normally eat, like full fat dairy and a variety of nuts. I've rocked a slight headache everyday since the challenge started, and my energy levels are shot. My morning coffee, which used to be one of my favorite times of the day, is now less appealing without the sweet addition of coconut palm sugar. And, most annoying of all, I always feel hungry. I am eating plenty as far as portions and calories with all my protein and good-fat based meals, but because I'm never getting that "end" feeling of capping off with a treat, my body is always searching for what it's missing.
So, it's tough. It's going to continue to be tough. But I'm glad I'm doing it. I have girlfriends who jumped on this crazy train with me who I can text and complain to daily - and also who can hold me accountable. I know that I am doing something incredible for my body, and that when these 21 days are over, I will feel accomplished. I am hoping to gain a better grasp on my sweet tooth, say no when I'm not in the mood to drink, and hopefully eat and drink as I please with less disordered eating thoughts provoked. It helps to know that it's only 3 weeks, and nothing permanent. It also helps to know that I could be running 50 miles, and nothing was worse than that ;-)
Day 6 - 15 to go.
From an early age, I knew I had a rather large and in charge sweet tooth. It used to be tamed by the candy bars my grandfather bought for my every week, because as a child of marathon running parents who forced healthy eating upon me, I was thought to be deprived of these sugary, carb and calorie loaded bars of deliciousness. Every Wednesday after school, he'd pick me up from the bus stop and immediately drive me to the corner store where I was allowed to pick out two king sized candy bars - and eat them both right away. I remember the cookies and cream Hershey's bar being a solid staple in that decision making. In high school, I would buy a candy bar daily from the sports teams selling them, and I often passed on the tuna sandwich my dad packed me for lunch and opted for two, insanely huge, soft chocolate chip cookies from the cafeteria. I was lucky to have inherited my dad's speedy metabolism, but still remember the feeling of the sugar highs and lows, and the comment from one classmate about how I looked good with the few extra pounds I recently put on; a line no teenager, even as rail thin as I was, liked to hear.
Those teenage years of craving sweets but not wanting to gain weight were the start of poor habits that lasted well into my twenties. I'd skip meals to accommodate the "gotta have it" size cake batter ice cream with mashed Heath Bar from Cold Stone Creamery. As an adult, I'd calorie count in order to have a dinner out with a couple glasses of wine, but would end up with that sugar craving when the buzz kicked in and end up eating well over my allotted number anyway. I would over exercise the next day to make up for it, mentally yelling at myself for having no control, thinking about how many miles I'd have to accomplish in comparison the calories consumed. I'd restrict my eating to further punish myself. Food, alcohol and exercise became so apparent to me that I could think back to any gathering or event, and would first remember my choices. Did I over drink, did I over eat, did I run twenty mikes the next day...I knew and remembered all these things before remembering conversations, laughter, or other important events from that day. I was uncomfortable in my decision making and was so guilt ridden beacause of it. It was a miserable cycle, but I had the power to change it. I first had to identify my weaknesses, and then crush them. Case point: sugar.
Everything triggered my sweet tooth. The end of a meal meant a little sweet treat to top it off. The end of a busy work day meant a well deserved glass (or two) of wine. The aroma of a cake scented Yankee Candle had me searching Pinterest for microwave mug cake recipes. Before bed it was always a toss up between hot cocoa or tea with extra honey. Sugar surrounded me, and it only intensified the more I catered to it. I used to ignore the amount of sugar I gobbled up, because I had eliminated white sugar from my diet years ago, and used coconut palm sugar, pure maple syrup, raw honey, or fruits to sweeten things. But recently I noticed a sincere crave for more. Where I used to be satisfied with a teaspoon of coconut sugar in my coffee, I suddenly needed 2 tablespoons to tame the tooth. I needed a little dessert after both lunch and dinner, instead of every now and then as a treat. And, I'm sure the amount of sugar in wine contributed to my enjoyment and ease of having more than one hefty glass.
The New Year was an easy time for me to hit my re-set button; especially after celebrating Christmas on 5 different occasions. The amount of wine and Honey Jack sipped lead to a taste test of any and all desserts I could find. I knew these things were treats, and that it had little to do with weight gain based on the amount I exercise and eat clean the other 98% of the time - but I simply felt gross. I knew as part of my resolution that I wanted to do something about it, but I also knew that I didn't want to be so drastic in my decision such as "quit sugar" or "quit drinking" because I enjoy these things, especially when sharing a night off with my husband or gathering with family and friends. It was important for me to conquer this weakness in a sense of gaining control, not cutting it out and depriving myself completely. Plus, I just wanted to do something good for my body in the form of a detox, and so the 21 day sugar free diet came into play.
So far, it's been the perfect challenge. Not only is it forcing me to take a much needed break from sugar and alcohol, but it's also forcing me to think outside the food box - a place I often landed myself when the kids went to bed. I'd be tunnel visioned to their bedtime in order to enjoy a little dessert, maybe a glass of wine, a mug of hot cocoa or some form of sweet snack. It was what I considered my daily "me/mommy" time, and I loved this time. Seeing these words written down makes it seem pretty lame, but I nearly didn't know what to do with myself on those first few nights without having sugary foods to look forward to. I'd depressingly look at my dinner and think to myself "well, this is it". It has, however, effected my parenting in a positive way, because I no longer feel like rushing my kids off to bed in order to gain the alone time I craved - because I have nothing to look forward to! So for the last 5 days, bedtime has been much more gradual and relaxed.
This challenge is also a much needed boost in my ability to say no. Some nights, I may not even feel like having that glass of wine or those sips of whiskey, but I do simply because. Because it's our night off together. Because we are socializing. Because a friend stopped by unexpectedly. Because it's expected of me. So, I started my challenge a day early with a sober New Year's Eve - something I've only done twice before, and because I was pregnant. It was somewhat easy, since I was out with the girls and never have anything to drink if I'll be driving them, but the ease of it came with my early decision on the matter. I didn't give myself the option. I said "no alcohol tonight" and that was that. I needed to show myself that time with friends could be just as fun with a tea in hand as it was with a glass of red. Plus, with lots of yummy treats surrounding me, it was a good reminder that because I wasn't sitting in a cozy buzz, I wouldn't make sugar indulgences that were out of my norm.
Tell you what though - this is not a feel good challenge. With limited food options (including fruit), I have been rocking a serious bloat-belly from all the extra veggies I'm forced to go to when hunger strikes. Because I had to further eliminate foods - and already ate so strictly - I was forced to reintroduce foods into my diet that were allowed within the 21 day sugar detox, but that I didn't normally eat, like full fat dairy and a variety of nuts. I've rocked a slight headache everyday since the challenge started, and my energy levels are shot. My morning coffee, which used to be one of my favorite times of the day, is now less appealing without the sweet addition of coconut palm sugar. And, most annoying of all, I always feel hungry. I am eating plenty as far as portions and calories with all my protein and good-fat based meals, but because I'm never getting that "end" feeling of capping off with a treat, my body is always searching for what it's missing.
So, it's tough. It's going to continue to be tough. But I'm glad I'm doing it. I have girlfriends who jumped on this crazy train with me who I can text and complain to daily - and also who can hold me accountable. I know that I am doing something incredible for my body, and that when these 21 days are over, I will feel accomplished. I am hoping to gain a better grasp on my sweet tooth, say no when I'm not in the mood to drink, and hopefully eat and drink as I please with less disordered eating thoughts provoked. It helps to know that it's only 3 weeks, and nothing permanent. It also helps to know that I could be running 50 miles, and nothing was worse than that ;-)
Day 6 - 15 to go.
Wednesday, December 21, 2016
Mourning What Was Never There
I always longed for it; those giant holiday gatherings where everyone got along, ate and drank merrily, and genuinely enjoyed each other's company. I was surrounded by "those families" in my friend circle, and always had twangs of jealous energy about it. As the holidays approached, I would turn to materialism by focusing on my extravagant Christmas list, and also paid close attention to my parents and whether or not they have been fighting. I'll never forget those Christmas mornings where the first thing I would do was silently hold up both fists and lock eye contact with my dad - my way of asking if him and mom were arguing. I'll never forget feeling somewhat disappointed when the spoiled brat in me didn't get every single item on my list, and then feeling worse after my post-present call to my childhood best friend to share what we opened; she always got more. I'll never forget how bored I felt watching TV in the other room or desperately going online to see if someone - anyone - was on AOL instant messenger, while the adults gathered in the Big Room. When no one was online, I felt even more down, knowing they were probably participating in games and conversations with their family, while I simply waited for the next "moment" of the day to unfold, like dinner and dessert, which I'm sure I whined about endlessly.
As I got older, my parents got divorced and my grandparents passed away. Now, instead of having us all together (a time I wish I appreciated when it was here), holidays were now split in two. Having a child young with someone I didn't love certainly didn't give me the opportunity to pave the way for better holidays on my own, and marrying someone with divorced parents turned our two-holiday event into four. Instead of being able to engulf myself in what I did have and fully experience this time of year for all that it could be, I moped. I asked myself why we couldn't be more like x, y, or z. I got angry at what I didn't have. I loved gatherings with certain family members and dreaded it with others. I found myself constantly wishing things were different; that this person could control their drinking and word vomit, or that that person would engage in conversation other than themselves for 5 minutes. Our families grew, which only added new personalities and dynamics to an already chaotic cluster fuck. I tried to hard to act all uppity, but it's hard when you're constantly trying to fit into a mold of a family that is not yours. I didn't have that family. I didn't share those relationships, that closeness, and most important - no amount of effort on my end would change any of this. And I had wasted years trying.
I had no choice but to accept it for what it was: annoying, abnormal, dramatic, draining, and disappointing. I had to say these negative, hurtful things aloud in order to mourn the loss of the family I'll never have. I had to clear out these heavy feelings that took up so much precious space and energy in order to make room for the positives. I simply had no choice but to accept. I had to accept people for who they were, self absorbed, opinionated, dramatic and all. I had to accept our family's different dynamics, and appreciate it for what it is. I had to learn to say no to traveling 4 different times per holiday, and not to worry about other people's opinions on the matter. The more I accepted, the less negative I felt. I didn't have to like certain situations or even certain traits in people, but I could accept it. In fact, that turned into my little holiday mantra: "I don't have to like it, but I can accept it".
The more room I left for positivity, the more I was flooded with it. For every negative thought or emotion I was able to clear out, it was replaced with something good. I even found that I was able to look back and have a different perspective on my childhood holidays. Instead of picturing myself bored in the computer room, I was able to remember the magic of Christmas morning; the stockings that were filled to the brim, the abundance of gifts under the tree, the holiday music, Christmas lights and burning wood stove that my dad left on all night, anticipating my early waking; anxiously staring out the window for the site of my grandparent's car pulling up, begging for the 2nd round of gifts, and always being the first done dinner with hopes that it meant earlier dessert. All of these wonderful memories were clouded with negativity of yearning for something different, when I had something so joyous the whole time.
Comparison can be evil. If I had not cared what other families were doing, or zoning in on how complicated mine was, I would have been able to be more present and experience so much more. It takes a lot of work. Even this holiday season, years into my practice of self-love, acceptance of others, and being present, I still found myself feeling overwhelmed by how different I wanted things to be. I wanted my family to be here on Christmas. It angered me that few people within our families get along. I was upset that my husband has to work both Christmas Eve and Day. I craved time with my daughters and yet booked us solid for the next few weeks with gatherings and celebrations. I filled myself with annoyance, anger, disappointment, and sadness. Then, I remembered how much I missed out on before because of these exact negative emotions, and I made a shift. The holidays (as is the same with everyday) are what you make it. If I view them as negative annoyances, then they shall be. But, if I accept the fact that people are going to be who they are, like it or not, and know that I'm only wasting my energy trying to change them or wish them differently, then how I view my holidays is up to me. I can still make a choice to be fully present with my husband in the time he is here, and relish in those teeny, beautiful faces of our daughters on Christmas morning. I can prepare myself for those tough personalities I will encounter, and laugh with myself when situations arise thinking "ha, there's so-and-so just being so-and-so".
Going through this mental change truly did make me feel like I mourned a loss; I had to let go of who I wanted people to be, how I expected things to unfold, and just let life be. This quote from Adventures For Your Soul helped ground me in this experience: "We can look at events in our life and see them as problems that hinder us and keep us from what we want, or we can choose to see them as opportunities for growth. We can surround our problems with love". I didn't have to have these "problems" because in reality, by wishing so hard for change, I created the problem myself. There never needed to be one. Everyone is who they are, and the only person I have control over is me. I don't have to react, I can respond. I don't have to wish, I can accept. I can view every annoyance as opportunity, and I can clear out the negative to leave more room for the positive. In the end, how my holidays go is just up to me, and in realizing that, I have a new overwhelming gratitude for what I do have.
As I got older, my parents got divorced and my grandparents passed away. Now, instead of having us all together (a time I wish I appreciated when it was here), holidays were now split in two. Having a child young with someone I didn't love certainly didn't give me the opportunity to pave the way for better holidays on my own, and marrying someone with divorced parents turned our two-holiday event into four. Instead of being able to engulf myself in what I did have and fully experience this time of year for all that it could be, I moped. I asked myself why we couldn't be more like x, y, or z. I got angry at what I didn't have. I loved gatherings with certain family members and dreaded it with others. I found myself constantly wishing things were different; that this person could control their drinking and word vomit, or that that person would engage in conversation other than themselves for 5 minutes. Our families grew, which only added new personalities and dynamics to an already chaotic cluster fuck. I tried to hard to act all uppity, but it's hard when you're constantly trying to fit into a mold of a family that is not yours. I didn't have that family. I didn't share those relationships, that closeness, and most important - no amount of effort on my end would change any of this. And I had wasted years trying.
I had no choice but to accept it for what it was: annoying, abnormal, dramatic, draining, and disappointing. I had to say these negative, hurtful things aloud in order to mourn the loss of the family I'll never have. I had to clear out these heavy feelings that took up so much precious space and energy in order to make room for the positives. I simply had no choice but to accept. I had to accept people for who they were, self absorbed, opinionated, dramatic and all. I had to accept our family's different dynamics, and appreciate it for what it is. I had to learn to say no to traveling 4 different times per holiday, and not to worry about other people's opinions on the matter. The more I accepted, the less negative I felt. I didn't have to like certain situations or even certain traits in people, but I could accept it. In fact, that turned into my little holiday mantra: "I don't have to like it, but I can accept it".
The more room I left for positivity, the more I was flooded with it. For every negative thought or emotion I was able to clear out, it was replaced with something good. I even found that I was able to look back and have a different perspective on my childhood holidays. Instead of picturing myself bored in the computer room, I was able to remember the magic of Christmas morning; the stockings that were filled to the brim, the abundance of gifts under the tree, the holiday music, Christmas lights and burning wood stove that my dad left on all night, anticipating my early waking; anxiously staring out the window for the site of my grandparent's car pulling up, begging for the 2nd round of gifts, and always being the first done dinner with hopes that it meant earlier dessert. All of these wonderful memories were clouded with negativity of yearning for something different, when I had something so joyous the whole time.
Comparison can be evil. If I had not cared what other families were doing, or zoning in on how complicated mine was, I would have been able to be more present and experience so much more. It takes a lot of work. Even this holiday season, years into my practice of self-love, acceptance of others, and being present, I still found myself feeling overwhelmed by how different I wanted things to be. I wanted my family to be here on Christmas. It angered me that few people within our families get along. I was upset that my husband has to work both Christmas Eve and Day. I craved time with my daughters and yet booked us solid for the next few weeks with gatherings and celebrations. I filled myself with annoyance, anger, disappointment, and sadness. Then, I remembered how much I missed out on before because of these exact negative emotions, and I made a shift. The holidays (as is the same with everyday) are what you make it. If I view them as negative annoyances, then they shall be. But, if I accept the fact that people are going to be who they are, like it or not, and know that I'm only wasting my energy trying to change them or wish them differently, then how I view my holidays is up to me. I can still make a choice to be fully present with my husband in the time he is here, and relish in those teeny, beautiful faces of our daughters on Christmas morning. I can prepare myself for those tough personalities I will encounter, and laugh with myself when situations arise thinking "ha, there's so-and-so just being so-and-so".
Going through this mental change truly did make me feel like I mourned a loss; I had to let go of who I wanted people to be, how I expected things to unfold, and just let life be. This quote from Adventures For Your Soul helped ground me in this experience: "We can look at events in our life and see them as problems that hinder us and keep us from what we want, or we can choose to see them as opportunities for growth. We can surround our problems with love". I didn't have to have these "problems" because in reality, by wishing so hard for change, I created the problem myself. There never needed to be one. Everyone is who they are, and the only person I have control over is me. I don't have to react, I can respond. I don't have to wish, I can accept. I can view every annoyance as opportunity, and I can clear out the negative to leave more room for the positive. In the end, how my holidays go is just up to me, and in realizing that, I have a new overwhelming gratitude for what I do have.
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