Laid up

Once upon a gazillion years ago when I wrote speeches for a college president, developed case reports for large-scale fundraising campaigns for nonprofits, was chasing down extremely important campus news like how many meals you could get in Kirksville, Missouri for a dollar, or even was hanging out, pushing my small child on the swing at the playground in heels while listening to my jokes bomb left and right with the other mamas, I never ever ever would have believed that part of my career would include the thrill that is writing a post titled "Banged" and then following it up with one titled "Laid up."

I use that longest sentence of all time to illustrate either high-speed the quick wit is around here or possibly how pathetic things are. You choose. I'm going to go with majorly super funny.

Back to the topic at hand. (That has nothing to do with the titles. Stop it.)

It's now been several weeks since I received the diagnosis no one seems to take seriously. For a few days after that, I tried (oh, how I tried to rally). But the pace I'd built up devolved to a hobble, my body screamed out in pain and I ended up in tears on the treadmill. It wasn't pretty.

The very next day, the sports doc with the sense of humor, dropped the hammer. I wasn't allowing enough time for my muscles to heal in between runs.

"I'm shutting you down," he said seriously. And with that, I was officially on a two-week hiatus.

I thought I would be upset, but I was really just relieved. I'd been hurting so much -- and not just on the treadmill, but now with nearly every step I took -- and I wanted that to go away. The pain of working hard, pushing my body, I can deal with. But not being sure I could get myself out of the tub was well beyond that.

I iced and stretched and did the exercises to get my glutes firing properly. I ordered orthotics. I downed ibuprofen. I also thought and thought and stressed and worried. I knew my body needed to heal and I was scared that the time off was knocking me too far back in my training.

I wanted to be present in the hiatus, concentrate on feeling better, but I kept thinking I might have to quit the relay that got this whole journey started.

The A-student in me who was afraid of failing and who didn't want to quit duked it out with the person I've been working so hard to uncover who wants to be gentler with myself and acknowledge when enough is indeed enough.

The A-student didn't win this one. I decided that I couldn't let my body heal only to push it harder than I have yet to do the necessary hill and back-to-back run training in four short weeks. I also decided that it is more important to me to be able to run regularly than in this one event. I chose the long-term investment.

That investment is in me. Not a team, not an event, not anything or anyone else. Maybe that's what made it so hard to make. I would really love to cross the Golden Gate Bridge at midnight for that event. One day. And I am sad not to join the amazing group of bad mother runners who make up the team I sad farewell to. This time, quitting was the right thing -- at least for me, for now -- to do.

I've been riding the bike at my gym to keep up cardiovascularly. It feels good to sweat and it feels better to walk without crying. But, wow, do I feel the difference in my body, sleep, stress and eating in this absence of running.

I'm choosing to see that as a gift, though. To be thankful I started on this path. To really feel how much running has changed my life. To be OK with taking time off. To get that what I've done and am doing is enough. And rather than walk away completely, to be excited to get back to running, slowly, wisely, centered on what is working in that moment for me.

Maybe not the A-student I once was, but definitely earning a gold star. Which is now taking the form of a long line black kinesio-tape from my knee to my hip, ice packs and an exercise ball.

Anyway, that A-student's hard at work registering me for a 10K or two over the summer.