when i was 17, i experienced some acute trauma. it wasn't the worst thing that's ever happened to me, but it was close. it was a defining moment in my life, in my relationships with my family, my church, myself. i've spent the last twelve years trying to unpack that trauma, badgering myself because i'm not yet over that trauma.
my first response to the trauma was to gain a lot of weight. about 80 pounds of it. i remember sitting in a class in seminary--i know i was supposed to be paying attention--and doing the math of just how much weight i had gained. my spirit felt the heaviness and my soul just cried out, blaming the trauma.
i want to be clear: what happened to me was not my fault.
but i had tried to protect myself from the effects of it by eating and transforming myself into a shadow of a shadow of the person i'd been before. i hated that this one event in my life was still controlling who i was and that my physical self was a reminder that i was still hurting.
soon after this realization, i started running. running because my sister is a runner and because i'd never been a runner before. i wanted to be transformed.
i was so slow. but i ran with friends who showered me with encouragement even when i had to walk parts of my first 5k races. i ran with friends who would meet me at 6am next to lake michigan even when it was 17 degrees outside. i ran with friends who listened to my stories and told me their own.
i ran on my own and, when i moved to california, i trained for my first half marathon. i ran on my own and invariably i would get to some part of a longer run and struggle to find a second wind. in those moments i would turn on music that reminded me of the trauma from years ago and i would think to myself, "you're stronger than that shit. you've got this." and i would somehow run a couple more miles. when i got lost in the middle of my first marathon, i thought, "well, this is not the worst thing that's ever happened to me. i'll be ok."
four half marathons later and last fall i signed up for my first full marathon. my sister and i are running in gettysburg, a place that our grandmother used to tell us about. our grandmother taught us a lot about being intelligent, stubborn, badass women, turning my sister into a writer/historian and me into a presbyterian minister and us both into feminists.
i am not afraid of this run. i'm ready and i can't wait to explore gettysburg with my sister (and i'm sure we'll be those runners who stop to take photos to send to our younger sister).
this week i encountered something that even six months ago would have made me relive the trauma of my teenage years. but instead of getting angry or sad, i just stopped, found a lot of grace, and moved on. the moment stays with me only because it was so normal, so un-triggering. reflecting on it later, i realized that in the whole time i've been training for this marathon, i have not relied on this trauma to fuel my runs. i have not reached to it as the thing that another mile might overcome.
instead, these miles have been my own.
next weekend, when we get to the hard miles, we'll tell each other stories and reach for the stubbornness that's ingrained in our midwest bones. when we cross the finish line, we will be our selves--influenced by our grandmother and transformed by miles that are ours.
my first response to the trauma was to gain a lot of weight. about 80 pounds of it. i remember sitting in a class in seminary--i know i was supposed to be paying attention--and doing the math of just how much weight i had gained. my spirit felt the heaviness and my soul just cried out, blaming the trauma.
i want to be clear: what happened to me was not my fault.
but i had tried to protect myself from the effects of it by eating and transforming myself into a shadow of a shadow of the person i'd been before. i hated that this one event in my life was still controlling who i was and that my physical self was a reminder that i was still hurting.
soon after this realization, i started running. running because my sister is a runner and because i'd never been a runner before. i wanted to be transformed.
i was so slow. but i ran with friends who showered me with encouragement even when i had to walk parts of my first 5k races. i ran with friends who would meet me at 6am next to lake michigan even when it was 17 degrees outside. i ran with friends who listened to my stories and told me their own.
i ran on my own and, when i moved to california, i trained for my first half marathon. i ran on my own and invariably i would get to some part of a longer run and struggle to find a second wind. in those moments i would turn on music that reminded me of the trauma from years ago and i would think to myself, "you're stronger than that shit. you've got this." and i would somehow run a couple more miles. when i got lost in the middle of my first marathon, i thought, "well, this is not the worst thing that's ever happened to me. i'll be ok."
four half marathons later and last fall i signed up for my first full marathon. my sister and i are running in gettysburg, a place that our grandmother used to tell us about. our grandmother taught us a lot about being intelligent, stubborn, badass women, turning my sister into a writer/historian and me into a presbyterian minister and us both into feminists.
i am not afraid of this run. i'm ready and i can't wait to explore gettysburg with my sister (and i'm sure we'll be those runners who stop to take photos to send to our younger sister).
this week i encountered something that even six months ago would have made me relive the trauma of my teenage years. but instead of getting angry or sad, i just stopped, found a lot of grace, and moved on. the moment stays with me only because it was so normal, so un-triggering. reflecting on it later, i realized that in the whole time i've been training for this marathon, i have not relied on this trauma to fuel my runs. i have not reached to it as the thing that another mile might overcome.
instead, these miles have been my own.
next weekend, when we get to the hard miles, we'll tell each other stories and reach for the stubbornness that's ingrained in our midwest bones. when we cross the finish line, we will be our selves--influenced by our grandmother and transformed by miles that are ours.
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