So I went for a run, an actual run yesterday. I went with my husband. We went to a park nearby our home.
Before I go further, I should admit that I’m extremely jealous of my husband. He hasn’t run in months, but yesterday he jumped out of the car and breezed through three miles in about half an hour.
I struggled. I knew before I ever started that I would be jogging/walking. I know my fitness isn’t at the level it needs to be to run three miles without stopping. But damn. I didn’t expect the anxiety – the chest gripping panic that set in right around the end of the first mile.
I actually started to cry. Crying is something I haven’t done (unless I’m under the influence) in a long, long time.
I think I want so badly to be good at this – to be good at running. I want it to be effortless, easy. And it’s not – it’s the furthest thing from easy.
I didn’t stop. I walked through the tears and started jogging again. I have no idea what my pace was (wasn’t wearing my FitBit). But I kept going. The panic didn’t stop either. My chest squeezed tight, and my hands went numb. I just knew I had to make it to the end of the three mile loop.
When my husband finished his run and came back to meet me, I was a little bit past the halfway point (I think). He made a good point. He said I can’t run the half marathon today.
He’s right…and I need to slow down. I’ve got plenty of time to train and build myself up. I need to ignore that loud inner critic that is telling me I’m going to fail if I can’t get out and breeze through a run like me athletic husband.
I need to run my own race. At my own pace. And right now my pace is slow.
But you know what? I finished those three miles. In tears and walking, but I finished.