The Most Myself I've Ever Felt

Last April I decided to go on a solo trip to the Dominican Republic to attend a surf camp and get some relaxation.

The surf trip included daily yoga classes.

“How nice,” I thought.  “That will be a good complement to the REAL reason I want to go to the tropics (surfing).

A little background:  I had done yoga before.  It was actually my mother who got me started with a teacher in Connecticut (who was also a massage therapist and craniosacral therapist).  I remember thinking how cool it was that this woman made a living from her home, healing others and teaching others how to heal themselves.

I really liked doing yoga.  It was a nice way to stretch and get calm.

I kept doing yoga after college, in gym classes and yoga studios.  I bought videos to do yoga at home.  About once a week or so I would take in a yoga class.  You know, the usual yoga consumer activity.

In my twenties and thirties, I tried hot yoga, and while I really enjoyed the intensity (it is super intense and for that reason both awful and wonderful), I found myself repeatedly injured from over-stretching.  I decided that I preferred non-hot yoga.

When I was in grad school for my master’s in education, I was classmates with a friendly yogini who had completed her certification for teaching children’s yoga and was in the process of becoming certified as an adult yoga teacher.  “How cool,” I thought.  “I think maybe I would like to become a yoga teacher one day.”

But like so many things I thought I would like to do with my life, I decided it was frivolous (I have a lot of guilt surrounding doing what I want—especially anything creative.  Literally every career decision I’ve made has been someone else’s idea and based on fear.  If you’d like to unpack that with me further, feel free to message me privately, but that’s a Whole Nuther Story.)

I moved to Long Island to continue working in my ‘chosen career’ as a Regular Teacher in a Regular School and found a little yoga studio with amazing instructors and North Shore Long Island yoginis who spent the time before and after class whispering cruel gossip to one another, often about the phenomenal teacher who had just spent the hour helping them move through lovely asanas.

I decided I didn’t want to do yoga at that studio any more.

In fact, I stopped doing it altogether.  I don’t even really know why.

I missed it.  I was eager to get back to the mat.  So when it was part of my surfing package, I was pleased.  I hadn’t done yoga in several years when I found myself at a little outdoor studio in Cabarete, DR, called “The Yoga Loft”.  It was a tiny sheltered platform overlooking the ocean, and I was scheduled for 6 consecutive evening yoga classes in addition to my 6 consecutive morning surfing classes.

That first evening, I showed up to a very small group (it was Easter Sunday) and I was horrified to learn that what little flexibility I had possessed in the years prior was gone.  I could barely lean over, much less touch my toes.  I laughed and shrugged when the teacher suggested that maybe our heads would touch our knees in seated forward fold.  I used about thirteen blocks and straps for everything.  At the end of the hour, I lay breathing in savasana, listening to the ocean crash against the beach, feeling the tropical breeze on my skin.  I meditated for several minutes and felt my spirit transcend my body in a way I’ve never experienced before.  Upon rising and seeing that night had slowly fallen over us, I thought to myself, “oh, THIS is what yoga is supposed to feel like.”

Over the course of my week on this solo trip, a few things unfurled.

Firstly, I got more physically flexible (duh).  My pop-ups on the surfboard got better, and I could finally consistently catch and ride waves.

Secondly, I did what I wanted.  For the first time in my entire life, I did exactly what I wanted whenever I wanted.  It was the most myself I’ve ever felt.

Thirdly, the day after my first class at The Yoga Loft, I met an entire group of yoga teachers in training at the studio, through the Vermont-based Yoga studio "Grateful Yoga", and I began slowly telling my story of illness and injury to them and their master teacher, as they told me their stories of how and why they had chosen this path to yoga teacher-hood.  Particularly, I befriended a woman from France who was dealing with the challenge of learning this craft in her non-dominant language.  One night, I sat down with her to help her translate parts of her training manual, and I stopped repeatedly to process my mini-epiphanies regarding the studio's philosophy surrounding yoga and how much it resonated with my own journey to wellness.  She and I shared a few tears and laughter together.

I always knew yoga was a moving meditation.  That’s what drew me to it in the first place.  I knew it was stretching.  I knew it was spiritual.  But I believed that, for me, it was a practice you did once a week to keep your hamstrings loose and your mind centered.  

Something happens when you practice yoga every day.  Yoga starts to permeate your every action.  It slows your breathing when you’re scuba diving.  It helps you read the waves and calm yourself when you’re tumbling under your board.  It gives you a grounded spirit when you’re jumping from waterfalls and untangles your mind when you’re flipping between French, Spanish and English.  It keeps you from losing your cool when the teenagers are in the heat of spring fever in the weeks before summer break.

Yoga connects you to heaven and earth and reminds you that you are a small part of the big picture, and that part is just as beautiful and deserving of love and kindness as every other small part of this universe.

On my last night in Cabarete, during our last class before I would fly home, a rainstorm came rolling across the sea as we practiced.  We lowered the shades and practiced on as the water sprayed through the shades into the loft, dampening our mats and lifting our spirits. Our final pose before savasana was happy baby, and my mat had become completely drenched.  The instructor invited us to try rotating in the pose and we rocked around, laughing.  My yoga mat folded itself into origami under my back as I splashed back and forth into the puddles, completely bathing in the last of the rain as the storm passed on to its next destination.  We all gasped together as a rainbow spread across the last of the light sky before night fell completely, and we lay as many bodies, one spirit, on our wet mats, rainbow in our hearts and minds, moon rising above the Cabarete coast.

When the universe sends you a message, man, it does not fool around.

Since this is the internet, and Instagram exists, here are some pictures of me doing yoga.  

You'll notice they're not very impressive.  I can't put any feet behind my head or fold myself backward in half, nor do I ever plan to try.  You'll notice I really don't care, and neither should you.  Yoga is not contortionism.  Being "good at yoga" is NOT A THING.  Yoga is a tool for being good at life.  Anyone who does yoga is good at yoga BECAUSE THEY ARE DOING IT.   

  

So here I am at Omega Institute for Holistic Studies (in Rhinebeck, NY), taking a week-long intensive training course for children’s yoga and mindfulness with Little Flower Yoga, which I am looking forward to implementing in my current work as a chorus and drama teacher.  Next summer I plan to take the 200 hour training for adult yoga instruction.  I'm still in my current job, at least for a few years, and I still like it quite a bit, but I'm ready to start planning for a more 'me' work life (after 20 years of following everyone else's advice).

These are steps.  This is me learning, for the first time, to really actually listen to my heart.  It’s the scariest thing I’ve ever done, and the unfolding of this process has been nothing short of emotionally tumultuous.  I don’t know exactly where it's leading, or how long it will take (probably forever), but I’m on the invisible bridge to who knows where.  I’m taking the leap of faith, and it is the most myself I’ve ever felt.

I asked one my fellow student teachers today, “When a caterpillar transforms into a butterfly, do you think it hurts?”

We sat and pondered what it must be like, all gooey inside the chrysalis.  Is it scary?  Is it exciting?  Because I’m scared.  I’m excited.  And pain has definitely been part of the process.

Later, he found a caterpillar on his mat and showed it to me.  I told him I had found another one on my mat as well.

The universe is so freaking literal sometimes.

"Be yourself.  Everyone else is already taken." (Oscar Wilde)

Women's Health is Human Health

Content:  infertility, reproductive health, women's health



I was going to share a pancake recipe today.

I'll share the pancake recipe later. (Promise)

But today I have to share some feelings about a doctor's visit I had yesterday.

It's not a secret that I wasn't thrilled with my last gynecologist.  She prescribed me pre-natal vitamins after I told her I was NOT actively trying to get pregnant.  Her exams were rough to the point of painful.  She offered no suggestions for fibroid care before my tumor was large enough to excise. She waited until it was too late for me to request more time off from work to tell me that, really, 2 weeks was not going to be enough recovery time (this was information I had needed months prior).  She did not answer all of the questions I had prior to surgery (she literally responded to my question about the tumor being submucosal with "I don't have an answer for that").  She dismissed my request for physical therapy after surgery (in spite of the fact that my abdominal muscles were trashed and I have a history of back problems--"there's no need for PT after this surgery" she said).  She dismissed my concerns about my GI distress during recovery (thank goodness my GP referred me to a good PT and GI doc) and my issues with body temperature control (a common sign of thyroid issues--again, caught by my GP).  She *did* do a very professional job on my surgery, which is to say--she's a good surgeon.  But as a doctor, I was not pleased with our relationship.  I wasn't ready to pull the plug, though, until my last visit with her, about 9 months ago, 6 months after the surgery, when she suggested fertility treatments.

"I'm not trying to get pregnant."  I said.  We had had this conversation already.  I had told her two years ago that I wasn't interested in pursuing fertility treatments.  I had told her two years ago that I believed I had more to offer this world than my genetics.  "Are you sure?"  She said.  "I just don't want you to have any regrets."

Lady.  Do you really think I haven't given this a LOT of thought? 

My only regret was not looking for a new OBGYN years ago.

That was the moment when I knew she wasn't going to be my doctor any more.  I told her I was more interested in training for a marathon than getting pregnant.  (Did I mention I'm training for a marathon and raising money for breast cancer??  Did I mention?? A million times??  You can help out here!)

When the next summer came around and I had time to take care of some adulting, I made an appointment with a different gynecologist, a recommendation from a colleague of mine.  It took a few weeks of phone calls and asking for paperwork to be sent (which is way more stressful than I expected it to be--"why do you need this sent?" asks the office manager "uh, because I want to break up with your boss."  It's awkward. ) but I finally got everything sorted out to have a preliminary visit with this new doc to talk about my history and request a sonogram (there's always a chance of recurrence with fibroids, and it's smart to get scanned regularly if you're able). 

This new doctor--she was incredible.  She *listened* to me when I told her my story.  She nodded understandingly when I said I thought the surgery had unleashed a whole world of health issues (that were likely underlying but never at full blast before).  She agreed that the fibroids and Hashimoto's have probably played a large part in my inability to become pregnant, even in the brief time when we were 'trying' (my previous doc more or less shrugged off these suggestions).  And when I said that I thought I had more to offer the world than my genetics, she paused, and said "that's a really beautiful philosophy."

She never once suggested fertility treatment.  She never once assumed that I was interested in becoming pregnant.  She smiled and chuckled when I told her we're terrible at money and I already have lots of children in my life.  She UNDERSTOOD (or at least pretended well enough to fool me).  She suggested that, if we do find any new fibroids, we should look into early intervention and minimally invasive procedures to avoid another open surgery.  She nodded sympathetically when I told her that the last one was a living nightmare.

When I came home yesterday after the appointment, it was barely dinner time.  I dined on pistachios, tater tots and salami (my version of a cheat night) and collapsed into tears of gratitude and relief before beating the sun to bed.

For the first time in three years, maybe for the first time ever, a gynecologist treated me as a HUMAN BEING looking to be healthy, and not as a potential baby-making machine.  She treated the whole person. I'm a whole person.

A pregnant friend of mine recently mentioned how disillusioned she had become with women's health care, as she felt that medical professionals often cared more about her unborn child than they did about her.  Even as an un-pregnant person, I have felt that way. 

Doctors, please, if you are reading this--we, your patients, are more than reproducers. We are more than organs.  We are more than the sum of our parts.  We are human souls living in beautiful but frequently problematic bodies seeking holistic wellness.  Please remember this.  Babies are beautiful, and procreation is wonderful, but it is only a fraction of women's health.  We all want to be treated as whole people, regardless of our family plans.

Thank you to everyone at Women for Women in New Hyde Park for showing me what wellness care can be like. 

It's Okay

A year ago, I phoned a friend of mine for no other reason than I was emotionally spiraling and I needed someone to talk to.  I knew I could count on this friend, a seasoned adventure sports athlete and former Marine, because these are the kind of people who really understand what it feels like to fall completely apart, and he said exactly what I needed to hear:

It’s okay to not be okay. 

At the time, I was unknowingly battling a double ear infection and mononucleosis simultaneously.  All I knew was that my body was being hijacked for about the umpteenth time in the past year, and I couldn’t handle the battle on my own any more.  I was down for the count, and I was at my wit’s end.  Worse than the fever, the fatigue, or the pain I was suffering was the feeling that none of this was in my control.  Succumbing to illness, be it above or below the neck, is a act of surrender that can crush a person’s spirit.  It means the demons are winning (if only temporarily) and it’s terrifying.  I was terrified.  I felt unworthy of anyone’s time or attention--unworthy of care.  My greatest fear (since 2008, when I thought I might be permanently partially paralyzed by a disc-related nerve injury) was that I would be a burden to my loved ones.  I know first-hand how seriously a family is affected by one person’s illness/injury.  My mother has cared for my quadriplegic father since a fall from the attic broke his neck in 2002.  My greatest fear was that my health would take an undeserved toll on my own spouse, and I was determined to be forever strong and healthy under any circumstances.  In my mind, it was NOT okay to not be okay.  But this time, again, I didn’t know what was wrong—all I knew was that I was not okay, and I couldn’t cope.  And so my friend simply said, over and over again…

It’s okay to not be okay.

Another friend (friends are really great, by the way) once helped me deal with my fear of burdenship by putting it more bluntly:  we’re all burdens to one another.  Think about it--your children are a burden to you, and you are a burden to your children.  Maybe it’s not like that all the time, but at some point we will all be a burden to someone we love.   When the burden is reversed, we welcome the chance to care for our loved ones.  Nothing makes a person feel more worthy than providing care for a friend or family member in need.  Like we learned from ‘Avenue Q’ – “When you help others, you can’t help helping yourself.”

Conversely, but for similar reasons, sometimes you need to distance yourself from friends (even the best ones).  Sometimes you’re all peopled out from, say, working with teenagers day in and day out for the last 9 months and you really need a day (or a week) to crash on the couch (or hammock) with Netflix (or audiobooks) and cats (or flowers).  On days like this, you owe literally no one any explanation for why you are skipping out on whatever boozy brunch or baby shower you were invited to this weekend.  It’s possible to love your friends from a distance and love yourself in solitude at the same time, if that is what you need.  They will understand. If they don’t, just show them this blog post.  If they still don’t understand…well, maybe you need different friends.

When a teenage student of mine (an extremely successful, hard-working student) was recently collapsing emotionally under the weight of her impending graduation, her parents offered to let her stay home for a day.  She turned down the offer, and came to me later that morning in tears, asking if maybe she should call them and ask to go home.  I urged her to do so.  “It just feels so silly, staying home just because I’m stressed out,” she wailed.  It was like looking in a mirror.  I told her: “Every grown-up has done this at least once—it’s called a mental health day, and you are completely entitled to one.  Now you’re a grown-up.  Welcome to the fold.”

And that’s when I realized how hard it is to listen to my own advice.  It hurts the ego to believe the world won’t stop turning because you missed a day of work.  It hurts the ego to admit that you need a day just for yourself.  It hurts the ego to realize that you can’t do it all on your own.  It hurts the ego to have to ask for help, even if the help is just a teary phone call.  It hurts the ego to admit that your body and brain are a big sloppy mess of bones and tubes that sometimes just don’t work the way they’re supposed to, and that’s NOT YOUR FAULT.  But guess what—the ego is a whiny baby, and it needs to grow a thicker skin, because doing absolutely nothing is, sometimes, one of the hardest things you can do.  Taking time to rest is one of the most grown-up things you can do.  Asking for help is one of the kindest things you can do.  Showing weakness is one of the strongest things you can do.

To quote Julia Cameron, “Treating yourself like a precious object will make you strong.”

Yes, wellness is Crossfit and walking and yoga and kombucha and green smoothies and vitamins.

And wellness is also knowing how to recognize when you’re not okay.  Wellness is knowing that sometimes the bear eats you, and maybe you just have to let it win for a day.  (And sometimes you need to actually go to a doctor and get some bloodwork done—it’s a fine line between “rest and fluids should fix you up right” and “JK you have strep”.)

Wellness is knowing that it’s okay to not be okay.  Some things are, in fact, out of your control.  Learn to recognize when you’re not okay, because it’s the only way you’ll ever learn to find your way back.


Image source:  https://me.me/i/im-fine-when-a-girl-says-im-fine-5997742

Green Smoothie (recipe)

Since my last post was all about eating your vegetables, what better way to celebrate than with a green smoothie?  Green smoothies are a great way to get some serious raw veggies in your diet, and it's easier on your digestive system than straight up raw veg.  You're kind of 'hacking the digestion' as a friend of mine described it.

peaches & blueberries

All you need is fruits, vegetables, water and a blender.

I like to use some frozen fruits, as I enjoy my smoothies year-round, and fresh peaches are hard to come by in February.  There's pretty much no wrong way to make a green smoothie, but this is my favorite super-simple combo:

Some frozen peaches and blueberries (About 1-2 cups total.  Peaches are my favorite base--sweet, but not as cloying as bananas.)







GREENS--I like baby spinach, kale, and swiss chard.  Sometimes in a pinch I'll use frozen kale and spinach, but the fresh baby stuff blends up real smooth.  I put in about 3 cups, give or take.

For me, the most vital ingredient is 1/4 of an avocado.  It gives the whole thing a little bit of slip and creaminess (you can also use some kind of milk, like coconut milk, but nothing beats the avocado for my taste.

The majestic avocado

Add about 2 cups of water, and blend!

ready for action!

Cheers!

26.2

Yep, it’s another post about running.  Full disclosure, the last one was just a primer for this one.  But it’s also about a cause, so please bear with me.

Last spring, when I was getting ready to complete my first open-water sprint triathlon, my only running distance goal was 5 kilometers, as the race ended in a 5K.  I remember telling my husband (who is a long-distance runner from his high school days), “I think a 5K is as far as I ever want to run.” 

And so, in May, we joined some friends at the Long Island Color Vibe 5K and jogged it together, playing in powdered paint, taking silly selfies, and sampling the frozen ice truck’s wares.

That day, when I got to the end of the run, I turned to the aforementioned husband and said “maybe a 10K. I feel like I could run that again.” (I think you see where we’re going here.)

So when my CrossFit coach urged the members of our gym to sign up for a local 10K, I saw my chance to give it a stab, and I started going longer distances on my training runs.

Up until this point, I wasn’t really ‘enjoying’ running, but I was determined to do it, because it was part of triathlon and some doctor once told me I shouldn’t (and therefore, I believed, I couldn’t) do it, and nothing makes me want to do something more than an ‘authority figure’ telling me not to. 

When I surpassed the 5-mile mark, I finally felt that thing that runners keep talking about feeling (and that for years I believed didn’t really exist), that zone of calm euphoria that comes from placing one foot in front of the other over and over and over again. 

I still love climbing and surfing and skiing and hiking, but there’s something about just strapping on your shoes and hitting the road all by yourself for an hour (or two or three) that is so accessibly blissful…it’s the ‘runner’s high’ and it’s real.  I remember the first time I felt it, and I thought to myself, “I’m gonna run a marathon!”  (pause) “Next year!”  (pause)  “Maybe!”

So, I did a 10K in September of 2017.  And then there was the half marathon in November (because doubling distances was now becoming a pattern).  Adam and I decided that this occasion was momentous enough to warrant a fundraiser, and in a pretty short time, we were able to raise about $600 for Disabled American Veterans in honor of our favorite Vietnam Vet, Mike Baritot.  

When I completed the Queens Half, I knew for sure I wanted to do a marathon the following year—it’s my white whale, the thing that PT told me I would need to do ‘a LOT of strength training’ to be able to accomplish.

When I didn’t get picked for the NYC Marathon lotto, I started thinking of alternatives (including looking at different marathons around the tri-state area)—a friend assured me that he could get me in to the NYC Marathon through some connections, and I considered this option, though I felt a little uncomfortable ‘sneaking’ my way in.  I also considered running for a charity team, though I was daunted by the amount of dollars I would be required to raise.

And then.  And then.  A really close friend and colleague of my husband, a vibrant and lovely young woman in her 30s, so full of life it’s almost hard to feel anything other than comatose by comparison, was diagnosed with breast cancer.   She’s been writing her own blog, chronicling her journey here:  https://sheisfiercecancerblog.wordpress.com/

She’s not the first friend or family member of mine to battle this ugly disease, but she is one of the youngest, and she had already lost her mother at a young age to the same disease. 

so much money to raise.

The announcement of her diagnosis was the moment when I knew what I wanted to do.  I wanted to run the NYC marathon and raise money for breast cancer research and screening. 

So nauseous.  So cramped.

I’m still daunted by the amount of dollars I need to raise, as I am daunted by the number of  miles I need to run, as I am daunted by the pressure I have put on my self by making this goal so public.I wake at night in terror from the decisions I have made.  I think of the hyponatremia I gave myself during the last race (by drinking too much water and not taking enough sodium) and the barfing I did after that race, and I wonder if I’ll be able to calibrate properly for double the distance.  

I think of my history of back problems and the recurring sciatica that troubles my right leg.   I think of my tendency toward patellar tendonitis, and my difficulties nourishing myself properly with food allergies.  I worry that the autoimmunity will get in the way; I’ll get too tired, or fall sick.  I think maybe I’ve made a horrible mistake.  There’s no way I can do this.

And then I think of her.  And I think of the others.  I think of the terror they face when they get called into the office after a routine mammogram.  I think of the shudder down the spine upon hearing the word ‘malignant’.  I think of the dread they feel when they prepare for the surgery to remove what they hope is all of the cancer.  I think of the daunting task of going to chemo “therapy” (torture, more like) every other week, of the weight and hair lost.  I think of the barfing and nutritional challenges, the physical pain and all the awful side effects that come from ridding one’s body of a deadly disease by using an ostensibly non-deadly poison.

I have a choice.  I could back out, give up, decide it’s not worth the trouble.  They cannot.  They have been handed their lot, and must suffer the consequences of cruel happenstance, and they must battle, or lose.

And so I have chosen to run. 

During every training run, I will think of them.  Every time I feel weak and tired, when my hamstrings are screaming and my organs are protesting, I will remember that I am making a choice to run, and my ability to do so is nothing short of a divine gift, one that not everybody has the luxury of experiencing. 

For too long, my friends and family have been hijacked by their bodies and drafted into a personal war against cancer against their wills.

This November, my husband and I are running the New York City Marathon with Team Think Pink Rocks to raise a combined total of $6,000 to fund Breast Cancer research and screening. 

Please consider helping with our cause—A little gift can go a very long way to helping all of us get a little closer to a cure.  To donate, simply click the link below:

https://www.crowdrise.com/o/en/campaign/think-pink-rocks-2018-tcs-nyc-marathon/adamdiannabaritot

"It's Because You Ran"

I’m not a runner.  I’ve never been a runner.  As a kid, I was the one who got picked last for every game in gym class (not only am I slow, but I’m the pits at throwing, catching, dribbling, kicking…basically I’m not good at sportsball).  I was the last one walking the final lap on the track during the mile run.  In high school and college, I did a little jogging for fitness, but when my knees started complaining (apparently, I’ve got a thing called ‘chrondomalacia of the patella’, which is fancy talk for ‘irritable kneecaps’) I decided that running was for chumps.

So I stuck with my bicycle.  I kept fit doing all the things that people who hate running do to keep fit.  And I was in better shape than your average couch potato, so that was good enough for me.

And then there was the herniated disc flare-up.  When I went to my chiropractor, his first question was “did you run?”  Me?  Run?  I thought back to the days leading up to this unspeakable pain, and I did recall how I was late for a rehearsal, so I ran a few blocks to make up time getting to the theatre.

“It’s because you ran,” he told me.  That’s what caused this pain.  It’s because I ran.  A few blocks of hustle to the theatre and now I can’t walk or sit or stand or sleep.  Because I ran.

For years, I believed him.  After my surgery, both my GP and my surgeon urged me to get moving as soon as possible, and to make fitness a priority in my life.  They cautioned me against any heavy weight lifting, at least for a while.  I was encouraged to do low-impact activities, like swimming and yoga.

So for a few years, I added new and fun ways to stay fit.  I started with climbing (slow, fun, natural traction).  

I swam, rode my bike (as long as you stay hunched over and loose, it’s pretty chill on the spine), tried aerial silks, and started hiking.  

As I got stronger and more confident, I added more adventurous activities, namely skiing and surfing.

When I visited my surgeon years later for a consultation to see if pregnancy would be dangerous to my back health (before we knew how messed up my fertility situation was) he asked me what kind of activities I was doing.  His eyes grew wide and he asked “do you ever fall down while doing these adventure sports?”

“All the time.”  I replied.  When he asked if it hurt to fall, I said “only the normal amount.”  He shrugged and said to me:  “Go on.  Do whatever you want.  No limits.” 

No limits.

Well, that’s intimidating.

We didn’t get pregnant anyway, so when a friend asked me if I might want to join him in a sprint triathlon, I decided that my old chiropractor was full of baloney and I was going to run, darn it.

I got myself a pair of $35 dollar running shoes and started running, working my way up to a 5k. 

Except that after a month, my knee started to hurt.  I kept running (it’ll get better on its own!).  The knee got worse.  I kept running.  The limping started to cause more problems—my other knee started to hurt, and now my back was throbbing.

I withdrew from the race and sought medical attention.  The Physical Therapist I worked with did a great job helping me recover—she mentioned that my quads were highly developed from cycling, but the rest of my leg muscles were less so, creating an imbalance which exacerbated my pre-existing knee issues, which then led to the back pain.

I asked her point-blank “is my body just not made for running?  Is this a dream I need to give up?”  She sighed and said “you can—you just need to address this muscle imbalance and be careful.”

“So, could I ever, say, run a marathon?” 

“Well,” she said, “you would need to do a LOT of strength training.”

Once I was established in Strong Island, I found the nearest CrossFit Location to my home—CrossFit 516 in Williston Park, Long Island. 

I am aware of how polarizing and controversial CrossFit is—I had read every horror story about injuries and rhabdo and the like, but I also know that there are horror stories about pretty much every activity (including and especially inactivity) and I decided I wanted to give it a try.  I was ready to lift big weights and get strong so that I could maybe ever run one day.

I’m not going to launch into a massive love letter to CF516, but let’s just say that joining this gym is pretty much one of the greatest life decisions I’ve ever made.

The cruel irony of the timing is that I joined right as the gym was starting a sprint cycle.  This is to say, the whole gym was pretty much just running.  No kettlebells, no weights, no bear crawls—running. 

Not only was I slow, I was terrified.  Even though this is exactly the sport I was determined to conquer, it was the one I was most afraid of, and I wasn’t expecting to get right into it right away. 

I dissolved into tears on the walk back from a ‘sprint,’ and my coach pulled me aside. I told him about the herniated disc, the surgery, the pain, the fear, and that one time a doctor told me that my pain was “because you ran”. 

He hugged me (sweatily) and said “thank you for telling me.”  He then told me that he also has herniated discs. This is a guy who ran a 100 mile race last April.

I’ve only cried twice at CrossFit, and both times it was because of the kindness I was shown by the coaches. Kindness always gets me in the feels.

Soon enough, we moved on to a new cycle, and I was swinging kettlebells and picking up weights and putting them down. 

Then one day, the workout on the board was “run a 5K”.  There was a hand-drawn map on the board of a 5K loop around the neighborhood.

I was for sure the last person in the gym to finish, but I ran every single step.  That was my first time ever running 3.1 miles nonstop, no walking.  That’s when I knew I could run.  I could really run now (albeit slowly).

So here I am (with my husband) at the ColorVibe 5K.

And here I am finishing the Panatella Sprint Triathlon 5K.

And here I am finishing the Tobay Sprint Triathlon 5K.

And here I am at the Cow Harbor 10K.

And here I am at the Queens Half Marathon.

See that big, dumb smile on my face?

It’s because I ran.

image sources:
http://jakelikesonions.com/post/166538472359/maybe-hes-running-from-the-truth
http://www.uopc.org/sports-medicine/chondromalacia-patellae/
http://crossfit516.com/