I have a love hate relationship with running.
I love that running provides me clarity. It allots me an opportunity to reflect on my day, clear my mind, and relieve some of my stress. I love seeing how each run makes me stronger and the satisfaction that each run seems to bring me. When I’m running it’s my time…It’s a short break from my responsibilities and urges me to challenge myself.
But lately, running and I haven’t been seeing eye to eye. The tread mill is against me. My running shoes have been busy protesting (at least that’s what I assume after they’ve come untied for the FIFTH time after I’ve hit my stride). My calf muscles are strained so tight my left leg begins going numb. And before I know it, I’ve jumped on to the side of the treadmill and my self doubt has worked itself into my brain.
I’ve psyched myself out and slowed to a walk. And then I get mad at myself. Mad that I’ve let myself get to this point. Mad that I’ve let my extremely comfortable couch overtake my life and turn me into the ultimate couch potato. Mad that I’ve lost the miles I used to run so easily, and in a MUCH quicker time. Mad that I get mad at myself…there’s no shame in walking…in starting fresh. I have until September to prove to myself that I can do it again…that running 13.1 miles is possible. I guess I’ll start fresh tomorrow.