One foot in front of the other

For five years, I lived near the southernmost running loop in Central Park. And on occasion, I’d attempt to join the runners keeping pace around the bend, flowing steady like a current. I always started too fast, eager to keep up with them. But after huffing uphill on the East Side and sprinting indulgently downhill on the West Side, I felt justified in conceding after just one loop. Less than two miles. Maybe my husband was getting off the subway, and we could meet for a drink instead.

On other occasions, I’d push too hard. Once I was so upset after work that I ran four miles at the Equinox on Wall Street and then fainted on the subway the next morning. After the J.P. Morgan Corporate Challenge, I couldn’t sit for a week.

The only constant in my relationship with running was that there was none. I was inconsistent and unreliable, a defector from my Nike Run app, which didn’t even recognize me. Of course, I know now, it wasn’t just about running. This was how I treated most commitments to myself. Go hard, get hurt, burn out. Then shy away, ignore, blame everyone else.

I know the exact day I put an end to this cycle. Six weeks after my second daughter was born, I received medical clearance to exercise again. Following a complicated and difficult year for my health and career, I reintroduced myself to my Peloton and took it ten minutes at a time. Soon ten turned to 20 turned to 30, like incremental building blocks putting my confidence back together. My body and mind had betrayed me in different ways for more than a decade, but I was starting to believe they would listen again. At least if I believed, then it was still possible.

In March 2020, as lockdown loomed, I was almost a year into my new routines but had yet to run. Most memories from The Week When Everything Changed remain so vivid, and like all else, I remember my first run back. The breeze was strong, but the sun made it comfortable. In an oversized sherpa vest better suited for brunch, I pushed through two mundane miles around the track at our local middle school, my left knee creaking in pain. My office had just shut down, and as I stumbled home, I begged my friend to stop commuting.

Four days later, school closed. We knew nothing except that protecting ourselves was worth dramatically altering our lives for. Binging on information and shuttling it through text message, we became supply hoarders and armchair epidemiologists overnight. We were useful and infuriating. Helpful and offensive. We were “all in this together,” we said, but I’ll be the first to tell you I didn’t feel that way.

I have a congenital heart defect I learned of several years ago. Ironically, I only found out because I was investigating a wholly unrelated flare of an autoimmune problem that has plagued me since college. Anyone’s attempt to minimize the impact of the virus on “healthy people like us” felt like a direct attack on the silent pain I suffered far too often. Because the news I was reading – about chronic heart issues and immune systems attacking themselves – felt like a Tuesday to me. The news was confirming it could be me.

I can access those feelings still. Like chronic pain, even mentioning the fear forces me to run a diagnostics check in mind: You are okay, today.

But two Aprils ago, I was not okay. I was terrified with no way to process. The walls closed in so fast. Even my beloved Peloton could not provide a full reprieve with my children always banging on the door or rolling at my feet. I was smothering my own tears, because there was no time to cry. Only time to work, cook, care, scroll, and hope, two weeks at a time.

Until I went outside and started to run. I began with no agenda – nowhere to be but not at home. I was running away from home like a misunderstood teenager. At first, it was just a mile or two. But then, it was three, four, five, six. I ran until I didn’t recognize the houses anymore.

In doing this, my concept of what “hurt” was starting to change. I was physically getting better, challenging my perception of what I could and could not do. How I felt and did not feel. Pandemic anxiety had settled in my neck, my legs, my stomach that never wanted me to eat anymore, but running required me to stretch and to eat. This was a lung disease – I wanted to use my lungs. To breathe deeply and be grateful for it. My runs were not goal-based by time or miles but by feeling. I wanted to physically relieve my brain by taking advantage of my privilege to move, by reminding myself I was on this earth, in this body, and nothing was going to take that away.    

Running became a form of meditation. I daydreamed of a different time and imagined myself somewhere else. In these dreams, I was not away from my family, but all of us were somewhere else. We were in a different dimension with ordinary days. We had park dates and trips to the beach and hugs from people we loved. These thoughts were my hopes.

Even on days when I couldn’t think straight or had little hope at all, I’d work through it on the road.

Back when everyone displayed support signs outside of their homes, one neighbor’s stuck with me. They draped a giant rainbow flag from an upstairs window that read, PACE. Because I have zero understanding of world history, I believed for some time this was not the Italian word for “PEACE” but the English word for the continuous speed at which you run. Pace.

In my defense, finding a pace was all I could think about. Not just a stride, but how could we pace ourselves through the mess we were living in? Moving too aggressively through the obligations on our shoulders risked injury. Moving too slowly felt like giving up. Yet, somewhere in between lied a methodical medium. We could look right in front of us – not ahead, not down. Put one foot in front of the other, again and again and again.

One mile, one challenge, one day at a time. I welcomed pace into my life this way. People have drawn the analogy between the pandemic and a marathon before, and it’s true, but this is much larger than surviving a lockdown. You don’t become stronger, healthier, wiser, or better at anything by gassing out. Change happens in increments. Magic happens when you bring it all together.

Last month, I stood at the starting line of my first five-mile race, surrounded by people who have been doing this much longer than me. To my utter shock, my headphones froze. The crowd diffused forward; the race had started. I panicked but moved. One foot in front of the other, again and again and again. I crossed the finish line after 48 minutes and 36 seconds with my own thoughts. And I realized that in the face of a sudden challenge, I didn’t keep my pace. I beat it.

---

The little things

This is a perfect moment to honor my helix piercing, which is one year old this week (and took most of 2021 to heal). For subscribers who may not know, Our Tiny Rebellions was inspired by this very decision to pierce my helix after two decades of wanting to. I’m pleased to report that finally, my earrings have arrived, honey. With three holes in each, I mix and match my favorite hoops, studs, and crawlers from jewelers including The Last Line, London Jewelers, and Zoe Lev. Who needs makeup or showers anymore?

(BTW, sorry for this silly pic. It’s not easy to capture your own ear.)

---

Also

Please tell me you saw Jonah Hill and Sarah Brady in these matching suits. I am very much open to discussion about this. HMU, averagejoelle3@gmail.com.