Tomorrow I’m running the Colfax half marathon.

This, in itself, isn’t my most intense accomplishment or goal. I’ve run two half marathons in my life. Yet, this one feels like the first. My first half was 6 years ago, January 21, 2013, The Phoenix Rock n Roll half marathon. This also happened to be the last time I ever saw my dad. He died less than four months later on May 6.

Three years later I ran my second half on April 10, 2016, the Raleigh Rock n Roll half marathon. Nine days later my brother died. Looking back, that weekend of yoga and running and other festivities felt like the last truly normal and happy weekend for a long time. I look at pictures, remembering how great I felt, how proud I was of my accomplishments, how I felt on top of the world in my last week of grad school. It feels naive to remember how hopeful and happy I was about the present and the future.

Less than three years later, in December 2018, my partner proposed the idea of another race and we began to train. I didn’t even realize the significance of my past races at first. However, this time felt different. I struggled to connect with my body. Training felt so difficult as I progressed in mileage, but seemed to hit a mental barrier. Processing this in therapy, she asked about the possibility of my body recognizing the significance of running, that my running past has been connected to the worst moments of my life. I shrugged it away at first, believing that my body wouldn’t betray me in this way. Because that’s what it felt like, a betrayal. This body that I take care of and feed and exercise would not keep me from completing a task I’ve done before. It wouldn’t hold me back when I worked so hard to treat it right. Would it?

The past 4 and a half months I’ve tried to fight against my body, this container that isn’t just skin and bone and blood and organs. This container that also holds love and kindness and fear and grief. I wanted my body to “work,” to behave, to listen to me. I fought against the notion that something besides muscles and training and spreadsheets and nutrition and water intake could be at play. I wanted to go through the motions of training without digging deeper into the mental work, which any runner knows is a part of  good training plan. My body isn’t separate from my mind, but thinking so can make things feel so much easier. But, of course, my body wouldn’t let me hold on to that separation. Training has been hard. Most of my runs were filled with intense cramping. There were plenty of times I stopped to sit on the side of the road and cry. I had a small panic attack for the first time in my life. I felt broken. I spent so many hours questioning my body, changing my diet, increasing my water intake. And after my last run before the race I reach the question: what if I just surrendered and accepted what I was feeling? What if I just find some peace within myself?

Tomorrow is my third half marathon. And today I’m trying to be kind to myself. I’m trying to allow myself space to feel and grieve and breathe and use curiosity instead of scrutiny. I don’t know exactly what I need or what is going on inside me. And I know that I can handle it, regardless of tomorrow’s outcome. I’m reminding myself that in the end it isn’t about whether I PR, it’s about finding that kindness and compassion for myself and feeling proud of my accomplishments, even with the barriers along the way. Tomorrow I’ll run 13.1 miles and then I’ll keep on living.