There are a few days that incite happiness for baseball fans. For some, it’s opening day. For others, it’s truck day or when pitchers and catchers report to spring training. This is my favorite week of baseball for two reasons: the Home-Run Derby and the MLB Draft.
To most, the MLB Draft is not newsworthy. For people who closely follow collegiate baseball, it’s huge! Every year, players we’ve watched grow during their college years get the call that will change their lives. Last year, Kolton Ledbetter, who coached Michael during camp sessions at the Newport Gulls, was drafted by the Rays. This week, the Oriels drafted Ethan Anderson, a player we watched during his first year of college. Collegiate players have changed Michael’s view of baseball. He interacts with and watches them intently, observing how they interact with each other and handle errors- their own and their teammates. He watches them eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the dugout, cheers for them as they play in holey baseball pants, and talks to them about their experiences, taking in any advice they offer him applicable to his journey. He brings them packages of cookies so they have treats before the game. Watching players we’ve known get the call that will change their lives forever is beyond exciting. The draft represents the opportunity to make your wildest dreams come true. It’s the reward for the years of practice, dedication, and sacrifice.
Honestly, the All-Star Game doesn’t matter to me. I’ll watch it, but I don’t follow it closely. For me, the magic happens the night before the All-Star Game in the Home Run Derby. Watching the Home Run Derby while the draft is still in progress makes it even better. These players swinging for the rafters were, not too long ago, players getting the call explaining they had the opportunity to achieve their wildest dreams. Being selected for the home run derby signifies reaching the highest performance level of the few people provided the opportunity to play in the MLB.
As much as I enjoy the first spring training games and the playoffs, this is my favorite week of the baseball season. I love hearing news of collegiate players earning an opportunity to make it to the show and watching our favorite MLB players show the height of their talents. This week represents everything we try to teach Michael about life: work hard, learn from mistakes, and strive to improve.
This surgery was much easier than my Achilles. It was not nearly as painful. I had one rough day, but that was it.
However, this surgery, like the injury itself, delays the pain from too much movement until after the fact. I joked with my PT that it was like tequila, letting you know you’ve done too many hours later. I pay for it later if I move too much and jostle my foot in my cast.
Michael is a huge help. The surgery was on a Friday. On Tuesday, after helping with laundry, cooking, and vacuuming, Michael commented, “Mom does a lot.” He asks if I need help several times each day. I hate asking for help, but I’m getting better at it.
My kid is the most understanding teenager I’ve ever met. He didn’t complain when we canceled our vacation and gave up tickets to two new MLB stadiums and Green Day tickets. The kid is remarkably kind.
The timing of my last surgery was much easier for Michael. It was performed a week and a half before he went back to school. This time, surgery occurred the day after he got out for the summer. He’s stuck home with me.
Thank goodness I can drive this time.
The location of this surgery is different. The incision is on the outside of my foot. When it gets warm, which it has been, my foot sweats. When sweat hits the incision, it’s excruciating.
Mike has been a fucking rock star. He works an hour away from home. After working all day, he’s been taking Michael to the fields to practice baseball. Today, he got to work before 6:30 to leave early and take Michael to practice.
Getting outside each day is huge for my mental health.
Getting dressed in real clothes is also huge for my mental health.
There’s a lot of screen time, but I’m consciously staying on Apple News as much as possible rather than scrolling social media. I still manage to go days without opening Instagram.
Telling as few people as possible has been better for my mental health. I’m not concerned about who is or isn’t checking in. The people I know are in my closest circle, and they’re checking on me perfectly. I posted a story about my cast foot at the beach and deleted it twenty minutes later. I like being in my recovery bubble.
Kindles and Libby have made it overwhelming to select which book to read next.
We have almost every streaming service, but the TV stays on TBS most of the time. It’s easier than trying to pick out movies we will both want to watch. (While recovering from Achilles surgery, I watched every cheesy Rom-Com on Netflix.)
My backyard is beautiful. I’m so thankful that the previous owner created flowerbeds that we just need to maintain. And I’m sorry for anything we accidentally killed trying to figure out which plants were weeds and which were supposed to be there.
There’s a bone spur on the back of my left foot, almost as big as the one removed from my right (after it dug into and tore my Achilles). I know others have much worse problems, but I don’t want to do this a third time.
Despite my best efforts, I’ve gained five pounds since surgery. Add that to the five I’ve gained since my injury, and I’ve got my work ahead of me when I can start moving. I’m aware that the extra weight puts more stress on my body.
The AeroGarden I found at Savers for $6 last year has given me so much entertainment. I give poor Mike daily updates on my tomato babies. He’s the best and humors me with matched excitement.
I want to live my dog’s life. Banjo has it made and is always happy.
At this point, I’ve become an emotional houseplant; I move into and out of the sun and drink plenty of water.
Putting myself out there has always been challenging for me. I hate unfamiliar social situations- and familiar ones as well. I constantly worry that I talk too much and hog the conversation or don’t talk enough and seem disinterested or snobby. I fear I will say the wrong thing, leading to me analyzing everything I said and every facial expression shared by everyone else in the group.
Realizing this anxiety should make me want to push myself to overcome this fear, but the exact opposite occurs. Over the years, I’ve retreated more than ever before. I keep a Keurig and a toaster in my classroom, so I never have to leave for lunch. I do not attempt to make plans with people. When the opportunity to make plans and be social arises, I usually back out at the last minute. I don’t think my social anxiety has always been this fierce. Covid didn’t help. Changes in social groups didn’t help. And here I am, focusing copiously on avoiding opportunities to make new friends.
Three years ago, friends were discussing books at a neighbor’s annual New Year’s Eve party. The idea for a book club was formed. I ordered and read the first books. When it was time for the meeting, I completely flaked out. What if I talked too much and came across as an overbearing know-it-all? What if I didn’t speak enough and seemed snobbish or disinterested? I continued to read the books, then chicken out when it was time to attend the meetings. I read Where the Crawdad Sings and other books agreed upon for each future meeting. But I never attended a single session.
Two years ago, an old friend from elementary school posted on Facebook that she was interested in starting a book club. We lost touch but go around the same fitness communities, and our boys are now attending the same middle school. It was an excellent way to meet people doing something I enjoy; I usually read a book a week- sometimes more. After mentioning that I was interested, she added me to a Book Club Facebook Group.
I started with the best intentions; I read every book, thinking of talking points as I read, reading books that generally would not get into my “Want to Read” pile, including the historical novel Lilac Girls. I noted the meetings and considered what I might want to bring to each event.
This is what social anxiety looks like. It’s a constant struggle to make myself show up to any sort of social event. Last month, I volunteered at the Boston Marathon. I didn’t sleep the night before, worrying about the fellow volunteers, familiar and unfamiliar with whom I would need to interact. What would my first impressions look like? Would I be awkward? Would I talk too much? Too little? What if I said something weird? I drove to the dropoff with a knot in my stomach. I was more than happy to spend the majority of the day filling thousands of cups of water, a job that, while very important, kept me away from the bulk of the action. I am happy I volunteered and look forward to signing up again next year, but I am also fully aware that doing so requires as much mental exertion as it does physical.
Now, I need to excuse myself so I can finish reading Lessons in Chemistry for the next meeting.
If I can be honest, I am fully aware of my need to only post positively on social media. I have never mentioned the death of a loved one, accidents, or illnesses. Call me old-fashioned, but I believe in delivering such news person to person. That being said, I am always thankful when others post about the passing of people close to them so I can attend arrangements and pay my respects. So this is a weird double standard I’ve created for myself.
Anyway, I’ve been trying to be positive and keep things in perspective, but it is hard. I’ve spent five weeks sitting on my butt, watching documentaries, mind-numbing movies, rewatching my favorite TV series, and reading books. I’ve cleaned the photos from my phone and spent an embarrassing amount of time on my phone. I’ve attempted upper body exercises while watching reruns.
Here are my biggest takeaways:
We will be back!
I need to get dressed each day, which was challenging initially, but I feel better when I do so.
I need to make myself go outside, which is also challenging, but my mental health benefits from sitting outside rather than on the couch in the living room. I ordered an outdoor swing, which Mike put together last weekend, and make myself get out there, even when I think I’m content on the couch watching Friends reruns (again).
People who check in on me are excellent. I fall into a funk, but people reach out, which makes my day.
When I fall into my funks, I genuinely fear that I have forgotten how to be social. I also fear that people have completely forgotten about me. When much of your social interactions involve physical activity, getting injured just as we returned to normal after Covid fosters more loneliness. While I fear that I will never return to the level of activity from which I was once capable, my mind also creates a fear that I will never return to the social interactions that were crucial to achieving milestones pre-injury. (Does that make any sense? TLDR: I’m afraid that my running and NP friends have forgotten me or will not at all care when I can resume activities.)
As the weeks go by, I need to let go of things that used to seem important. Mike and Liam have been amazing. But since everything falls on them, not everything gets done. And that is okay, even if the entertainment stand is covered in dust.
Progress is progress. In the past five weeks, I’ve gone through two casts and a boot. Progress is happening, and it is mine to observe. Seemingly simple tasks, such as taking a shower or going upstairs, are now victories. I need to recognize and celebrate them.
Diet is so important to health. I’d been eating as healthily as I can but miscalculated how many calories sedentary me required by 200 a day, resulting in even more weight gain. I’m up twenty-five pounds from my marathon weight and look forward to being active again and getting rid of the extra weight, which will further aid recovery.
In the past five weeks, I’ve seen a lot of progress, even if it comes in the form of moving my foot side to side. There will be a lot more progress in the next few weeks and months!
This weekend, I ran the Newport Half Marathon. A few days before the race, my friend Kerri sent me a text saying that she was thinking about running the half. I sent her this clip from How I Met Your Mother in which Barney decides to run the NYC Marathon. My favorite line is when he says, “You don’t train for a marathon, you just do it.” She was convinced and decided to register hours before the deadline.
I was not well prepared and dropped the ball on a few last-minute needs, such as drinking a lot of water the night before and getting to bed early. Mike ordered tickets to see Christina Aguilera the night before the race. Because he had to work the following morning, we decided to only stay for a few songs. Even though we left early, we still didn’t get home until almost eleven. I had to be out of the house by 5:15 the following morning. The show was amazing! I’m sorry that we couldn’t stay for the entire set.
In case you’ve ever wondered what Easton’s Beach looks like before sunrise.
The next morning, I woke up an was out the door on time. Liam woke up with me to wish me good luck. He asked if I was excited to run thirteen miles. When I said I was more excited for when it was it was over. “Why do you pay money to do something that sometimes sucks?”
“To prove myself that I can.”
That’s why this race represented: proving I can set and achieve a goal.
I rode the shuttles to the starting line and found my friends a few minutes later. We chatted for a bit and lined up for the race. The first few miles went by pretty easily. The scenery was beautiful as we ran around the island. About mile five, my left leg started to hurt. When Mike and I lived in the apartment, I broke my foot. It usually aches a little bit on the first cool, damp day of the season. Race day was the day it decided to ache. I tried to avoid it by changing how I landed; that caused other parts of my leg and foot to ache. Around mile six, I accidentally paused my apple watch, making it difficult for me to track distance and pace for the rest of the race. By mile ten, I told my friend to go ahead. I texted Mike and tried to keep my mind off the pain. As I reached Bellevue Ave’s Forty Steps, I was in tears. I had to catch myself to avoid going from simply hyperventilating to full-on panic attack. I couldn’t breathe. Every step ached. Mike asked me if there was a first aid station or someplace to stop. I knew the injury was simply an old one showing its face and there was nothing they could do to help me. Most importantly, I didn’t work this hard to only make it to mile ten. I relied on all of my “this run sucks” tricks. I listened to my favorite music. I reduced my interval timer. I pulled up Pokemon Go on my phone to divert my attention. I felt weak and alone. I questioned why I thought I could do this.
I sobbed for almost a half mile, then had an epiphany: I was going to finish this race. I set a goal to complete two half-marathons in 2018 and didn’t work this hard to quit at mile ten.
I finished at 2:55:35, ten minutes slower than my first half but still under my original three-hour goal.
I celebrated with my friends. We posted pictures on Facebook, sharing Kerri’s last-minute decision to run the race.
Post race Mac & Cheese!
Still smiling after the race (and I had no idea that my headband had moved)
Before the race, I ordered two sneaker tags for Kristin and me to celebrate our achievement. I gave the two of them to my friends and placed an order for one for myself. The Etsy shop owner sent me another one at no charge. I love that races bring out the best in people.
Running has taught me that I can do anything I set my mind to.
Running has provided an amazing set of friends. I am doubly blessed to have an amazing group of yoga buddies and running buddies.
Running provides an excellent example for Liam. He sees me struggle and work hard. He runs with me and together we celebrate his victories. He’s set a goal of running a ten-minute mile.
I’m not sure what the future holds when it comes to long-term running goals. I sometimes considered putting my name in the lottery for the New York City Marathon. However, when I think about how exhausted I was at the end of this half, the thought of that being the halfway point and doing another thirteen miles seems impossible. That being said, I may let fate decide if I am meant to run a full marathon.
During my first round of BRG, my goal was to run the Gaspee Days 5k in under forty minutes. I managed to finish in 39:11, keeping a 12:39 pace. Less than a year later, I completed my first half marathon in 244:59, which averaged to a 12:36 pace. I was beyond proud of this. That same pace I struggled to maintain for 3.1 miles was kept for another ten miles.
This summer’s plan was to train for a second half. It did not go as planned. It was a hotter than usual summer. I hurt my knee, putting a damper on the best intentions. When I did go out for my long runs, my pace was slower than before I began running. During last week’s 11.3 mile run, my pace was 14:59. Fear of being unable to complete the long runs prevented me from pushing myself. I struggled to determine whether this slip was physical, mental, or both.
With one week to go until the half, I know I will finish. I know I will not PR, but I know I will be able to complete the race. Today was the Ocean Road 10k, which was perfectly timed for my tapering before the Newport Half. Set on Ocean Road in Narragansett, the race provides beautiful views!
Because even my shorter runs have been slow, I went into today with low expectations. It was a beautiful morning surrounding my some of my favorite people in the world. We have different strategies for tackling races; mine involves intervals.
My realistic goal was to complete the 10k in under an hour and a half- my times have been so slow that I would have been happy to keep a thirteen-minute-mile pace. Not only did I finish the race in an hour and eighteen minutes, I almost managed negative splits! (Mile four had some hills that slowed me down.)
The views were amazing. The crowd was positive and inspiring. I had some of my favorite people cheering for each other. It is hard to believe that I have only been a part of this running community for less than two years; I am beyond grateful to the people who support me, encourage me, and inspire me. They have convinced me that I can conquer goals that I never would have considered for myself. I love surrounding myself with people who celebrate the successes of others. I cannot wait to see how what the years ahead of us hold!
This one hits close to home. This past month has provided countless opportunities for reflection and perspective. Being asked to reflect upon what stands in your way is especially fitting this week.
Self-doubt and Worry I have it. I continuously question my abilities. Am I a good parent? Am I a good teacher? Am I a good wife? Am I good enough friend? Do I have any business writing about running? Am I spending enough time playing with Liam? Am I hovering? Do I check in my friends often enough? While doing all of these things, how do I keep my own head above water? Running and weight-lifting have taught me that I am stronger than I think, but I am always doubting myself.
Not Asking for Help Mike is a saint when it comes to this. Somehow, it has come into my mind that being a good wife means taking care of as much as I possibly can. I get home before he does and get laundry, dishes, lunches, cleaning, and dinner taken care of before he gets home. By the time he gets home, I’m exhausted. Mike tells me to leave stuff for him to do, yet every day, I feel the need to take care of it myself. I take care of holidays, birthdays, and events without asking for help, then get overtired and grumpy. It’s a vicious cycle, one in which Mike does a fantastic job of tolerating from me. I fight the same overwhelming meltdown several times a year, and Mike gets me through each time.
Social Anxiety Maybe I hide this. Maybe I don’t. I fear silence in small talk and talk too much then I worry that I dominated said conversation. I try to make a point of asking more questions while talking. Then I get together with a group and, for fear of dominating the conversation, don’t say much. On those rides home, I worry that people thought I was disinterested and won’t invite me in the future. I avoid certain social situations in which I know there will be a lot of small talk for fear I will talk too much or too little. I replay conversations in my mind, searching for spots where I may have messed up.
Usually, I ask Liam the same questions in the weekly prompt. It makes for interesting conversation while walking Banjo. This week’s topic is not one I want to ask Liam to reflect upon. We sometimes say he is his own worst enemy. He gets worked up about problems and spends more time worrying about them than it would take to fix them. He will spend a half an hour arguing that he doesn’t want to do math homework or clean his room, only to admit defeat and get the task done in less than ten minutes. This is part of being a kid. Overall, Liam is a thoughtful, intuitive kid. He’s is going to get himself right where he needs to be.
This is a common encouraging phrase heard in the workout circuit. Yes, it is true when it comes to working out. I can now do things I never thought I’d be able to do like run fast(ish) miles and complete half-marathons. But it also applies the regular life.
This week marked the eighth anniversary of my mom’s passing. I never really know what to do on that day. The first year, we took the day off and went to the area where her ashes are spread. We went to get ice cream at her favorite ice cream parlor. Now, I am not allowed to take personal days during the last two weeks of school and her favorite ice cream parlor is closed. I wanted to take Liam, Mike, and Banjo up the street to our local place, enjoy the company of my favorite boys, and have a sweet treat. The universe had other plans.
My friend’s dad passed away this week. The wake was scheduled on the anniversary of my mom’s passing. I selfishly wanted to get there at the beginning, pay my respects, and take care of my own mourning. Liam had other plans. He did not want to go with me, having attended my cousin’s services last week. I was not going to push it. He was fantastic last week and two wakes in two weeks is a lot for anyone, nevermind an eight-year-old.
I tried not to cry while I waited in the receiving line. This is not about you, I told myself, be strong for your friend.
The line provided time to think about what to say. I am terrible during difficult times; everything that comes out of my mouth is cliche. I hugged her. “I am so sorry this is happening,” I began. I asked how her mom and her kids were doing. I asked how she was doing. She admitted she was being strong for everyone. “Take care of yourself. I didn’t cry until five days after my mom died. It’s going to hit you at the weirdest, silliest times, and that is okay. I’m going to check in on you and help you any way I can.”
And that was it, a whole conversation while embraced in a hug. I managed to hold my own tears. I managed to not think about the conversations I wish I could have, the things I wish my mother could have taught me. I thought of what I wished someone had said to me when my pain was fresh and I was adjusting to my new normal.
Every year, I look for signs from my mom. Sometimes, she shows up in a dream. My son starts singing one of her favorites songs, that he has no business knowing, such as the words to Lionel Richie’s classic “All Night Long.” I see a rainbow. My mom always took care of others. This year, she took the focus off of my own self-pity and provided the opportunity to take care of someone else. Maybe I am making the events fit into the idea I need, but I’ll take it.
It’s hard to believe that we have only had Banjo in our lives for four months. He settled in and life has never been the same. He is the happiest dog I’ve ever met, complete with enough personality for many dogs! I know that he struggled for a while before being rescued from a road in Lousiana. He was twenty pounds lighter, a third of his current body weight. We often wonder what his life was like or even what his name used to be. I’ve learned a lot from this little pup.
Focus on the positive. We often wonder what happened to this happy-go-lucky pup, what made someone dump a dog they had obviously put a lot of work into. We had hoped that he just ran off or got lost, but an interaction with an acquaintance with a specific look made it clear that Banjo had some interactions with humans that were less than positive. In spite of that, Banjo has more love to offer than any dog I’ve ever met.
Demand love. During our walks with Outtie, he would try to catch attention at the bus stop of high school students we pass each morning. None of them seemed interested in giving Outtie pats. Banjo demands it, walking to each teenager and stopping until they acknowledge him. He doesn’t jump or step into personal space; he just simply stands next to each person for a moment, giving them an opportunity to give him love. After several months, each student now smiles, says hi to him, and gives him a few pats while he wags his tail and smiles back. Life is too short not to find places to give and take love.
Show people you love them. Banjo is a love bug. He nuzzles, stays next to you, and smiles all the time. It is evident he is overjoyed to be surrounded by people who love him and is always more than willing to show his affection and appreciation.
Be active. We have learned that it is pretty much impossible to tire this dog. He will chase the ball every time you throw it, even if it means making himself sore the next day. We learned that we have to be the ones to stop playing because he will play as much as we let him. He loves running with me and going to walks. Banjo is a dog who needs daily activity.
Don’t let your past dictate your future. It is clear that Banjo went through some difficult times. You’de never know it. He is the gentlest, silliest, kindest dog you’ll ever meet. He doesn’t let bad past experiences ruin his future hopes of happiness. Since we just took Liam to see The Lion King on Broadway last month, I’m reminded of Timon’s advice, “You’ve got to put your past behind you.”
You’re never too busy to give love. Banjo will be in the middle playing or relaxing. If he sees someone walk into the room or yard, he stops what he’s doing, walks over, and offers love. It’s a nice reminder that we, too, are never to busy to be nice.
I don’t even know where to begin when talking about this weekend!
Liam made his first communion Saturday morning. He did such a great job! I am beyond blessed that he is a part of such a fantastic school community. I love his school and the fellow families who attend. After the church service, we went back to our house for a cookout. It was perfect: low-key and casual. Liam was thankful for his day!
I went to bed early Saturday night because the half began at 7:30. I planned to be out of the house by 6. Liam woke up with me at 5:15. We tried to be as quiet as possible. Because he wasn’t sure if he would wake up with me, he left me a note for the morning with the bagels Mike picked up from Panera.
I was trying my best to be organized, but nerves were starting to kick in. In being hopelessly proactive, I applied Tiger Balm to my calves as I got dressed, only to panic when realizing I had not yet put in my contact lenses. Somehow, I managed to put in my toric lenses into my puffy, allergy-hating eyes one handed! My goal of getting out the door by 6 was only off by six minutes.
One the ride down to the race, I decided to listen to Hamilton, my go-to “Let’s do this!” music. The Spotify account was set to the Kitchen Echo. Luckily, people slept through the music blasting through the kitchen speakers for four seconds while I wondered why it wasn’t playing in my car.
The atmosphere before the race was calm and cheerful. We chatted and laughed until it was time to gather by the starting line. The gentleman who coordinates the races explained a few things about the race and the course, beginning with, “I don’t give a sh*t who comes in first as long as everyone finishes.” His cell phone number was on every sign; if you couldn’t finish, he informed us to call for help. He would come get us and provide free admission to any future race.
We started off together, separating by the time we made the first turn. My friend Kerri and I stayed together. We were hauling! My goal was to finish the race in three hours, requiring a 13:42 pace. Kerri assured me I could do that. My first mile was 11:36! I became scared of burning out. We slowed down, clocking our second mile at 12:46.
Our third mile was back in the 11’s.
“Should we slow down?”
“We’re good. Our goal is 2:45. You can do this. You are stronger than you think you are.”
So, three miles in, my goal changed!
The course was beautiful. We ran to Charlestown Beach and back through country roads. Kerri and I stayed together for the first ten miles, then she went ahead. At the next mile, I encountered a girl I “knew” from a Facebook running group. On the way out in the race, I stopped and hugged her, then let my social anxiety kick in, worrying that she thought the worst of the crazy, sweaty random person who hugged her. The next time I checked my phone, I had a friend request from her. I saw her again just after Mile 10. She took pictures and shared them with me, including one of my favorites of Kerri and I high-fiving when we reached double digits!
Just after Mile 12, I hated everything! I was done running, my shoulder was sore, I was gross and sweaty and wanted to be done. As I turned the corner, I saw two of my Rhode Runner buddies! I have never been happier to see anyone! Ignoring how sweaty I was, I left into each of their arms and expressed my love for them both! I began to cry as I ran up that final hill, overwhelmed by the support and the fact that I was actually about to complete this huge accomplishment. Hold it together, I told myself, you can’t run if you’re sobbing.
After that encounter, I was recharged and ready to finish this race, pushing myself through the last bit. When I turned the corner towards the finish line, my friends cheered me. I was at 2:44, I still had a chance to reach my goal! And I did, finishing in 2:44:59!
I don’t even care if this picture is flattering. It was taken immediately after finishing the race! I was ecstatic!
I was deliriously happy! My friends surrounded me and cheered for me. Then I realized the problem with finishing fifteen minutes faster than I planned: Mike and Liam were not yet there. I had told them to get there for 10:30; I finished at 10:15. They arrived a few minutes after I finished.
My friends are amazing! In this entire process of becoming a runner, they are my favorite takeaway! They make terrible runs tolerable and push me. They are supportive and silly. We gathered and ran in with the rest of our group. We stayed for over an hour after the end of the race, eating and celebrating.
Many times, I consider running a solo sport. Because of my schedule, the majority of my training was done by myself. However, races are what bring everyone together. We made friends with others in the parking lot before the race and at the finish line. People we have never before met cheered for and supported us.
I’m still riding the high that comes from reaching a goal. My next half is in October, allowing a few weeks to regroup and decide the next goal. I’d like to work on speed; I think I doubt myself and fear burning out at the end when I need energy the most. It’d be great to take a minute off of my 5K time.
For now, I need to thank my husband and son for supporting me. For screwing up weekends by filling them with long training sessions. I need to thank my running friends, now simply known as my friends, who pushed me out of my comfort, convincing me to accomplish what had previously seemed impossible! I don’t think you will ever understand how much I appreciate your support and friendship!
World's Okayest Runner 