Nike Women's Marathon

Growing up in Texas, Kerrie Jo is the perfect name for a little girl.  Or it might have been, except I was born a tomboy and despised anything girly.  I spent a lot of time in trouble for sneaking outside when I was supposed to be inside doing chores, because I loved the boy jobs and games. My mom eventually gave up on trying to get me in dresses, and pictures after that show me in tube socks, jean shorts and Astros jerseys.

One of my most powerful memories is my first game of tackle football in the backyard.  As the only girl in the family, my older brother would have preferred I fall off the face of the earth. It didn’t matter how much I begged, he was never going to let me in on his weekly game of football with his friends.  Each week I begged anyway, and finally my dad made him include me.  The week I finally got to join, I put on my Houston Oilers shirt on and raced to the backyard.  I was the only girl and three years younger than the boys.  At 5 years old I didn’t realize what it would be like to play the game with boys that really didn’t want you there.  I learned within the first few minutes though and I learned the hard way.  It was not flag football and they were not gentle with me, in fact just the opposite.  I kept playing and trying until one tackle made me eat dirt and tore part of my ear. At that point I did what most 5 year old girls would do.  I went running as fast as I could, crying to daddy.  I was sobbing, bleeding and couldn’t tell him fast enough about the boys ganging up on me and how unfair they were. I waited for the hug, the soothing words and of secretly hoped they might get in a little bit of trouble.  

What I got was a verbal spanking, reminding me I had begged for this chance. He told me I better stop crying, get back in the game and he better not see me again until at least one of the boys looked like I did.  He made it clear that quitting was not an option and fighting back was my only choice.  I was further humiliated when he smacked me on the backside and sent me off.  Bleeding all over my favorite shirt and sniffling, I headed to the back of the house.  In the few minutes it took me to get there, I got really mad. I was mad at the boys, I was mad at my dad and I was mad that I was bleeding.  I rejoined the game and although I don’t recall doing a lot of damage to the 8 year old boys, I do remember looking at my ripped and bloody Houston Oilers shirt later on and feeling ridiculously proud of it. 

It was one of my first lessons in experiencing strength and humility in the same breath.  I learned what it means to be resilient and to stay in the game even when the odds are good that you are going to bleed.  His approach seems harsh to some, but my dad’s refusal to rescue me taught me a lot about perseverance. It shaped a part of who I am today and it helped me be the person who ran a marathon last week.

A few days ago, I was in San Francisco for the Nike Women’s Marathon one year after vowing to come back and "run the hell" out of the course. A year ago I couldn’t wait to do this, but in the past year, a lot had changed.  Eight months earlier I had my second spinal fusion, so instead of feeling excited, I was anxious and scared.  The surgery had not been in my plans last year and it changed everything.  The night before the run was pure emotional chaos. I was afraid, knowing I would finish no matter what, yet also knowing with certainty I was not ready for this.  I had no way of knowing how my body was going to react which scared the hell out of me. I knew it was going to hurt, I knew I would be slow, and I even expected to have problems with my leg.  Knowing those things and feeling uncertain made it difficult for me to find any internal stability.  Eventually I had one big emotional tantrum, which left me feeling only slightly better. By the morning of the marathon morning I still couldn't get focused, but it was time to run.

I went into it with a secret goal.  It is one of those goals you whisper to yourself but don’t say out loud.  My secret wish was a  4:30:00 finish time.  I knew this would be tough, but I thought it might be possible.  In the end I didn’t even come close and I spent most of the marathon watching it slip further and further away, but not really caring at that point.  For several hours,I was in the kind of pain that allows you to focus on only one thing.  My single thought, over and over, was putting one foot in front of the other, with no room for any other thoughts.  It was not the race I expected and I keep struggling to find some perspective and in trying to sort out my conflicting emotions.  Did I fail, did I succeed?  I go back and forth and can’t seem to find a middle spot to balance on. 

Almost a week later, I am still undecided.  I know the right answer is to say I succeeded because I crossed the finish line. I agree but I would also be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed too. I am disappointed in my body and myself, and at a deep level I feel as though I failed in some ways.  This marathon brought me to a place I haven’t been before and it was demanding physically and emotionally.  I was challenged to manage my disappointment for several hours, and I didn’t handle it as well as I would have hoped.  Of course I wonder if I could have pushed harder and done better, which is always an easy question to ask when you are no longer running.

Along with my disappointment, I feel proud and successful. Ironically, it has little to do with crossing the finish line and more to do with passing the finish line.  This course starts those running 26.2 and those running 13.1 at the same time.  The two groups stay together until mile 11 when the course splits, and by mile 11, I had already been struggling for a while. Physically I was falling apart, the pain was increasing, and my right leg was not doing its job. With an option to take a right turn, cutting off 13.1 miles but still “finishing”, I never once considered it.   I knew the next 17 miles were going to get a lot worse, but it never crossed my mind to take the shortcut.

I am also proud that I didn’t stop.  Once the urge to quit running loops through your mind, it is relentless.  It starts as a small voice and it crowds out every other thought. It makes convincing arguments, showing the wisdom in giving up, and telling you how much people would understand.  I had to force myself to make a decision to keep going with every step.  My only concession was walking as fast as I could when I couldn’t run, and then making myself start to run again when I could.  I also feel success in knowing I crossed the finish line running.  It may not have been fast but I crossed the line running.

I can’t really figure out any one thing that decides if it is a success or failure.  I would have liked to have finished in less time and to have felt stronger.  I could have done without the reminder of how far I have yet to go in my recovery.  I don’t like the reality that no matter how hard I work, I can’t will my body into something it doesn’t have. As much I am bothered by those things, I also feel grateful and proud.

I realize it’s not about the race at all, but about me, and who I was, and who I become with each experience.  How do you divide strength and humility when they come hand in hand?  How do you know which moments are there to build you today, and which are lessons waiting to be learned another day?  

In the same moment that I judge myself, I also believe next time will be different.  I am confident I have the resilience to do it again and it won’t be long before I do. And I might still fall short of my expectations but I know next time my fears will be a little smaller and rob me of a few less moments. I have complete faith in this, and I remember to be grateful I get to do this and to appreciate the experience.  I am committed to the lessons I learn today, as well as those I will see clearly only in future days. For now my challenge is accepting both the failure and the success in the day.  I know the lesson I learned in the backyard is as powerful today as it was at 5 years old. 

Although it turned out so different than I hoped, I am truly at peace with it.  I notice the things I work for on the outside make me stronger on the inside. Working for the finish line I had moments of living so far outside of my comfort zone I couldn’t imagine getting through it.  Last Sunday, I lived what I believe, which is to never accept that who I am today is good enough for tomorrow.  I felt the passion, the risk of believing in myself, and the thrill of heading to the start line even with bad odds.  The ripped and bloody Houston Oilers shirt symbolized a win, and I think I might have been wearing it when I crossed the finish line.

Refuse to Pretend

Last January, I ran a marathon in Phoenix with a group of women I love dearly.  A conversation we had raised questions in my head and ten months later the question is still with me.  Why do we sell ourselves short, predict failure, dismiss compliments, or talk about ourselves in ways we would never talk to a friend?

When we are facing a challenge, taking a risk, breaking a personal barrier, reaching a personal goal, why are we comfortable pre-scripting a failure but not predicting success?  With the advantage of social media and instant status updates we have a streaming view of this, any time of the day or night.  Status updates often include fear and dramatic predictions about all of the potential catastrophes that could happen.  Rarely, if ever, do they make bold and confident statements.  And how would we react if they did? 

The common approach is to downplay any positive statements or votes of confidence because somehow it is much more acceptable to make statements about the likelihood of failure and falling short.  What if the status update said, “I am going to win this damn thing” or “Damn straight, I am going to rock the house”?

Usually you don’t hear people talk about their months of training and 5 am runs, or the hours or preparation for a speech or presentation.  They don’t acknowledge the daily commitment and discipline as a building block of their self assurance.  They don’t talk about the sacrifices and say “you are right, I will do great!”  or “I have trained hard and you know what, I will feel awesome!  “

What would we say if someone responded to your encouraging statements with this response?  What if someone’s usual response was they were feeling very confident and strong and sure of themselves and the outcome?  What if they took it one step further and talked about how confident and strong they felt. 

In most cases they would get a pained and superficial response, maybe even a patronizing affirmation followed by the other person’s urgent need to find someone to tell about the grandiosity of the conversation.  Can you imagine that conversation?  Your arrogance would grow into fairy tale legend within the hour.

Why is it completely acceptable to maximize our weaknesses and minimize our work, our discipline, our strength and our confidence?  Why is self assurance automatically tossed into the category of narcissistic and arrogance, as though feeling this way about ourselves assumes we think we are better than someone else?

I am not referring to those people out there that clearly think they are better. I am talking about simple statements of personal dedication, conviction and self-trust.  This stance often brings out the nasty competitive edge in others.  It reveals the pattern of insecure people trying to bring you to their level. In the past three years I have had amazing opportunities and along with those opportunities I have heard a long list of statements. They have been directly and indirectly delivered and designed to bring me down a notch or two.  Everything from a reference to not really thinking I was going to actually run my first marathon, to a rebuke about how many good things I was entitled to in a lifetime. 

When we define ourselves and our outcomes by what others are comfortable hearing, and their expectations, we are being dishonest.  When we pretend to feel a single dimension, the fear and the anticipated failure, do we lie to ourselves and everyone else? What about the excitement and pride, the anticipation of knowing you are about to do something challenging, yet knowing the risk is worth the achievement. Fear and failure is perfectly acceptable to acknowledge and focus on. In fact it is encouraged.

I think women and men suffer from the same expectation to downplay their confidence, achievement and abilities.  Men are bound by cultural and social expectations which encourage a lack of genuineness just as much as women, it is simply a different color pen. Men and women alike define their self and their beliefs with the thoughts they allow, the environment they live in, the people they surround themselves with and repetition of self talk.

How does this change and how do we make an impact? What if we refused to pretend?  What if we were proud in our faith and strength, not as arrogant and better, but living an acceptance of ourselves just as we are.  What if we proudly acknowledge dour own drive, discipline, values, achievements, failures and life. 

Remember a time when you did something for the first time.  Think about how awkward it felt.  Think of riding a bike, throwing a ball, or learning your job.  After a lot of attempts and some moments that are not graceful, the repetition brings improvement. We build our skills and eventually it becomes second nature.  Think about driving a car. For most of us it is so routine we don’t even think about it. Have you ever arrived at our destination only to realize that you don’t remember the drive?  We do it so automatically we lose awareness of how hard this was at first!

Do we do the same thing with maximizing our weaknesses and pretending?  Do we do it so often that it becomes automatic and second nature?

What if we made it second nature to make statements such as:

I love the way I look                              

I love the way I speak

I believe in myself

I am beautiful

I am successful

I am strong

I am capable

I will win

How might our world, our life be different if we didn’t allow other’s insecurities or discomfort mute our voice?  What if it became acceptable for all women and men to make bold statements without censure or judgment?  What if it were acceptable to have trust and faith in ourselves, to own our vision and life with confidence? 

The beauty of confidence and assurance is that it stems from a belief in ourselves and there is no room for comparison to others or for thoughts of being better than another.  This certainty comes from a knowing and accepting our weaknesses, honoring that we all come with many dimensions. It is built in the refusal to play the game by the rules of being so overly humble we lose part of our achievement.

In our purpose and in our potential there can be a quiet grace that is neither boastful nor meek.  In the true spirit of this we can lock honor ourselves and live our life in our own way, with purpose. 

Why don’t we then?  So why then is it so important to pretend failure is certain? Why is it acceptable and sometimes expected?  Why do we focus on failure when in fact, most often we have worked diligently to get to the start line. 

Fear of failure is the easy answer and is likely a part of it. I believe it is a simple answer but not the complete answer. So if fear of failure is the first answer, what are the layers underneath this?  How would others around us react?  Would it require us to stand true in our own self worth which is often uncomfortable?  What would others say about us, how would they perceive us, how would be judged? And perhaps the worst layer of all, what if we predict success and experience failure?  This may be the backbone of it all, but in truth it is never one thing that drives behavior it is a combination of our experiences, thoughts and emotions.  What is your motivation when you anticipate failure?  Are you making those around you comfortable, or do you insulate yourself from the embarrassment of any shortcomings?  Do you avoid the pain of being judged by those around you by staying at their level of insecurity?

In the next few days, before your next presentation, a race, or a performance, allow yourself to be the person you already are.  Be this person without maximizing your weakness and with acknowledgements of your strengths and preparation.  Allow yourself to humbly accept compliments, take credit and enjoy the glory of your achievements and work.  Inspire yourself and inspire those around you with the ability to allow grace and humility to live in the same world as pride and faith.

When you feel fear and think you could fail, acknowledge it in the same breath how much you grow with each attempt, and with every moment you live and risk. And when you hear someone else pretending they have already failed, be the healthy moment in their life. 

Be proud of yourself, set your own standards and declare your worth in your very own space.  Take responsibility for your growth, be diligent in increasing your insight and respectful enough to give someone else a hand up when they are in the middle of pretending.   Be confident enough to be the person you are supposed to be and no matter what, refuse to accept the pattern of selling yourself short.

The Real Glory

“The real glory is being knocked to your knees and then coming back. That’s real glory.” – Vince Lombardi

This has been my year to get knocked to my knees. And knocked again and then again. I cannot say I have had a year with as many challenges as this one.

I headed into this year with an Ironman registration, numerous marathons scheduled and a fierce plan to do it all. Although I knew a surgery was out there somewhere in my future I had no idea it was about to become “now”.

In January, less than 48 hours from flying home from Phoenix where I had run a marathon, I went to my doctor’s appointment knowing the news was not going to be great, but knowing I was going to stay the course no matter what. I remember in vivid detail the image on the screen of my spine, the fusion and the doctor saying “broke” and “now”. The reality of his words and his plan did not sink in until much, much later.

I had a plan, I couldn’t do surgery! Let alone a surgery that would put me out of the game for over a year. I tried every angle. “I am registered for Ironman, the surgery can wait right? Well then I can do the surgery right away and then still train for Ironman, right? Or maybe I can just wait again, like I had after China and Africa? No? The pain really hasn’t been that bad, I think I was just exaggerating. Ok but I will wait and we will work something out.” The harsh reality that I rarely admit to anyone is that many nights I woke up screaming, literally screaming from the pain. I really assumed if I could train a little harder or work on my form a little more I would figure out what I was doing wrong and it would be better.

A couple months before, giving a talk at a running club I had referred to the likelihood of a future surgery. I referred to it many times, but I don’t’ know that I really believed it. After all I had been getting away with “one more race” for a few years.

My doctor encouraged me to schedule the surgery before I left the office so I would have something planned. I did, but as I was scheduling it I was thinking there was no way in hell I was going through with it. I asked for the latest possible date they would allow and the scheduler went four weeks. I asked for six weeks, pushing the envelope. I left, drove to my office and by the time I made the 15 minute drive, reality was settling in. I was realizing the impact this may have. Training, races, commitments, work, life…all of it. I was going to lose everything I had planned for this year. I was also feeling a desperate amount of fear that I would lose everything I had already worked for. My biggest fear was I would never get it back?

The surgery was worse than I could possibly have imagined and at my two week follow up, my first comment to my doctor was a reference to his attempt at killing me. The actual recovery was made tolerable and at times enjoyable by an amazing group of friends and family that rallied in a way I would never have imagined possible. This included my little girl, my dog Annabelle. My best friend in the world, the creature that loved me beyond any love I have ever known, was with me for round two. Annabelle was 11 years old and at the time of my surgery was receiving treatment for an aggressive form of cancer. She had been an amazing source of healing through my first sugary in 2004 and she was with me again. She lay in my bed with me, she sensed my needs, and she loved me the way only a best friend can, just as she had the first time.

Annabelle hung in there for me and then suddenly, two months after my surgery, she was gone. Lying by my side in bed she left and finally got some peace. It remains one of the most painful and devastating losses I have experienced and not a day goes by that I don’t miss her desperately. The thought of her is still enough to bring me to tears. But in those tears and pain, gratitude lives by its side that she was here during the first months of my healing and by my side with her love.
I could go on with more major life events that have rocked my world this year, but at this point my life begins to sound like a country song. The summary is that I have been knocked to my knees more this year than anyone’s quota should ever be.

I had such a clear map for my life heading into the year and the outcome was clear in my mind and it was in my control. I feel a sarcastic irony as I ponder how far off course I am. My attempt at drawing my life map seemed to provoke some kind of pissed off karma!

Throughout this year I have heard over and over again how much others admire me and how inspirational I am. These and many other kind words are nice, but they never seem to fit me well. I am never comfortable with the statements so I work to accept them as graciously as I can.

I don’t’ say what I would really like to say, which is I am not inspirational at all. I am really just a person driven by fear and desperation and in my lucky moment’s maybe a bit of inspiration.

Following surgery I had permission to walk a few times a day. The limit was to be defined by my tolerance and pain. The lack of specific limits was a gift. My second day home from the hospital I was quite literally in tears attempting to walk to my dining room and will admit to some pretty fierce anger at my own pathetic state. In the anger at the most basic level I was quite simply afraid.

And so fear was my gift. And fear was my push three to four times a day. It drove me to keep going even when I was so tired and so slow I wanted to stop. Fear of failure, fear of stagnation, fear of losing my strength, fear of never being “there” again, fear of losing my determination, fear of everything! I am driven by the most powerful of motivators. By my 6 week check up I was walking 14 miles a day.

There was one more reason I kept pushing, something other than fear. Bigger and more powerful than the pain and the fear, my goal was clear.

My goal was quite simply to run. You see despite my plan to do Ironman, despite how much I enjoy cycling, despite my crazy desire to be able to do my own vacuuming and laundry again, the one goal that lives within me passionately is to run. Some people will read this statement and if they are a runner they will believe it and they get it. Others who are not runners will read that statement and make the usual comments people make when they don’t get it.

I can only explain that when I run, I am someone different. In my worst runs, in my highest level of pain, in my most miserable moments, I am a different woman when running. I am strong, I am fierce, I am a fighter and no one in this damn world is going to grab one piece of that from me. I am happy, I am peaceful, and I am confident and determined. I am complete and raw emotion and the emotion that lives within me contradicts itself at a rate of speed that is astonishing. Because in all of those things I am the fear, the challenge, the thought of quitting, the self doubt is living in there too. How do all of those emotions live in the simple act of me running? I am not sure except to acknowledge the beauty of a spirit is often in the depth of contradictions we experience and reflect.

In my real life the emotions and thoughts scream so loud I can hardly hear myself think. In the moments of reflection I am like everyone else, and just trying to prove the doubt can be quieted. Running is my gift, my therapy, my way of conquering the world and all of the hurts and pain it brings. But it is also my celebration, and is grateful for everything beautiful it delivers to my door. Running defines a part of me that cannot otherwise be defined and in many ways defines me.

So February 2011 found me once again fighting to walk to my dining room, then to the end of the drive way, then to the end of the block. I had been here before and anticipated I might be angry about being here. Instead, I found a surprising peace in the fight and the moments of fighting to get there are some of my best moments. It was an amazing discovery to feel the same inner celebration in reaching the end of my driveway as I did in reaching the end of a 50k. I realized it was a lesson in the importance of the journey versus the distance. I found a glory in getting back up.

I continue to find glory in this fight back and although I am slow in coming to acceptance, I find glory and pride in the midst of fighting back again. In 2004 I thought I would do this once and I would be “fixed”. I didn’t see the fight coming but I meet it every day.

In Annabelle’s departure, I have two new canine loves and my days are filled with the love of my three dogs. I am secure in the love of my family and friends and although the odds aren’t great I am the proud owner of another Ironman registration. The other things that have knocked me down this year, I will put in my basket of faith and know I can face the challenges.

Every day, every single day, I am grateful for this. I know in my heart as I say it that it is true. It doesn’t mean that I am not angry and that I don’t have resentful moments. Those who know me well have witnessed some of my tantrums which are heavy with profanity and not in the least bit logical. I feel fear thinking of what my future holds as I work to gain strength. I feel all of those things but at the end of the day I am still grateful EVERY day. How can I not be?

The gifts I have received through my journey are so many and so significant. The love and support of my family, my little Annabelle hanging in there with me until just after my surgery. An amazing group of friends who rallied around me in a way I would never have dreamed! And I am grateful because every single adversity I have ever faced in my life, no matter how big had made me better on the other side. I realized a long time ago, I am a fighter. And if I am fighting I am glad to be fighting for health.I am doing my first marathon since surgery in two weeks and no matter what my outcome I will be out there, getting back up.

"The most important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle. The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well." -Pierre de Courbertin