This post and the photos within it may contain Amazon or other affiliate links. If you purchase something through the link, I may receive a small commission at no extra charge to you.
it wasn’t just thanksgiving, i was supposed to run my first half marathon that day.
i was going to ferry over to the island, sleep near the ocean, and wake early- ready to go. me, my partner, and being alive in the fresh air.
i didn’t. i couldn’t, actually, my body was still recovering.
my eldest was behind me and he was not hurt. he was scared though, and still talks about how he watched his mother and his baby brother cascade down the stairs and land in a broken heap.
i was the heap.
crunched over and around my baby, hands protecting all his fragile bits, he was safe: landing soft on my soft. i, however, had heavy land on heavy: most of my weight arriving over one crossed foot, the rest barreled forward with my ankle into an unforgiving wall.
i allowed 6 weeks for my ligaments, tendons, bones, and ego to heal and then i started running again. it was so refreshing; so encouraging: i still had it in me. getting out there, and it going well, reassured me that i had established a baseline, a relative level of fitness, and i hadn’t lost too much ground. i was still moving forward.
the truth revealed itself a few trials later- it was too soon; too much. it has been too much since.
in yoga, i’m always reminded that rest matters. teacher after teacher describes the final pose of practice, savasana, as the most important; an opportunity to integrate all aspects of your learning and process the work that your body has done.
i’ve held this wisdom close while i’ve been healing and have tried hard to configure this pace as a gift; an invitation to learn.
i think, maybe, that i have.
making time for my body to heal has provided me the opportunity to look in more- at me, at him, at them- and this has been a very good thing. not only did i stop running in the literal sense, but i ceased racing from activity to activity harassed and harried and i have not been chasing every ‘maybe this’ or ‘maybe that’ in my head.
it sometimes feels simple. it can feel complacent; placid. other times, most times, it feels peaceful, as though i am moving forward with patience and acceptance of what is, of who i am- now.
as i prepare to try running again, i trust that this period of pause has allowed the lesson to be fully incorporated: fast is great, slow is better, and together is the best.
wish me luck.