The Bigger Picture

I want to start off by apologizing for being a crappy blogger... a fact which has been brought to my attention several times over the past few months.  The fact of the matter is, it's been a crazy roller coaster ride of a summer, and most of the craziness in my life right now isn't really blog appropriate.  It's difficult to get inspired when you feel like your head is constantly spinning.  No major accomplishments or big athletic events to share with you... just a lot of crazy.  But, today is my one-year anniversary with CrossFit TPA, which is a pretty noteworthy occasion in my book, even though I'm miserably sick today and didn't make it to the box.  Boo.  So, I decided it was time to break out the laptop and try to find some inspiration somewhere.  Plus, I promised, when I started this blog, to write about all of the scary shit I face in 2013... and there has been enough scary shit in my life this summer to fill a book.  So, as promised, here it is.

The truth is, I've had some of the scariest Scared Shitless moments imaginable this summer.  But rather than facing physical or athletic fears, these Scared Shitless moments have all been of a highly personal nature.  (Of course, personal things never seem to stay personal for long... but we'll get to that later.)  In the course of the past three months, my entire life has been turned upside down.  I can't go into great detail, but I'll try to explain it as best I can.

When you have chronically low self-esteem, it's easy to see yourself, your true self, as not being good enough.  Not good enough for society, not good enough for your friends and loved ones, and, eventually, not good enough for yourself.  So you quickly learn to play roles.  I call this the "Box Phenomenon."  You become a people pleaser, putting yourself into different boxes for different people to present yourself as a package that will be pleasing or desirable.  Lacking faith that you will be liked or accepted for your true self, you begin to try to figure out what people will like and accept... and you do everything in your power to be those things.  I became the master of this.  So many boxes... a different box for all of the different people in my life.  The hard-working, goal-driven, well-behaved daughter box.  The understanding, ever-supportive, opinionless friend box.  The rowdy, care-free, guaranteed-good-time drinking buddy box.  The dutiful, faithful, perpetually content wife box.  The sarcastic keep-everyone-laughing coworker box.  The caring, compassionate nurse box.  So many different boxes.  I quickly learned that I was good at pretending.  That I could make myself into pretty much anything that I thought someone could want me to be.  That if I could just keep all of my boxes straight and not break character, no one would ever know what a fake I was, or what I was hiding underneath.  I could be accepted, liked, even loved, for who I was able to portray.  For thirty years, that worked out pretty well for me.

Two problems with that.  Number one, it gets exhausting.  Confusing.  Eventually, you have too many boxes to keep track of... too many versions of yourself.  At some point, you find yourself spending so much time figuring out which person to be at any given time, that you aren't left with the time or energy to enjoy life.  Number two... and this one is big... if you spend too much time playing roles for other people, you will inevitably, at some point, lose track of which "you" is the real you.  When you start living for other people, you will eventually lose yourself.  And once you lose sight of who you are, it can be a rocky road to finding yourself again.

I think I reached this point a long time ago.  After decades of playing roles, trying to fit different molds and desperately attempting to be what I thought everyone else wanted me to be, I had completely lost track of what I wanted by the time my 30th birthday rolled around.  Underneath all of my boxes, I had completely lost track of who I was.  And that's a scary place to be.  Lost.

Then I discovered CrossFit, and TPA, and embarked on the crazy journey that has been the basis for this blog.  Finally, a box that I didn't have to squeeze myself into... at this box, nobody had any expectations or judgments or standards that I felt I had to meet.  I was welcomed by complete strangers with open arms and open hearts.  And for the first time, I felt like I could be anyone I wanted to be.  I felt like I could be myself.

Only, I wasn't really sure who that was anymore.

As the months passed and TPA became a bigger and bigger part of my life, and as I began to build confidence and self-assurance, I began to slowly but surely rediscover myself, one piece at a time.  It was a slow process, and tedious at times.  Sometimes I would stumble across a piece I didn't like very much (I could absolutely do without my absurd OCD tendencies and my overly self-critical nature)... but I've learned that part of building self esteem is realizing that you have to accept all of the pieces of yourself, good and bad, before you can hope to make positive changes.  So I picked up those pieces, along with the ones I liked better, and embarked on the long and often challenging process of assembling the pieces into something whole.  Rebuilding my identity, my true self, piece by piece like a jigsaw puzzle.

The stronger and more confident I became, the clearer things began to appear.  The jumbled collection of scattered puzzle pieces were starting to look more and more like a finished product.  But something was still holding me back... I was still tentative.  Still scared to really open myself up to the person underneath the boxes.  What would I uncover there?  What if I didn't like that person?  What if nobody liked her?  What if she's even weirder and crazier and less socially acceptable than I always thought she would be?

It wasn't until after my completely epic experience at the Patriot Games (which I'm sorry I haven't written about... I hope to, someday, because it was a truly amazing day in every way) that I really took the plunge and decided it was time to let go of those fears.  Time to tear away the boxes once and for all, and embrace whatever I found inside.  I felt such intense happiness that day... being part of a team, giving every ounce of everything I had, letting go of my inhibitions and my fear of competition, and putting it all out there.  It took a lot of courage to stand up with my far more badass teammates and perform in front of a crowd... and that courage was repaid with one of the most incredible, emotionally-charged, rewarding experiences of my life.  That person -- the person I was at the Patriot Games -- was someone I liked.  That was a version of myself that I could not only live with, but be proud of.  Who knew what else I could uncover?

So I made a vow to myself that day: no more boxes.  The only box I belong in is CrossFit TPA.

The coolest thing about the Patriot Games was the surprisingly enormous amount of joy I found in that day.  In overcoming a huge fear... in finally not letting my head get the best of me... in doing what I love, with the people I love, and enjoying every brutal, sweaty, painful second of it.  After the last WOD, as I sat under the tent and enjoyed a hard-earned beer with my wonderful teammates and the rest of the TPA athletes, it occurred to me that, in that moment, I felt happier than I could remember feeling in a very long time.

I'll fill you in on another secret about people with chronically low self-esteem: we don't do happy very well.  We constantly question what we could have done better, what everyone else is thinking about us, whether or not we're being judged... because we are constantly judging ourselves, and therefore assume that others are doing the same.  I spent so long not letting myself be happy.  I didn't think I deserved to be happy for the longest time.  So to sit in the sunshine with some of my favorite people, celebrating a near-perfect day and feeling completely and utterly content... that was huge for me.  And for the first time in a long time, I began to think that maybe I do deserve to be happy, after all.  Not just that day... but in general.  To just be a happy person, happy with myself and happy with my life.

Doesn't everyone deserve that?

But in order to be happy with myself, I needed to really know who that was.  Hence, the no-more-boxes vow.  I was feeling more confident than I've ever felt in my life.  Stronger.  More secure.  And I was finally ready to discard the conventional idea of who I was supposed to be and what I was supposed to want... to figure out who I really was, and what I really wanted out of my life.

What I wanted, when I really opened myself up to the possibility, was to feel as fulfilled in every aspect of my life as I was by my fitness journey.  CrossFit, being an athlete, doing something I loved that was just for me... that piece of my life was pretty perfect.  But the more I looked at the other pieces, the more I realized that they weren't as good.  And I began to see what a huge hole I'd dug for myself while I was hiding in my boxes.  Because for all of the years that I spent being who I thought I was supposed to be, and wanting what I thought I was supposed to want, I had actually been settling.  Settling for a life that was ordinary, and monotonous, and mundane.

And when I really thought about what I wanted my life to be... it wasn't any of those things.

I'd spent so many years of my life checking things off of some imaginary list, hoping that, if I could just obtain the things that "normal" people want, maybe it would be less obvious or less detrimental that I was weird and different and a little bit crazy.  If I could create a life for myself that looked like everyone else's, maybe I would finally fit in.  So I made my list, and pursued the items on it one by one.  Degree from a good school: check.  Respectable career that pays the bills: check.  Husband who loves me and would do anything for me: check.  Home ownership: check.  At the age of 30, I had everything I thought I wanted.  When I found a hobby and a passion in CrossFit, I thought my life would be complete.  I thought I would finally have it all, and achieve that elusive goal of happiness.

So why, almost a year later, did I still not feel whole?

It wasn't until I finally tore down my boxes, let go of the conventional idea of success, and opened myself up to my truest, deepest desires, that I came to a shocking and painful realization: I finally discovered who I am, and what I want out of life.  And it is a completely different life than the one on my checklist.

Let me assure you that there is no more terrifying moment, than the moment when you realize that the life you want does not even remotely resemble the life you've spent three decades building for yourself.  The moment when you realize that you will never find true happiness in your life as it stands.  The moment when you realize that you have a choice: continue leading a safe, comfortable life that is essentially a lie, or take a leap of faith and chase your happiness, without the first damn clue where the chase might lead you.

I took the leap.

That leap of faith has completely turned my life upside down.  Everything is changing so quickly that it makes my head spin.  I've made so many mistakes in my past... mistakes that have hurt people who I never meant to hurt, mistakes that ultimately trapped me in a life that didn't feel like my own.  And now I know why.  When faced with the choice between living with my mistakes (and the consequent regrets) or getting out of them, there really was no choice.  I have to be true to myself.  So, I've essentially ripped life as I know it into a million tiny shreds, and am now faced with the daunting task of putting them back together into something that makes sense.  It feels impossible at times.  Scary as hell.  More terrifying than all of the Scared Shitless moments from this blog combined. 

It's just so much.  Trying to find myself, find my happiness, do damage control on the people I've hurt unintentionally along the way, and figure out where the hell I go from here... it's a lot to deal with.  Overwhelming.  Painful.  So when some very private details of my personal life suddenly became very, very public... well, you can imagine how much that intensified those feelings.  People started talking.  A lot.  As it turns out, judgment and criticism and hurtful gossip have a way of finding you even in the seemingly safest of places, even among the people you always thought you could trust.  And before I knew it, my deepest secrets were everywhere.  Trying to figure out some very personal, very scary, very unfamiliar parts of yourself is hard enough on your own.  Infinitely more difficult with an audience.

It's been a pretty rocky summer.

In addition to the rest of my life spiraling out of control, I was struggling with the one aspect of my life that usually helps me hold everything else together:  CrossFit.  I've been dealing with a recurring left shoulder injury since shortly after the Patriot Games, which has had a very adverse affect on my progress at the box.  What started as an occasional twinge rapidly turned into constant pain.  Soon, I was failing at lifts that I'd done easily weeks before.  My pull up deteriorated into thin air and has not been seen since.  My Olympic lifts, which I'd been working so hard to master, went down the shitter.  My numbers were going down instead of up, I wasn't able to do the prescribed weight on most of the WODs for the first time in months, and I found myself stagnant, or even moving backwards, while everyone around me was PRing and getting stronger and faster and better.  When I was planning to try for a split jerk PR but couldn't manage to get 80% of my previous one rep max over my head, I felt completely defeated.  In addition to the rest of my life being a mess, I was now sucking at the only thing that was keeping my sanity intact.  For the first time in a long time, I felt weak.  And for someone who has spent the better part of the past year focused solely on getting strong, that is an unspeakably shitty feeling.

That was a real gut-check day for me.  I went home and cried.  A lot.  I wallowed for awhile.  Thought about throwing in the towel on this whole life reconstruction and going back to my old, safe, ordinary existence.  But then I got to thinking about CrossFit... about why I love it so much, and why such a seemingly arbitrary hobby has completely changed the way I see the world and myself.  Thought about what it really is that I take away from the box every day.  And it occurred to me, in the midst of my wallowing and pondering, that there are many different kinds of strength.  Physical strength is just one of them.  Oddly enough, in a sport that focuses primarily on becoming physically stronger, that is really only the tip of the iceberg of what I've taken away from my time as a TPA athlete.  And while the ability to do a pull up, or rock Angie like a boss, or put up huge numbers on the PR board can only take you so far outside of the confines of the box, the other kinds of strength that CrossFit teaches can impact every single aspect of your existence.  So while my physical strength has seen better days, I'm choosing to focus on the other ways that my time at the box makes me stronger every single day.  And those other kinds of strengths are what I really wanted to write about today. So, here we go.


Strength of Conviction

Everyone wants something different out of their CrossFit experience.  Some people want to be fast... thrive off of finishing first, getting the most rounds, posting the best time.  Other people want to put up big weight... Rx the WOD, nail big PRs, and focus on getting stronger.  Still others choose to focus more on technique... executing the perfect power clean, banging out a set of textbook-worthy overhead squats, or exhibiting a flawless snatch.  (Yeah.  I said it.)  And then there are people who just want to get in a good workout, burn off last night's dinner, and challenge themselves in a way that other forms of exercise just don't demand.  No two people have the same goals or expectations when they walk through those garage doors.  We all want different things.  And while the idea is to improve in all of these areas, very few people excel at everything.  There comes a time, in your CrossFit career, when you have to ask yourself the question:  What do I want out of this?  Personally, I want to lift heavy shit.  It's what I love.  And while I respect the importance of improving my met-con and gymnastics to be a well-rounded athlete, my true love is lifting.  So, if given the choice between loading up my bar and having a crap time/fewer rounds, or scaling on weight and finishing quickly or getting in more reps, I'm going to choose to add weight every time.  As a result of this, I almost religiously finish last in all of the WODs.  But that doesn't bother me anymore.  I know what I want, and I'm willing to sacrifice things like times and rounds to achieve it.

Strength of conviction, in a nutshell.  Knowing what you want, and being willing to do whatever it takes to get there.

This kind of strength applies to life outside the box, as well.  I've learned that this summer.  I've learned that, in order to be truly happy, you have to figure out what you want out of life.  And then you have to go after it... ferociously.  Relentlessly.  Unapologetically.  You have to be willing to fight.  Willing to struggle.  Willing to sacrifice.  Willing to fail, again and again, sometimes, before you finally reach your goal.  Willing to be questioned, criticized, and judged, sometimes harshly, by people who don't understand or want the same things... willingness to ignore the questions and judgments, and to forgive the people dispensing them.  Willing to persevere, no matter how hard things get, knowing that anything truly worth having, is worth fighting for.  Knowing that the best things in life rarely come easily.  Knowing that you deserve to be happy, that you owe it to yourself to strive for that happiness.  Knowing that you will make mistakes... that there will be wrong turns and dead ends and road blocks of every imaginable kind... that it will hurt sometimes.  Because life hurts sometimes.  Knowing that it is going to be a bumpy ride... but that the destination will be beautiful enough to make every second of it worthwhile.  And knowing the harsh reality: you can't always get everything you want in life.  There are some things that just aren't feasible, no matter how desperately you want it or how hard you're willing to fight for it.  We don't always get to choose what our hearts want, and sometimes, they lead us to impossible situations.  But true strength sometimes lies in knowing, along with that reality, that you owe it to yourself to try anyways.  Because you never know what's possible, what you're capable of achieving, until you give it everything you have.

Life is all about goals.  Whether it's a back squat PR you're chasing, or something bigger: a promotion, a fresh start, the love of your life... strength of conviction is essential.  Both inside and outside the box.  And every time I try for that big PR and nail it, I get a little stronger.  A little more sure.  And a little more willing to fight for the bigger goals in life.


Strength of Perspective

When I first hurt my shoulder, I tried working through it for a few weeks.  When it kept getting worse, I took a week off, thinking that rest and Prednisone would do the trick.  Came back, felt great for about three days, and then jacked it up again doing heavy squat cleans.  Not wanting to take any more time off, I started modifying my WODs to protect my shoulder... subbing in sit ups for pull ups, front squats for thrusters, avoiding anything overhead or involving hanging from the bar, because those things destroyed my shoulder.  Unfortunately, those are also all of the things at which I already suck miserably, and should be practicing as much as possible.  I was so frustrated, watching helplessly as what little progress I'd made in upper body strength (my perpetual weakness) rapidly disappeared. 

One day, after a particularly crappy WOD in which I had to modify pretty much everything on the board, I was complaining to a friend/fellow CrossFitter over cocktails, lamenting my inability to practice the things that really needed work and the loss of what little strength I'd managed to build in those areas.  I made it through my whole rant without interruption, and then awaited a response.  After thinking it over for a moment, my friend just shrugged, sipped her drink, and said nonchalantly, "Oh well.  Just think how strong your legs will be when this is all over!"

At first, this response to my lament infuriated me.  How dare she try to be positive when the proper response was clearly to graciously accept her invitation to my pity party and join in on the whining?!  Unacceptable!  But I bit my tongue.  And over the course of the evening, time and thought (and a few dirty martinis) softened me up a bit, allowing me to give her perky point of view a trial run.  Maybe I was looking at it all wrong.  Maybe this was my chance to work on other things.  Shoot for the front squat, back squat, and dead lift PR goals (200#, 220# and 300#, respectively) that had been eluding me for some time.  Work on my pistols.  Focus on technique in my oly lifts without the internal pressure I always put on myself to pile on the weight.  There were so many things I could work on that didn't involve further shredding of my rotator cuff.  That's the beautiful thing about CrossFit: if you find yourself stuck on one thing, unable to practice one skill... there are a hundred other things you can work on instead.  Always room for improvement somewhere.

Sure enough, in the weeks that followed, I made huge gains in some areas while resting and protecting others.  Tammy helped me work on my dead lift form, and my numbers went up.  I subbed in heavy squats for overhead lifts in most of the WODs, and my front and back squat numbers went up. All the while, my shoulder was starting to heal, and I could slowly start incorporating upper body work back into my WODs.  All was right with the world again. (The CrossFit world, at least...)  And a few weeks ago, I finally found myself back in PR city: 215 front squat, 225 back squat, and, to my astonishment, 305 dead lift.  BOOM!  Just like that... I'd made big gains, while still allowing myself to rest and heal where I needed it.

This was a major light bulb moment for me.  My friend, while not giving me the response I wanted at the time, gave me exactly what I needed: perspective.  We can't always control the things that happen to us, but we can control how we react to them.  Instead of seeing my injury as a detrimental setback, she helped me to see it as an opportunity for growth.  So simple... but so brilliant.  It's all about how we look at things.  I saw a shoulder injury, and she saw a chance to get stronger legs.  I saw an occasion for a pity party, where she saw an opportunity to reevaluate and regroup.  Every situation has a positive side and a shitty side.  CrossFit has taught me that my ability to succeed (or, at least, to perceive success) depends heavily on which side I choose to embrace.

Perspective.

Outside of the box, it's even more important.  Especially when the road gets rough and life isn't everything you might like it to be.  When we come across setbacks in CrossFit, and in life, we have a choice.  We can view it as a reason to throw in the towel... or we can embrace it as an opportunity to rise above and overcome.  We choose whether the hard stuff defeats us or strengthens us; breaks us or makes us.  Our choice.  I despise clichés, and this one in particular, but I'm going to throw it out there anyways for lack of a better way to make my point: as the saying goes, when God closes a door, he opens a window.  I don't know about all of that, but the door analogy fits my situation well, so I'm rolling with it.  With the many drastic (and admittedly scary) changes happening in my life right now, a lot of doors seem to be closing for me every day.  Some of them, I've closed myself, voluntarily, by my own choice.  Others have slammed shut unceremoniously and unexpectedly in my face as part of the aftermath of the aforementioned choices.  There has been loss, and hurt, and bitterness.  By letting the truth in, I seem to have ushered a lot of people out, leaving them to slam doors behind them as they go.  But, on the other hand, there is also a window of opportunity (you see what I did there?  Okay, nevermind) opening for me.  Opportunity to finally be honest with myself and those around me.  Opportunity to see who is going to judge and condemn and walk away, and who will stay by my side through it all... because the latter are the people who I want to keep in my life for the long haul, and the former probably didn't deserve their spot there to begin with.  Opportunity to set the record straight, and give myself a fresh start and a clean slate.

Perspective.  It's the difference between a horribly painful ending, and a chance for a beautiful new beginning.  Between suffering a crushing loss, and making room for the next great find.  Between defeat, and a second chance at victory. Between failure and room for improvement.  Between despair and hope.  And as difficult and painful and scary as this whole process has been, a part of me is enormously relieved to be taking steps towards my ultimate happiness.  I'm choosing to celebrate the good that will come in the long run, rather than dwelling on the pain of the immediate.  Because, yes, I'm hurting in a lot of places.  But I'm also healing in others.  And when all is said and done, I have faith that I'll walk away from this mess stronger than ever.

Which brings me to my next point...


Strength of Faith

If you think about it, CrossFit is all about faith.  We have faith in our coaches... faith that they'll guide us, teach us proper mechanics, tell us if they think we're overfaced.  We have faith that they will keep us safe as we attempt to do crazy things.  Faith that they're not lying to us when they say that the God-awful workout on the whiteboard will not, in fact, kill us.

Faith in our bodies.  Faith that they will hold up as we put them through things that no totally sane person would ever have any desire to do.  Faith that they can handle whatever we throw at them.  Every time we go for a PR, or attempt a new skill, or ask our bodies to try something they have never done before, we're taking a little leap of faith... because honestly, we have no idea whether we are capable of that one-handed handstand, or that big overhead squat, until we take a deep breath and just go for it.  We just have to have faith that our bodies will pull through for us.

Faith in ourselves.  Faith that we are stronger than we were yesterday.  That we are strong enough to face whatever horrors appear in the WOD on any given day.  That we will survive that last round, those last few reps, that final run, no matter how loudly our brains are screaming to the contrary, if we can just push through.

Faith makes all the difference in CrossFit.  In a sport that is often largely mental, I've learned not to underestimate the power of faith.  When I'm going for a big lift, if I don't believe in my heart that I can make it, it's pretty much a given that I won't.  If I get focused on numbers and PRs and competing with myself, I usually psych myself out and fail.  So I've learned the best method for me:  I don't count how much weight is on my bar until after I complete the lift.  I just throw some plates on, take a deep breath, and tell myself, "You've got this."  And you know what?  With that faith guiding me, I usually do get it.

Faith has been an essential part of my CrossFit journey, which, in turn, has taught me the importance of faith in the rest of my life as well.  Faith in God, or whatever higher power you believe in.  Faith that we are all part of a bigger plan, and that everything happens for a reason, even if we can't identify that reason at the time.  Faith that, while there are many things in life that we can't control, everything will work out in the end if we can just have patience.  (That part is scary for an OCD control freak like myself... surrendering control.  But the fact of the matter is, I'm not running this show.  It's all part of the big picture.  And the more I learn to let go, the more peace I find.)  Faith that people come into (and go out of) our lives for a reason.  Faith that the future holds beautiful things for us.  Faith that even the shittiest of times will eventually come to an end, and faith that something better awaits us on the other side.

Faith that, no matter what, we will be okay.

A blind leap.  Believing without proof or probable cause or any other concrete evidence.  Choosing to believe, to hope, to trust.  I trust that, no matter how difficult and painful and lonely and confusing things become, those feelings won't last forever.  That eventually, with time and patience and a lot of blind faith, things will get better.  That this crappy period is just one part of a bigger journey towards my happiness... and that my journey is just a tiny part of a much bigger plan.  That, in the grand scheme of things, this is far from being the end of the world, even though it feels that way at times.  That this, too, shall pass.

Everything happens for a reason.  I truly believe that it was no coincidence that I found CrossFit and TPA at the time in my life when I felt the most lost.  Not coincidence that the people there came into my life, changed it, and helped me to find myself.  At the time, it seemed like such an arbitrary whim, walking through that garage door for the first time to try something new and scary.  But I realize now, that it was so much more.  It was meant to be.  I was looking for so much more than a workout.  I was looking for a change... for a catalyst to start my new life.  And that's exactly what I found.  Definitely not a coincidence.  Part of a bigger plan.  And I have to believe that everything I'm experiencing now, all of the learning and the changes and the fear, are part of the same plan.

The decision to make changes in my life, to let the truth in and try to find real happiness... not unlike going for a huge PR.  Starting out completely unsure if it will work... if I'm strong enough.  But knowing that I won't be able to live with myself if I don't at least give it a shot.  There's fear, doubt, apprehension.  It's heavy... heavier than anything I've ever attempted before.  No way of knowing whether or not I can handle the load.  No way of knowing for sure if this is the right move, or if I'm taking on too much and risking getting hurt.  No way of knowing if I will succeed or fail.  But, just like a big lift, the trick here is to not overthink.  To close my eyes, get the perfect set-up, and let faith take me from there.

Deep breath.  You've got this.


Strength of Judgment

This is one that I'm still working on, and with which I still tend to struggle.  But I'm getting there.

One of the hardest things about CrossFit, for me, has been knowing how to make good decisions.  Knowing when to take rest days.  Knowing (or acknowledging, rather) the difference between soreness that I can work through, and pain that I can't work through.  The difference between hurt and injury.  When to push through, and when to protect.  When I discovered my passion and drive, I wanted to go all out, all the time.  Every day.  I took the "go hard or go home" mentality very seriously.  Seeing the changes in my body, the rapid increase of my strength, and all of the progress I was making just made me want it more... made me want to push harder, go farther.  But with time and experience (and a few verbal smackdowns from people wiser than myself), I'm learning that pushing too hard can be detrimental.  That the body works better, and progress happens faster, when you give yourself the necessary time to recover.  That injuries don't heal if you don't give them time to do so.  That you can have too much of a good thing.  That part of being an athlete is knowing when to stop.

I've always been the kind of person who is driven by emotion rather than logic.  I tend to follow my impulses, go with my gut... and by the time my brain catches up, sometimes the damage is already done.  Hence why my "lift first and ask questions later" mindset at the box came as no surprise to me.  Taming those impulses, learning to listen to my body and give it what it needs... learning to silence the little voice that tells me to keep going no matter what... a constant struggle for me.  But I'm learning.  And I'm a better athlete for it.

I'm learning the same lesson in life.  I've never been one to look before I leap.  Which is how I've ended up in this mess in the first place.  Mistakes I've made in the past, things I convinced myself I wanted at the time because it seemed like the "right" thing to want... all impulse decisions.  And sometimes, the impulses are good.  The impulse to be honest at last, despite making a mess of my life and causing myself and others a lot of heartache, was a good impulse.  But not all of them lead me to positive things.  Sound judgment.  Good decisions.  Moderation.  Patience.  These are the things I'm trying to learn.

Just like in CrossFit, I need to learn when to push and when to protect.  Not just my body, but also my head and my heart.  I need to learn when to fight, and when to give in.  When to hold on, and when to let go.  This applies to everything.  Especially to relationships.  Friendship, and love.  Because the sad truth is, not everyone that comes into our lives are meant to stay there for the long haul.  People come and go.  They fall into and out of love.  Relationships change, and evolve, and sometimes they end.  But the important thing, I think, is knowing which ones to let go when the time comes... and which ones to hold onto as tightly as you can.  Which ones are worth fighting for.


Strength of Self

The really cool thing about CrossFit is, you get to choose who you are every time you walk into the box.  No matter what's happening outside, no matter how you're feeling or what's on your mind, CrossFit gives you the opportunity, for an hour a day, to let go of it all and be who you want to be.  You can walk into the box, clear your mind, and declare to yourself, "Today, I am the person who doesn't give up."  Or, "Today, I am the person who is going to rock the shit out of this WOD."  Or, "Today, I'm going to be the best that I can be, whatever that is.  Today, I am the person who gives my all."  CrossFit allows us to be the best versions of ourselves.  Instead of being the person who gives up when things get hard, you can be the person who perseveres, pushes through, overcomes.  You can let go of any doubt, self-consciousness, and fear that you may be holding onto, and let your inner badass shine through.  That is a wonderful, empowering feeling.  Whoever you want to be for that hour of the day... as long as you believe it, you can be it.

That's why CrossFit has been my favorite part of the day, for as long as I've been doing it.  But over time, I've realized... why does any of that have to change when I walk out of the box?  Why can't I be that fearless, self-assured, confident person for the other 23 hours of the day?  When I'm at the box, I know who I am.  I know what I want.  I don't worry about being judged or laughed at for being who I am or how I perform.  So why do I let that worry and fear catch up with me the minute I step out of the box?

I know exactly why.  Because I've never been secure enough with myself, with who I am, to let go of those feelings and just be me.  I've never had that strength.  But you know what?  I'm getting there.  I'm realizing, slowly but surely, that it doesn't really matter what the rest of the world sees, or what people think of me, or whether or not people understand me.  All that really matters, in the long run, is what I think of myself.

Strength of self.  Knowing who you are.  Being who you are... unquestioningly, unapologetically, fearlessly.  Recognizing and embracing your strengths; identifying and accepting your weaknesses while trying to strengthen them.  Being proud of your accomplishments.  Knowing that you've made mistakes, will continue to make mistakes, because we are all human and none of us are perfect... but also knowing that you must be able to forgive yourself for those mistakes.  Knowing that forgiveness is key to forward progress and self-improvement.  Knowing that, at times, you will struggle and suffer and hurt, because that is an inevitable part of life... but knowing that you are strong enough to overcome these things.  Learning to love yourself... not just accept who you are, but to truly love the person you have become, and the journey that led you there.  Because if you don't love yourself, who you are inside, how are you ever going to truly love your life?  And isn't that what happiness is, loving life?

This might be the hardest kind of strength to achieve.  To let go of your inhibitions, to let yourself off the hook for your mistakes and shortcomings, to let your true, best self shine through every day... this takes a level of confidence and self-assurance that I haven't quite reached yet.  But I get closer every day.  And as much as the avalanche of changes in my life recently have thrown me for a loop, I know that these changes are necessary to get me where I'm going.  Necessary to the process of finding myself, forgiving myself, and loving myself.  This is my mid-life crisis WOD, and no matter how much it feels like I'll never make it through to the end in one piece, I just have to push through, keep fighting, keep believing.  Be the badass who never gives up.  Just another WOD.

And the good news is... it can't possibly be any uglier than Fran.  And I survived that evil whore just fine.


Strength of Patience

This statement will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me... I am not a natural athlete.  Not even close.  There are people who can walk into a box, learn things quickly, improve rapidly, and become badass awesome CrossFitters in no time at all.  Well, I'm not one of those people.  Nothing at the box has come easily for me.  It all has felt foreign and awkward and hard from day one.  I'm uncoordinated, I struggle with even the simplest movements, and I'm 99% convinced that I will never, ever manage a proper squat clean.  I've had to fight and work and practice my ass of for every single little thing I've learned at the box... and I still suck at most of it.  Getting better at some things, frustratingly stagnant on others.  I'm lucky in that my legs seem to be naturally strong... but that's about all I have going for me.  Given anything involving technique, or upper body strength, or endurance, or pretty much anything that does not involve squatting, it's a pretty safe bet that I'll struggle with it.  I am not, by any means, a natural athlete.

I want so badly to be good at this sport.  So badly.  I want to improve, to compete, to be a total badass.  But, let's face it.  Today marks my one-year anniversary with CrossFit TPA, and the list of things I can't do is still longer than the list of things I can.  I still finish last fairly consistently.  Still have to scale on weight in more WODs than I'd like.  Progress is slow... definitely slower than I'd like it to be.  And sometimes I get incredibly frustrated with myself for not being able to perform at the level I feel I should have reached by now.

But... slow progress is still progress.  I am definitely not the same athlete, or person, I was a year ago.  Or a month ago.  Or a week ago.  Because no matter how obnoxiously slow my progress seems to be, I know that every day, with every WOD, I get a little bit stronger.  A little bit better.  A little bit tougher.  And even on days when I feel like I'm standing still, or even moving backwards, I know that, in the bigger picture, I'm moving in the right direction.  Slowly, steadily... but surely.

Patience.

This process has taught me so much about patience.  You can't lose 100 pounds overnight.  You can't perfect a skill the first time you try it.  You can't just will yourself to a big PR or a great time on a benchmark WOD... you have to be patient.  You have to put in the time, and the work, and slowly chip away at smaller goals.  Because those are what add up to the big things.  And eventually, in time, the big things will come, too.

I'm doing my best to apply this concept to my life outside the box as well.  Right now, it's pretty much a jumbled mess.  One chapter has ended, but it feels like the next one hasn't quite started yet... leaving me staring at a blank page... a little confused, a little scared, and thoroughly anxious to see what's in store in the next installation.  Because this one's a hell of a cliffhanger.  It's this completely bizarre sensation of being in limbo; of floating between the past and the future in a present that doesn't quite make sense yet.  And a big part of me is just incredibly frustrated and wants to get this show on the road.  I've finally figured out what I want out of life... now when do I get to find out whether or not I can have it?  When do I get the happy ending?  Or do I get something else entirely?  What the hell is going to happen with the mess I've made?  I just want to know.  NOW.

Patience.  I've never had much of it.

But I'm trying.  Because I know that, just like in CrossFit, you can't rush progress.  You can't hurry through half-assed and expect big things to happen.  The best things in life take time to develop.  The biggest decisions in life take time to properly analyze.  All good things take time. 

So, I wait.  As patiently as I can.  Waiting to turn this blank page that separates the "What I Had" chapter from the "What I Want" chapter.  Waiting to see what comes next.

I wait with strength of conviction, knowing what it is that I want out of life (finally), knowing that it won't be an easy road, but it will be worth it.

I wait with strength of perspective.  Knowing that, no matter how difficult or scary it is to close this chapter of my life and embark on a journey into the unknown, this ending is opening up a world of new beginnings.  And the possibilities are endless.

I wait with strength of faith, knowing that whatever is meant to happen, will happen.  Knowing that I can't always control the outcome, but that with faith, I will be okay in the end, no matter what that outcome may be.  No matter where this road takes me, I will be okay. Knowing that someday, it will all work out as it should... and that someday will be beautiful.

I wait with strength of judgment, knowing the difference between the time to fight and the time to surrender.  Knowing that what I've found is worth fighting for.

And above all, I wait with strength of self.  Knowing that it's okay to be different, to be unconventional, to love whoever or whatever your heart leads you to, to change your mind, to make mistakes and not always get things right on the first try.  Knowing that, while I've done some things that might seem terrible, I am not a terrible person.  That I deserve to be happy.  That I will face judgment and criticism, and that not everyone will understand... but that it isn't really about them anyways.  Knowing that the people who belong in my life will be there no matter what.  Knowing that I'm never alone.  And knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, who I am and what I want.  Refusing to lose sight of that, no matter how ugly it gets along the way.

I can't help but go back to one of my favorite quotes.  I think I've referenced it in previous blog posts, but it's too perfectly appropriate not to use it here:

"For what it's worth, it's never too late... to be whoever you want to be.  There's no time limit, stop whenever you want.  You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing.  We can make the best or the worst of it.  I hope you make the best of it.  And I hope you see things that startle you.  I hope you feel things you never felt before.  I hope you meet people with different points of view.  I hope you live a life you're proud of.  If you find that you're not, I hope you have the courage to start all over again."

So, here I go.  Starting all over again.

If you've been reading all this way in hopes of some epic, detailed public confession, I'm sorry to disappoint.  Someday, I hope to write about all of this for real.  But first, I'm waiting to see how things play out.  There are some very difficult truths that need to come to the surface.  But that will come with time, faith, and patience.  Now is not the time for me to be making any internet announcements for the whole world to read.  (Although the way rumors are flying, I can't help but wonder if someone has already beat me to it...)  The truth is, I really don't owe anyone an explanation.  When the time is right, when everything is less up in the air and more resolved, I hope to be able to share my story.  Because if it works out how I hope it does, it's a pretty damn beautiful story.  In the meantime, here's a thought... if you want to know what's going on in my life, try asking me.  It's a much more kind and effective method than starting or perpetuating hurtful rumors.  I don't have anything to hide anymore.  I'm not ashamed of what I'm going through, or who I am.  People will either understand and be supportive, or they won't.  And that's something I'm going to have to deal with as it comes.

Things are going to get harder before they get easier.  I know this.  Honesty is always the best policy, but certainly not always the easiest course of action.  Shit's going to get pretty heavy for awhile.  But you know what?  It can't possibly be as heavy as all of the boxes I've spent my life carrying around.  In fact, I already feel lighter.  More free.  More myself than I have in a long time... possibly ever.  Because I truly believe that the pain, the heartbreaks, and the struggles will eventually fade, and I'll find my happiness.  The life I was meant to lead.  It's out there, somewhere.  As long as I have the courage to keep fighting for it.

Summer is almost over.  I've never been more ready for fall... for changing leaves and changing weather and a fresh start.  But first, more fears to face.  Tomorrow, I'm running the Tough Mudder.  This absolutely scares the shit out of me, especially since I'm currently sick as hell and can't really breathe.  The following day, I'm finally crossing another item off of my bucket list: I'm jumping out of an airplane.  Also terrifying.  The chances of me dying this weekend seem a little too high for comfort.  I'm definitely scared shitless.  But in all honesty, neither of those things can possibly be scarier than what I've ben through this summer.  Can't possibly be scarier than writing this blog post.  So, I say... bring it.

Bring it all.  Bring on the fear.  The struggle.  The unknown.  I'm ready for it.  CrossFit, and this journey, have prepared me well.  Made me a fighter.  And I'm ready to fight.  I'm ready to start over, embrace a new beginning, and let go of the past.  Whatever's next, I'm ready.  I'm waiting.  With conviction, perspective, faith, good judgment, patience, and strength of self, I can face whatever is coming my way.  I feel like the timer is running, and any second now, I'm going to have to close my eyes, take a deep breath, and just go for it.  All out.  Wanting every piece.

3... 2... 1... 

The Other 13.1

So, I've been a pretty crappy blogger lately.  I wish I had a good excuse, like I've been busy rescuing fluffy kittens from burning buildings, or vaccinating orphans in third world countries.  But, the truth is, I haven't been writing because I've been pouting.

Yep.  I've been pouting like a petulant child for several weeks now.  For a few weeks there, I was just in a foul, uninspired, whiny, bitchy mood.  Partially because my personal life has been a bit of a shitstorm lately. (And I mean that in the most literal sense possible... among other metaphorical crap going on, I came home from work one morning to once again find my basement full of actual, very real crap.  For those of you keeping track, that makes THREE epic plumbing fails in the last 9 months.  Mr. Rooter and I are NOT on good terms at the moment.)  On top of that, my post-Open weeks at the box have were depressingly anticlimactic.  I hadn't been PRing on most of my lifts, still couldn't figure out my kip and thus have to jump for every single pull up (which, PS, takes for-freaking-EVER), I almost decapitated myself a few weeks ago trying for a back squat PR (another epic fail... note to self: never fail forward, because taking 215 pounds to the neck and head does not feel nice), my shoulder had been a pain in my ass... and, worst of all, my April Scared Shitless event, 5K Gone Bad, was worse than an epic fail.  It was an epic CATASTROPHE.  I was a mess... physically, mentally, and emotionally.  Total train wreck.  To the point where I'm not even going to write about it, because I'm still so effing disappointed in myself that I don't want to think about it.  I was that bad.  So I went from my post-Open euphoria of feeling completely unstoppable and confident, to feeling very much like my basement: shitty and devoid of any and all previous worth.  Hero to zero in no time at all.  It really is amazing how fast I forget the good stuff, and how vehemently my brain insists on dwelling on the bad stuff.

Throughout all of this, two of the most terrifying Scared Shitless events of all time have been looming ominously in my future: the Pittsburgh Half Marathon, and the Patriot Games.  Two big red squares on my May calendar, staring me in the face every morning, mocking me for my absurd unpreparedness and inevitable impending failure.  I prefer to focus my panic on one thing at a time, and chronologically, the half marathon demanded my more immediate attention.

Here's the thing about the Half... I had absolutely no desire to do it.  First of all, I don't like to run.  I did, at one point, but then I found CrossFit and never looked back.  Which led to point number 2: I haven't been training.  At ALL.  I fell off of that wagon back in February after my 10-miler didn't go as well as I would have liked, and then I started to focus on CrossFit and getting stronger for the Open... suffice it to say, by the time I realized that the big day was practically upon us, the wagon had packed up, shipped off, and was halfway to another country.  There was no catching up.  Thirdly, I just didn't really care anymore.  CrossFit is what I do now... it's what I love, what I want to be good at someday, and what I choose to focus my attention on at this point.  Nothing (repeat: nothing) about running 13.1 miles sounded like fun to me.

So, you're probably asking the same question I've asked myself a hundred times over the past few weeks: Why do it?  Why do something that you don't enjoy, for which you're drastically unprepared and under trained, and about which you don't actually care very much?  What's the point?  What do I possibly have to gain by attempting this?  Why bother?

The answer: because I'm stubborn as hell.

You see, before there was CrossFit... before I ever met Fran or knew the difference between a "box" and a "gym" or had any idea that there was a non-sexual definition for the word "snatch"... before all of that, there was a fat girl with a big goal and a pair of running shoes.  This whole rather amazing journey started out with running.  It was how I lost the first 70 of the 120 pounds I've shed.  It was the first kind of exercise that I ever actually enjoyed.  It gave me my first taste of a world that I've since fallen completely in love with: the world of fitness.  And although it is no longer my fitness method of choice, it still played an enormous role in getting me to this point in my life.  Before I had dreams of a 200-pound front squat, a 300-pound dead lift, or an RXed Fran, I had only one major fitness goal: to run the 2013 Pittsburgh Half Marathon.

Before TPA came into my life and changed everything, this was it.  This was what I was working towards... the end-all and be-all.  The ultimate goal in my journey.  I felt like, if I can achieve this seemingly unachievable goal, I will have succeeded.  Back then, the half was my Super Bowl, Stanley Cup, CrossFit Games, and Kentucky Derby all rolled into one.  The epic grand finale of an epic journey.

I signed up for the half the first day that registration opened.  It still felt like a bit of a pipe dream at the time; a distant goal in the very distant future.  But I thought about it often.  You see, I had big dreams for May 5th, 2013.  I had it all planned out: my sister was coming into town to run with me, and two of my close friends were going to run with me as well.  My husband and parents and the rest of my family and close friends would be there to cheer me on... this was a big one.  I was completely convinced that these people would be there.  That I would see them scattered along the course, cheering wildly, waving embarrassing but totally awesome signs.  And when I finally crossed that finish line... when I finally achieved everything I'd ever dreamed of... there they'd be, going crazy, faces full of emotion and pride... because they would understand how truly EPIC this moment really was, and how hard I'd worked to get here, and how much it all meant.  I would collect my medal and be met by a sea of hugs and congratulatory exclamations... and it was going to be beautiful.  This image, the image of me crossing the finish line and sharing that moment with my husband and family and friends, was the ultimate motivator for me for a long time.  When I came home from a craptastic night shift and just wanted to go to bed, I would think of that moment and make myself go for a run instead.  When I was out on the trails and felt like quitting early, I would conjure up that image and let it push me through those last few miles.  Even later on, during a tough WOD or before I tried for a PR, that image would occasionally pop into my head and give me strength.  It was my happy place.

The Pittsburgh Half became a symbol of everything I've been trying to achieve in this journey.  My family, my friends... most of them don't understand CrossFit.  They can't truly appreciate how much it meant to me to get my first bandless pull up, or why I care so much whether I can get a 215-pound back squat instead of 210, or why my worse-than-mediocre score in 13.5 made me deliriously happy and changed my life.  They just don't understand; and not for lack of trying.  They've tried to be supportive, and at least pretend to listen when I go on and on about my snatch and what I've been jerking lately.  But the truth is, I've never met a non-CrossFitter who really understands what we do and why we do it.  My friends and family are among the masses of people who just... don't... get it.  Because of this, I think people have a hard time relating to what I'm trying to do with my life.  But a half marathon... that people can understand.  Girl who weighed almost 300 pounds fifteen months ago runs 13.1 miles.  People get that.  People can understand how big that is.  Which is why, even though I didn't really care about running the Half... I kind of did.  I wanted the people in my life to be able to understand and appreciate what I'm attempting, what I've been working so hard for.  To share a piece of it with them; to show them what their support and love has helped to create.

So, despite my hatred of running and my seeming inability to stick to a training plan, I planned to run the damn thing if it killed me.  I was going to make that image a reality.  I was going to have that moment, no matter what.

Then, a month or so ago, the image started falling apart.  My running buddies started dropping like flies.  My sister found that she wasn't going to be able to come into town from Texas after all.  Then both of my friends dropped out... one because of an injury, and one because she wisely realized that voluntarily running 13.1 miles for no apparent reason is just plain crazy.  So, all three of my planned pace people were out.  Then, my cheering squad started to disintegrate.  Various friends had various obligations.  All of my TPA buddies were running on relay teams, so they would be otherwise occupied.  My mother decided to go out of town that weekend.  Dr. Gold hates nothing more than large crowds, except for possibly long waits... so expecting him to stand around and wait for long periods of time in a large crowd was pretty much out of the question.  And then, the final straw... my husband informed me that he would be working on May 5th and wouldn't be able to come cheer me on.

And, just like that, the beautiful image I'd been carrying around like a lucky charm... died.

There would be no moment.  On May 5th, I would run 13.1 miles and cross the finish line victoriously to be met by... no one.  No signs.  No cheering.  No hugs.  Just a banana, a foil blanket, and a long walk back to the car alone.

Fail.

I almost dropped out.  There were posts all over Facebook from people wanting to buy bibs, and I seriously considered just scrapping the whole thing altogether.  It was bad enough to be doing something that I didn't really want to do in the first place... doing it alone was just the nasty icing on the shitty cake.

Enter Jeannie.

Wonderful, glorious Jeannie, my dear friend who is constantly saving the day, comes through again.  After listening to my rather pathetic sob story, she took pity on me and offered to be my one-man cheering squad.  In addition, she offered to drive me to and from the marathon (because she knows me well enough to know that, by race day, I would be in no mental state to operate a motorized vehicle), get me to my starting corral on time (because, again, she knew I would be a total basketcase and probably could not find my own way there), and promised to be at the finish line to watch me achieve this long-time and admittedly somewhat epic goal.

Best. Friend. EVER.

So, with my cheering squad intact (albeit smaller than initially intended... quality over quantity, right?), I had no excuse.  The Pittsburgh Half Marathon 2013 was happening, and I was running in it.

Once I committed fully to this fact, the trademark Emily freak-out began to set in.  Slowly, at first.  Oh so gradually.  But then I woke up one Wednesday, and realized that it was May 1st.  MAY 1st.  There was no more "it's not until May," or "I have time, I'll start training next week," or "at least it's not until next month"... there was no more time.  May had come.  HOLYSHITBALLS HOW DID THAT HAPPEN?!

Panic.  Instant 10/10 on the freak-out scale.

Despite a constant stream of amazing text message pep talks from Jeannie, I was pretty much a ball of nerves all week.  Then my newly refinished basement became a giant feces receptacle, and that pretty much did me in.  I was a freaking mess all day that Friday.  There was some crying, some hiding in bed with my head under a pillow, and one fairly spectacular angry-pseudo-Jew smackdown on the fine folks at Mr. Rooter.  It was not a good day.

Saturday didn't start out much better.  After spending my morning dealing with plumbers, contractors, insurance agents, and a disaster restoration crew (love having that van parked in my driveway... makes the neighbors a little nervous, I imagine), I had to go to the Health and Fitness Expo to pick up my bib and race packet.  This was completely overwhelming for me.  The sheer number of people at the Expo totally freaked me out... I'd known that marathon day in Pittsburgh was a big deal and attracted big numbers, but seeing all those people in one place made me realize just how huge this thing was.  And that was a mere fraction of the people I'd be running with the following day.

THE FOLLOWING DAY.  GAH!!!!

The race I'd been imagining/planning/dreading was TOMORROW.  I hadn't trained.  I had no strategy to survive this thing.  I had no idea what to expect on race day, or where I needed to be and when, or what the hell I was doing once I got there.  I was clueless... feeling very lost, and completely scared shitless.

So, I did what I've learned is the smartest way to handle fear: I asked for help from people who are smarter/stronger/more badass than myself.  I sent out a plea via social media, asking for advice, pointers, suggestions, anything to make the upcoming event seem less scary.  I texted my oldest friend Ericka, admitting that I was freaking out and hoping she had some words of encouragement.  I leaned on Jeannie (that poor woman...), soaking up her infinite wisdom and trying my best to believe all of her positive talk.  I did anything I could to get through the day... with a little help from my friends.

And, wow, did they ever come through!

My phone, inbox, and Facebook wall were inundated with the most incredible flood of pep talks, supportive sentiments, race day tips and pointers, strategy suggestions, and more encouragement than I ever could have hoped for.  Friends from the box, coworkers, family members, people I hadn't spoken to in years... so many people came forward to show their support and offer their advice.  It was overwhelming, really, but in the best possible way.  Ericka, in typical BFF fashion, pulled out an award-worthy pep talk full of Will Ferrell references (because everything in life worth doing can somehow be linked back to a Will Ferrell movie) that managed to make me laugh amidst my ridiculous freak-out.  Jeannie outdid herself with an all-day, non-stop stream of awesomeness via text message, giving me no choice but to smile.  (Have I mentioned that I have the best best friends ever?)  Just amazing.  All of it.

With so much love and support coming in from all sides, even my crazy brain wasn't able to stay in a bad place for long.  By Saturday evening, I was feeling surprisingly calm.  My 10/10 freak-out had dulled to a buzz of anxiety... but, good anxiety.  Slowly, I started to realize what was really happening.  I was going to run my first half marathon.  I was going to accomplish an enormous goal.  And although it might not go as I'd always envisioned it would, crossing that finish line was going to feel pretty incredible, no matter who was or wasn't there, or what the time clock said.  I was going to face an enormous fear, yet again... and this time, I thought, I would come out on top.  How could I not, with so many people on my side?

I spent that evening doing as many calming things as I could come up with.  Spent some time with my horse.  Went for a long walk with the dogs.  Pulled some weeds.  (Yes, I find this oddly relaxing.  I'm a freak.)  Read a book.  Read and reread all of the wonderful, kind things people had written to me throughout the day.  Then it was time for an early bedtime.  I tried to fall asleep visualizing that moment when I crossed the finish line, as I had on so many occasions throughout the past year... but somehow, the vision wouldn't come.  Maybe because I wasn't sure what to expect now, or maybe because I was still disappointed that my cheering squad would not be what I'd originally envisioned.  But in any case, I just couldn't see it.  So instead, I conjured up the image of my favorite Girl WOD, Grace, and fell asleep to a string of beautiful 95-pound clean and jerks.  (Yeah.  Freak.)

Surprisingly, I slept like a champ until just before 3am, at which time I shot out of bed like a crazy person, wide awake as could be, in true pre-Open-WOD style.  The first emotion that set in was pure dread.  Shit, I thought to myself... it's here.  It's time.  I have to run 13.1 effing miles today.  3.1 more miles than I've ever run before in my life.  13.1 miles more than I've run in the past three months combined.  And I'm doing it ALL ALONE.  WHATTHEHELLAMIDOING?!?!?!?!

But after a few minutes of panic, I was able to calm down significantly.  I took a few deep breaths, grabbed my phone, and once again read through all of the amazing advice and pep talks and words of encouragement I'd received the previous day.  Read through the hilarious message from Ericka, and the beautiful words from Jeannie.  And I realized, as I let their words really sink in, that I wasn't alone at all.  Jeannie would be there.  Ericka would be there in spirit.  All of the wonderful people in my life who have encouraged me and cheered me on and wished me well... they would all be there, in a way, because I'd be carrying them with me.  The strength they'd given me would be with me through every step of those 13.1 miles, driving me forward and pushing me through when the going got tough. And there was no question about it... the going would get tough.  But suddenly, I felt like I could handle it.  My friends had given me what I needed most: faith.  The rest of it... courage, strength, drive... was already within me; already a part of who I am.  I just needed to trust that it would come out when the time came.

I was ready.  Wanting it... every piece of it.

The morning went by in an anxious but excited blur.  Before I knew it, it was time to meet up with Jeannie for our drive into the city.  On my way out the door, I grabbed a Sharpie in a moment of inspiration.  Before heading out to start my day, I wrote three sets of initials on the back of my race bib: "VT", "WG", and "TPA."  VT for Virginia Tech; all of my Hokie friends, Ericka, my VT equestrians.  WG for Walnut Grove and two of the best friends ever that I met while working there, Lynn and Alexis Layne.  TPA... obvious.  My box family.  These people, my dearest friends and greatest inspirations, are the ones I wanted to keep near to my heart while I tackled this beast.  As an afterthought, I also scribbled "EVERY PIECE" on the inside of my left wrist with Sharpie.  That way, I could keep some of the most important people in my life with me as I ran, and if I needed a reminder of what I was running for, it was right there where I could see it.  A few small reminders to keep me focused on the goal ahead. 

When I got into Jeannie's car at 5:30am, and she immediately asked me how I was feeling, I was able to answer honestly: good, but scared.  That fear continued to mount throughout the (WAY too short) drive into the city, but my glorious chauffeur did a wonderful job of keeping my brain occupied with intermittent periods of loud music (you'll never guess what we listened to...) and distracting conversation.  Before I could really process what was happening, we were parking the car, gathering up my shit, and starting the walk to the corrals.  Thank God for Jeannie... that walk would have been the perfect opportunity for a 12/10 freak-out had it not been for her.  Instead, I was able to breathe, focus on her words, get out of my head a little bit, and take in the views of the city at sunrise.  It was a gorgeous, clear, cool morning, and the sights were breathtaking.  As we crossed the Roberto Clemente bridge, I was struck by how beautiful it all was, with the colorful sky reflecting off of the river and giving the city a surreal glow.  And for a moment, I felt the excitement from the night before creep back into my brain.  I was going to be running through all of this beauty.  That was going to be awesome.

But the closer we got to the corrals, and the more congested the streets became, the more my nerves chased that excitement right out of my head.  After waiting in line for a porta-john and a little bit of wandering around in search of our final destination (all the while with panic starting to creep up on me all over again), we reached the corrals.

I immediately felt terrified, and lost, and completely overwhelmed by the sheer number of people and the apparent chaos of everyone crammed into small spaces, being herded to their respective corrals like cattle.  In addition to terror, I was also hit with a wave of enormous gratitude that Jeannie was with me.  She calmly guided me through the masses, me following along behind like a scared puppy, and led me to a relatively quiet spot just outside of the corrals so I could get situated before heading in.  There wasn't much to be said as I stripped off my layers, pinned on my bib, and did a last-minute gear check, but I was so glad not to be alone in that moment.  I was terribly scared for the rapidly approaching time when I would have to part ways with my friend, join the masses in my corral, and line up to start the race.  So, I did what any logical person would do: I put off that moment as long as possible.  I readjusted my number... twice.  I fiddled around with my SPI belt.  I re-tied my shoes five or six times.  Switched my iPod holder from one arm to the other, and then back.  I was stalling like a champ.  But all too soon, the race volunteers started closing off the corrals, and I knew it was time.  After a final frantic hug, I was swept off with the thousands of other people shoving their way into the corrals at the last minute. 

And just like that, I was on my own.

Inside the corral, it was mayhem.  People were practically standing on top of eachother, and I couldn't even stretch my quads out without kicking three other runners.  Chaos.  I realized a bit too late that I was in Corral C instead of my assigned Corral E with the other slow people, which caused additional panic, but by that time it was too late to make the switch.  So instead, I stood in my 18 square inches of space in Corral C, trying not to freak out, trying to think of positive things.  I went over all of the advice I'd received the previous day: drink at every water stop, even if you don't feel thirsty.  Read people's signs, because they are entertaining and make the time pass more quickly.  Stay to the outside so you can high-five the kids.  Let the crowd carry you when you get tired.  Take the foil blanket at the finish line, even if you don't think you need it.  Eat a gel every 45 minutes.  Save your energy for the hills at the end.  Just keep moving forward, no matter what.  Remember to breathe.  Don't give up.  Just keep moving.

As the moments before gun time ticked away, my panic mounted.  I couldn't help but think about my family and friends, at home in their cozy beds... perhaps they were onto something?  Perhaps this really is a freaking crazy thing to do on a Sunday morning?  In a desperate attempt to distract myself, I grabbed my iPhone and started scrolling through my carefully compiled "Songs To Make 13.1 Miles Suck Less" playlist for the perfect starting song.  As I was hunting for an appropriately energizing tune, a text message popped up.  From Jeannie.

Love you!  So proud of you.  Time to fuck shit up, Emily.  Want it.  Every piece of it.  Every step.  See you at the finish line.  3, 2, 1... go!

And just as I finished reading this, "Renegade" started blasting over the loudspeaker.  Suddenly, the energy in the corral swiftly changed from anxiety to excitement, and people started moving to the beat of the iconic Yinzer tune, some shouting out the lyrics.  And I felt the excitement, too.  I don't know whether it was the well-timed text message, the music, the crowd, the hugeness of the moment, or a combination of everything... but whatever the reason, I suddenly felt invincible.  Energized.  Ready.  I wanted to run.

As the ten-second countdown blasted from speakers and filled the city streets with an incomparable energy unlike anything I've ever felt, I knew I was ready.  3.. 2... 1... 

Somewhere ahead of me, the gun sounded, and I knew that some insanely speedy Kenyans were embarking on a 26.2-mile adventure that would probably take them significantly less time than half of that distance was going to take me.  But I wasn't worried about them.  Or anything else, really.  It was a beautiful morning in a city I love.  The energy was amazing.  Somewhere out there, my best friend was waiting to cheer me on.  And I was moments away from attacking my biggest goal.  This moment, this day, this journey... already epic.  Now all I had to do was run.

Everyone around me surged forward as first Corral A, then Corral B, emptied out.  Before I knew it, I was approaching the enormous yellow archway that marked the starting line.  The congestion began to thin out slightly as people began to find their stride, and I did the same.  And as I crossed under that ugly yellow archway, I felt an enormous smile spread across my face, because I knew that I wanted it.  Every piece, every step.  Let's do this.

Usually in any run of any distance, my first mile is by far the hardest.  But that morning, I felt amazing from the first few steps.  Between the adrenaline, the crowds, and the amazing energy from my fellow runners, I was glad for the congestion during that first mile, because I'm pretty sure I would have taken off like a bat out of hell and been completely shot by mile 5.  Instead, I remembered some of the wise advice I'd been given: don't waste energy weaving around to pass people in the beginning.  Go with the flow, and make up time when things thin out.  So I did just that, pacing myself behind a random girl with a shirt that said "If you're reading this, I'm not last" on the back (vowing to pass her later) and let myself enjoy the rhythm of my strides, the cheers from the people lining the street, and the incredible atmosphere around me.  That first mile flew by, and as I'd been so wisely advised, the congestion started to thin out significantly by mile marker 2 as everyone found their pace.  Feeling good, I decided to pick it up a notch as I started through the Strip District.  Passed t-shirt girl and a few others.  So far, the course was wonderfully flat, heavily populated with spectators, and full of excellent signs.  There were a few iffy moments on that Strip District stretch: first, when the relay runners from a later corral started blowing past me like I was at a dead standstill, and again a moment later when a woman running next to me ran past a huge crowd of people who were cheering for her, holding posters with her picture on them and going completely crazy as we approached.  For a minute there, my energy faltered.  I felt slow for the first time, and the sight of my fellow runner's enormous smile as she ran past her enthusiastic cheering squad conjured up thoughts of my original vision of this race: my friends and family, the posters, the cheers.  I wouldn't be having that moment today, and for just a second, the thought threw me off a bit.  But then I remembered the hastily scribbled lettering on the back of my race bib, and thought about my Hokies, and Ericka, and Layne and Lynn, and Ericka, and my TPA family.  And I looked at the Sharpie reminder on my arm: Every Piece.  And I remembered two things: first, that I wasn't really alone.  And second, that I really wasn't doing this for anyone else, anyways.  This one was for me.  I surged on.

By the time I hit the 16th Street Bridge, I was feeling good again.  I was right on pace for where I wanted to be time-wise, perhaps even a little ahead of my original plan, and I continued to feel strong.  The spectators on that bridge were awesome, and energized me further.  It occured to me, as I high-fived a particularly excited bunch of super-cute children, that I wasn't just surviving this race... I was actually enjoying it.  Loving every minute of it.  Who would have thought?

I picked up my pace even a bit more as I came off the bridge and rounded East Ohio Street.  Near mile marker 4, I encountered my first familiar face in the crowd: my friend Becca and her adorable daughter Emma.  Emma's dad (a fellow TPA athlete) was also running the half, so she had constructed a sign for him, and a sign on the back of that cheering on the rest of us.  So freaking cute:

It was a wonderful surprise, and a great feeling to have a sign and a cheering squad after all, even if they weren't specifically intended for me.  The familiar faces gave me a much needed boost as I approached the second of six bridges on the course.  I felt another big smile spread across my face, and another rush of adrenaline hit me.  And then, as I started across the Rachel Carson Bridge, I heard my name being shouted and I knew I'd found the one person who was there specifically for me: there was Jeannie, my one-man cheering squad, waving and yelling encouragement from her perch on the bridge.  I don't think I've ever been so glad to see anyone in my entire life.  It was an awesome moment, and one that I will remember for years to come: running strong, the cool breeze, the morning sun reflecting off of the river, the amazing city views all around me, the enthusiastic spectators, and my dear friend among them, telling me what she knew I needed to hear... that I could do this.  And as I caught her eye and waved, I knew she was right.  I had a total girl moment then, as tears welled up in my eyes, completely overwhelmed by the pride and adrenaline and gratitude that came crashing over me.  As I ran on and Jeannie's voice faded into the background behind me, I felt a renewed determination.  I cranked up the volume on my music and increased my pace.  You've got this, I told myself with a smile.  You're killing it.

I continued to feel amazing as I looped around to cross back over the river via the Andy Warhol Bridge, and as I passed the first relay exchange and the 6-mile marker on my run through the North Side, I glanced at my trusty Garmin to realize that miles 4 and 5 had been my fastest yet, and were significantly faster than my original planned pace time.  I was starting to feel pretty winded at that point, but kept telling myself to keep pushing until mile 7, at which point I would allow myself to slow down a bit.  Something about mile 7 being more than halfway through seemed like a good place to pace myself and take a breather.  I could keep up my current pace until then.

Or.. could I?  The spectators had thinned out significantly at that point, and I could feel some of my earlier adrenaline slipping away.  As the buzz wore off, it was replaced by other feelings... feeling tired.  Feeling sore.  Feeling the beginnings of blisters that I'd only just then begun to notice on my left foot.  Feeling a little bit of aching in my knees, which hadn't seen this much pavement since February.  Yep... it was definitely starting to get hard.  But, on I ran.

Crossing the West End Bridge, I finally made it to mile marker 7, and backed off of my pace somewhat.  By then, I was definitely getting tired.  And I quickly realized why everyone had told me to save energy for the second half of the course... none of the lovely flatness of the first 7 miles.  Shit was getting intense.  But there were a ton of hilariously rowdy spectators on Steuben Street, some magnificently awesome signs, and a water stop coming up, so that helped to keep me moving.  At the water stop on Carson Street just before the 8-mile marker, I let myself walk for the first time.  I told myself it was because I was tired of spilling water all over myself by running through these hydration stations... but in reality, I was pretty well gassed by that point.  Definitely feeling my lack of training.

So I made my way to the far right side of the road to get out of everyone's way, and slowed to a walk.  I told myself, You have 30 seconds to walk, and then you are going to get your ass moving again.  Well, let me tell you, that was the fastest fucking 30 seconds of my life.  By the time I'd had a chance to suck in some air and slurp down a dixie cup of lukewarm water, it was go time.  But as soon as I started running again, I knew instantly that walking had been a bad idea.  Getting moving again was a bitch.  I started to feel all of my aches a bit more acutely, realizing that the family of young blisters I'd noticed on my left foot a few miles back were now full-grown adults, and had been joined by small cousins on my right foot as well.  Knees felt rough.  Ankles were starting to ache a bit, too.  But the crowds through Station Square were great, and I pushed through, slowly but surely.

By the time I hit the South Side, I was pretty sure I was screwed.  Perhaps it was because I've never spent any time there in the light of day (or sober, for that matter), but somehow, that stretch of Carson Street felt infinitely longer than I'd ever realized.  Miles 9 and 10 were a blur of absolute misery.  Like, horrible.  I found myself regretting my relatively speedy pace for the beginning of the race, and cursing the day that I fell off of my training plan.  By that point, I was alternating periods of walking regularly in between short and rather pathetic bursts of running/jogging/rapid stumbling.  I.  Was. STRUGGLING.  All of the excitement and pride and unadulterated joy that I'd felt earlier were gone, replaced by some serious pissed-offness.  Who the hell runs for fun, anyways?  Who actually wants to feel like this?  What the HELL was I thinking?  This is FUCKING HORRIBLE.

There was some slight consolation when the half marathon course turned left to cross the Birmingham Bridge, and the full course continued on towards miseries unknown, and I thanked God, Jesus, Buddha, the guy next to me, and anyone else within earshot for the fact that I was not, in fact, crazy enough to ever want to run a full marathon.  As we crossed over the final bridge of the course and I dragged myself past the 11-mile marker, the initial notes of Enter Sandman by Metallica came floating through my earbuds.  If you're not a Virginia Tech Hokie and have never been to a Thursday night game at Lane Stadium, you probably have absolutely no concept of why this song is so freaking awesome.  But, just trust me on this one.  The timing couldn't have been better.  For a moment, my brain was transported to a happier place:  I wasn't limping my ass across a bridge in Pittsburgh... I was on the 50 yard line with all of my friends, jumping up and down like lunatics while the Hokies take the field.  I suddenly felt reenergized.  I was ready to finish this bitch of a run.  I would bust out these last 2.1 miles as fast as I could and finish this thing strong.  Yes.  That's the plan.  Finish big.  Bring it!

And then... the hill.

That fucking freaking hill.

I need to start cleaning up my language, helping old ladies cross the street, and regularly attending some kind of church, because I imagine hell is a lot like that hill, and quite frankly, I have no interest in ever facing that again.  It was awful... just a cruel, cruel joke.  "Hey, you're almost done with your first half marathon... JUST KIDDING!  You still have to survive this evil, life-sucking bitch of a hill that NEVER, EVER ENDS!  Ha ha!"

I wasn't laughing.

I tried.  I tried to run up that hill, I really did.  But I couldn't do it.  My knees were absolutely screaming.  I couldn't breathe.  There were continent-sized blisters exploding on my feet with every step I took.  Everything hurt.  I went to my last-ditch strategy... distraction.  The signs and spectators just weren't doing it anymore.  I'd been prepared for this; I'd come up with a whole arsenal of thoughts for this exact moment.  I thought about my friends, and how excited they would be for me if I could finish this thing.  I thought of my grandma, who was one of my favorite people in the world and the first person to believe that I could ever do this... she passed away last Memorial Day, but I knew she would have been so proud.  I thought about Boston, and how so many of the people injured there would probably give anything to be running up this hill right now in my place.  Thought about the prospect of never running again after this stupid race was over.  Thought about how many calories I was burning.  But in the end, the one thought that kept me going was the thought of my TPA family.  The ones running the relay; the ones who were already finished and were gathering to cheer on their teammates.  Jeannie, waiting for me at the finish line.  The biggest badasses I have ever met, without exception... we are CrossFitters.  And CrossFitters don't quit.  And sometime, in the not too distant future, I'd be with them, and there would be a spectacularly enormous margarita in my hand, and this damn hill would be nothing but a memory; just one more particularly beastly WOD in the books.

So, I kept going.  One foot in front of the other.  Walking (barely), but moving forward, moving towards that finish line, towards those people, towards that margarita.  I felt like I was dying through every step of it, but I didn't stop.  And eventually, finally, I was at the top of that stupid fucking freaking hill.

HALLELUJAH!

If the hill in Oakland is what hell looks like, I'm pretty sure heaven is very similar to the feeling when you reach the top, round the bend, hit mile marker 12, and realize that the entire rest of the race is DOWNHILL.  Thank you, God, (and course designers... you are almost forgiven) for that beautiful, blessed, magnificent 1.1 mile stretch of significant downhill slope.  Absolutely glorious.

I don't know where it came from, but I was able to dig down deep and pull out some last emergency reserve of energy for the final mile.  As soon as I hit that downhill stretch, I broke back into a run, vowing to ignore the pain and the sweat and the inability to breathe... vowing to bust out this last mile and finish in a way I could be proud of.  I glanced at Garmin, and was shocked to find that the seemingly endless hill had not taken up as much time as I'd thought.  2:16:58.  I realized, with no small amount of surprise, that despite walking almost the entire 11th mile, I still had a shot at making it across the finish line in less than 2:30:00, which had been my original goal back in December, when I was actually training and had high hopes for this race.  13:02 left to exceed my own expectations... to finish this thing in what I considered to be a respectable time for a former fatty who hates to run.  13:02 to run 1.1 miles.  Doable.

I took off.

For that last mile, the pain and suckiness seemed to evaporate.  I was focused on one thing and one thing only: crossing that finish line before 2:30:00.  I could barely feel my legs at that point, but they seemed to be following commands, so I pushed on.  I knew I was moving fast (for me, at least) because I was passing people.  I refused to look back at my watch until after I crossed the finish line, because I knew it would just throw me off.  So, I ran.  I pushed.  I refused to let my mind stray from my mantra, which I repeated over and over again in my head: Every Piece.  Every last step.  Want it.

I don't think I've ever felt as strong as I felt at the moment when the giant finish line arch came into view, and I knew without even looking at the clock that I was going to make my goal.  It just pushed me to run faster.  The sidewalks near the finish line were packed with cheering spectators.  As I ran that stretch, I heard Jeannie's voice coming from somewhere to my right, and it put a huge smile on my face.  But I didn't look for her... there would be time for that soon enough.  For now, I was focused solely on that ugly yellow arch.  I passed the 13-mile marker, dug deep, found my finish line sprint (thank you, Tammy, for the warm-up sprints that I am constantly bitching about... I swear, I will never complain about them again!!!), and went for it.

I didn't even need to recall the advice I'd received about smiling for the cameras as I crossed the finish line... I was already grinning like a lunatic.  I couldn't have smiled any bigger if I tried.  With a final push, I was at the arch... under it... beyond it.  And then, I was finished.  I'd done it.  I'd finished my first half marathon.  The finish line clock read 2:36:18.  And, according to my watch, I'd done it in just over 2:27:00.

For a few minutes, it didn't register.  My mind was blank of anything but relief as I slowed to a walk and lined up with all of the other finishers to collect my foil blanket, water bottle, snacks, and a random commemorative plastic cup.  Even as a smiling volunteer placed my medal around my neck and congratulated me, it still hadn't really sunk in.

And then, as I was filing out of the finish line area with everyone else, I felt my phone vibrate in my arm holster, and checked to see who could possibly be texting me at a time like this.  To my surprise, it was another text from Jeannie, this one containing only one word:

Epic.

I looked up, and there she was, pushing through the crowds to get to me.  And as she rushed up to give me the biggest hug ever, it all hit me.  The most enormous wave of emotion you can possibly imagine... joy, relief, excitement, accomplishment, pride... so much pride.  There weren't even words for what I was feeling, so I said nothing, just hugged her back and let that wave crash over me, revelling in it, basking in it.  Because at that moment, I knew that Jeannie was right: this was epic.  Completely, unquestionably, 100% epic.  And it didn't matter that there were no posters and no giant cheering squad to greet me at the end.  Because I had accomplished my biggest goal to date.  I'd punched fear in the face, yet again.  I'd done something that I honestly never thought I could do, and I did it better than I ever could have expected.  And at that moment, all that mattered to me was that I'd done it, and that the one person in the world who could truly, fully appreciate what that meant was there with me.  And that was more than enough.  In fact, it was everything.  It wasn't the finish line moment I'd been imagining for so many months... it was better.  It was perfect.

I was still in an elated daze as we made our way through the crowds, Jeannie once again navigating because I couldn't seem to wrap my brain around anything but the enormously satisfying weight of the hard-earned medal around my neck.  This part of the day is a happy blur.  All I remember, as we made our way back past the starting corrals and through the same crowded streets we'd walked that morning, was thinking how much less scary it all looked than it had three hours ago.  It felt different.  I felt different.  Braver.  Stronger.  Invincible.

After a bit of wandering, we found our way to the designated TPA meeting spot near mile marker 25 of the full marathon course.  And you know what?  That finish line moment in my head... the one I'd always imagined and was so sad to be missing out on?  I got it, right there on a random crowded sidewalk, when I least expected it.  Only it wasn't my parents, or my sisters, or the rest of my biological family.  It was my TPA family.  And it was freaking perfect.  I was met with an unexpected but completely touching round of enthusiastic hugs and congratulations, one after the other, until I was completely, delightfully overwhelmed with emotion all over again.  These people... my coach, my boxmates... are complete badasses.  These are people who could have lapped me twice in that race and still finished without breaking a sweat; people who could have run that distance carrying me on their shoulders, for God's sake.  Strong, fast, amazing athletes, every one of them.  But the fact that, despite all that, they still got excited for me about my admittedly mediocre half marathon time... amazing.  They just get it.  And somehow, through some lucky twist of fate, life had brought me into their midst.  And I've never been more thankful for that fact than I was at that moment, on that sidewalk, sharing one of my very greatest victories with some of my very favorite people.

Epic.  In every way.

We spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon cheering on the TPA relay teams' finishers and the full marathon runners.  The atmosphere was incredible, and although the time passed by in a happy blur, watching the amazing runners push through that last stretch was the perfect way to keep up the emotion and adrenaline of the morning.  Afterwards, we all met back up at Mad Mex for some well-deserved Cinco de Mayo margaritas.  I couldn't have asked for a better way to celebrate my accomplishment, or better people to celebrate it with.

  After an hour of laughter and race recaps (and two awesomely enormous margaritas), my adrenaline had started to fade.  Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to go home, lay in the sunshine, and process the day's events.  So after running a few errands (and wearing my medal to the grocery store, pet store, gas station, and several laps around the neighborhood... I have no shame), I went home, collected my dogs, and plopped myself in a lounge chair in the sunshine for the remainder of the afternoon.  So many thoughts were swirling through my brain, but the one thing that I kept coming back to was the Sharpie reminder on my arm.  It was faded and had smeared some, but the words were still there:

The day had been such a roller coaster of emotions.  Like the half marathon course itself, the experience had contained fantastic highs and craptacular lows, and everything in between.  But, taking all things into account, I wouldn't change a minute of it.  Like everything challenging and scary I've faced this year, there were pieces that weren't fun... pieces that made me question what the hell I'm doing and why the hell I didn't just stay on the couch with a family size bag of Doritos for the past 15 months.  But when you put all the pieces together, the result was something so special that it made all of those crappy parts completely worthwhile.  Two years ago, if I had told anyone in the world that I planned to ever even consider running a half marathon, they would have laughed at me and told me to go eat a cheeseburger.  And now, here I am... a different person in so many ways than I was back then.  I can officially say that I've done it; I've run a half marathon.  I can check it off the list.  It scared the shit out of me, but I did it anyways.  And I survived.  Every time I do that... every time I look fear in the face and come out on top... I get a little stronger.  Maybe someday I won't be so scared of these challenges.  Or maybe I'll always be a complete basketcase before an important event or competition, no matter how many I face.  (God knows I am currently in full-on FREAK OUT mode for tomorrow's Patriot Games... but that is a blog post for a different day, because just thinking about it makes me want to puke on my keyboard.)  But either way, I'm going to keep on doing these things, facing my fears, getting stronger and braver and better as the years go by.  Because it's the scary things that make me feel really, truly alive.  And don't we all need that every now and then?

Like everything else I've done and written about in this blog, the half marathon taught me many things, about myself and about life in general.  The biggest thing I learned on May 5th: just because something doesn't turn out the way you expected it to, doesn't mean it won't be perfect.  Sometimes, the unexpected can so far exceed our expectations that we realize we've been expecting the wrong things all along.  I also learned that the expression "You can't choose your family" is a load of crap.  Sure, we all have a family into which we were born.  But some of us are lucky enough to have another kind of family as well: the family we build as we go.  People who support us, and understand us, and appreciate us for who we are... not because they're related to us and they have to, but because they love us.  And sometimes, that's the family you want by your side as you face life's biggest challenges.

I also learned that I fucking freaking HATE that hill.

So, a quick recap.  Pittsburgh Half Marathon 2013: CHECK.  Clock time: 2:36:18.  Chip time: 2:27:03.  (2:58 below my original goal time.)  Fastest miles: 13, 5, 4.  Slowest miles: 12, 10, 9.  Worst part: fucking freaking hill.  Best part: finishing. :-)  Final conclusion: SUCCESS.

Will I ever run another half marathon?  Probably.  Despite all of my bitching and moaning for a full week after the half, as my blisters popped one by one and every joint in my body went through various stages of pain and agony (my suggestion: if you're going to run 13.1 miles, your body would appreciate it if you TRAIN FOR IT first), I imagine it won't be my last.  I'm already considering running the Buffalo Creek Half this fall.  And maybe next year I'll be on one of the TPA relay teams.  Who knows?  I have plenty on my plate to keep me busy until then.... not the least of which is tomorrow's Patriot Games competition at RAW, which is approximately 4.98 BILLION times scarier to me than running a half marathon ever was.  But, again, we're not going to talk about that right now because it will put me into an epic panic spiral, and it's way too early in the day for that shit.  I will say only this... please pray for me not to be a total screw-up and not to let down my ridiculously amazing team.  (Someone please remind me how I ended up on a team with three absurdly badass athletes?  Weakest link, anyone?  I don't know how this happened, but I probably should have been voted off this island a long time ago...)  But, regardless of my performance tomorrow, it will be another fear faced, another thing to check off the list.  And my family will be there to cheer me on, no matter how badly I suck.  And that, in itself, is pretty epic.

And, if worse comes to worst, I can always come home, put on my half marathon medal, and remind myself just how amazing this journey really is, when all of the pieces line up.

*This blog post brought to you by Operation Keep Emily's Brain Occupied,

courtesy of the Patriot Games.*