There were tears

Yesterday my mom told me that she thought about my blog posts while she was at the gym. She found them a wee bit discouraging because I talk so much about how running sucks. Well, it does. I will admit that I have made some serious progress during the past few weeks since starting on the path to a more fit Tasha, but still, it's a struggle.

Running has never been easy for me. Although I was an active child, once I hit puberty and my body started changing, the insecurities struck. I remember being in middle school and being required to participate in some sport during gym class. I was terrible at volleyball. I was terrible at basketball. I was moderately bad at badminton. I wasn't so great at track and field. I could burst with some initial power and I was strong, but I was awkward and didn't pick it up quickly. I had to go to one track meet. I had to throw a discus. It was the one "sport" I was felt kind of OK about. I just had to throw really hard in one direction. Easy enough. Right? Wrong. I had a serious crush on this guy named Chris. He was 6'2" and great at every sport. He waved at me and leaned against the fence watching. So I wound up (a real official term) and threw really hard determined to impress this boy. And it flew. Right into the fence behind me. With a loud thud the fence shook, metal clanking all the way to where he stood. I was mortified. I wanted to run away or cry or both. Thus, my fitness career ended. I had no interest in going out for any sports. I always just felt like a short chubby Greek girl in a sea of skinny American blondes.

Training for this half-marathon is the hardest thing I've ever done. "Wait, Tasha," you may say. "You have worked your way through school. You're starting your thesis. You work two, sometimes three jobs. How is running the hardest thing you've ever done?" I'll tell you. It doesn't come easy for me. I can be busy. I can work a lot. I can learn complicated concepts. I do well in school. I did well playing the violin. I was baking bread at 10. I am a learner. But I am not a runner. Not only is it physically hard for me. It's mentally hard for me. I am still riddled with some of those same insecurities that made me choke that day at the track in middle school. I don't look like a runner. I don't feel like a runner. I didn't learn to play sports easily. I could pick up algebra, but I couldn't throw a ball.

Today while running, battling a hill and the wind, I was overcome with the fear that I will fail in this effort. I will fail to overcome the hardest task I have ever put before myself. And in the midst of my run, the tears started flowing mixing with the sweat and falling down my cheeks, neck and welling in my sports bra. I continued to huff and puff and sob. I am faced with graduating with my master's in just a matter of months. I am faced with finishing a 70-page research paper filled with my own original research. I am faced with attempting to learn just enough French to be proficient to earn my MA. These are overwhelming objectives, but they don't scare me as much as this 13.1 miles.

But I pushed through. I willed myself to keep going. Even if I could only walk. I made it to the front gate of my apartment, and I almost turned in, but instead, I cranked up Flo Rida's "Club Can't Handle Me" and started to run again. I ran another half mile. The last quarter uphill and against the wind.