Turn down the volume of your negative inner voice and create a nurturing inner voice to take its place.
~Beverly Engel, The Nice Girl Syndrome
A few years ago, when I set a pie-in-the-sky goal to qualify for the Boston Marathon, I followed a training plan, did everything I should have, and worked hard, but my mental confidence was never really there. Some days, I was strong, but most of the time I was exhausted — not by the miles, but by the fight with my thoughts. After missing my goal by a matter of minutes, I decided it was not my body that needed to train harder. It was my mind.
So I set out to do a little experiment in my local 5K. I vowed to keep track of every negative thought that came in, and replace it with a positive one, just to see what happened.
I love the 5K distance because it always pushes me to run a little faster than I am used to. The most challenging part of a 5K for me, though, is the runners around me. There have been countless races in which I should have finished first, but I let the other competitors and my negative self-talk get the best of me. I have always had issues with crumbling under pressure.
So I decided to try out this strategy. So simple, right? For every negative thought that came in, I would replace it with a positive one. I just needed to be aware of all of my thoughts. That was my only goal for this race — not a personal record, not to win — just to control my thoughts.
As I lined up at the start, I put myself behind a sea of what had to be the local girls’ cross-country team. Great.
My first negative thought came in… I am at least 20 years older than these girls. I followed it with a positive one… Yup, and you have 20 years of experience on them. They don’t stand a chance.
As I stood there anxiously, I felt my heart start to pound and my legs get shaky. Good, use that energy.
The gun went off, and three girls sprinted like a bat out of hell ahead of me. Negative thought: Crap. Positive thought: Don’t worry, you know how those young ones can be. They don’t know how to pace. Get close to them, but don’t worry.
About a half-mile in, I checked my pace: 6:15.
Negative: I can’t keep that! Positive: Says who? You feel fine. Relax your shoulders and settle here.
I ended up being right behind the lead girl by mile 1, and I decided to just hang there. But shortly after that decision, I noticed she started to lose a bit of steam.
I started off negative: Don’t go now. Just stay here where it’s safe. And then I recovered and thought, What? You feel strong right now. Give a little push here.
So I surged past her and had a serious boost of confidence and energy as I took the lead. As far as I knew, she was the only other girl who was close to me.
Well, look at me! I am so fast! I cannot believe I am going to win! I am awesome! I am…
A little teenybopper no older than 14 flew past me out of nowhere after mile 2. You have got to be kidding me. Well, there goes my lead. I knew it was too good to be true. I quickly corrected my thoughts: There it goes? Don’t just give it up, you pansy! You can stay with her! You got this!
She was legitimately sprinting. I became frustrated, and I felt myself falling to defeat and self-hate on the inside.
My legs are dead. Correction: They are alive.
Who did I think I was to actually win a race? Correction: You are a fast runner, that’s who. Stay with her.
Then I found myself looking at this girl ahead of me in comparison. Look at her butt. That is a runner’s butt. I couldn’t even fit one cheek in those shorts. Who am I kidding here? But I reminded myself, You have a strong butt. That is an advantage.
For what seemed like an eternity, I stayed right on her tail as best I could, huffing and puffing along the way, replacing every negative thought that came my way with a positive one. At one point, we passed a bank sign that read the current temperature: 91 degrees.
It’s too hot to be running this fast. You really should play it safe. Slow down. Second place is still really good. I corrected that to Oh, shut up. You love the heat, and you know it. Stay here. First is better. You know you want first.
At one point, one of my favorite Fall Out Boy songs came on in my headphones called, “The Mighty Fall.” I found myself repeating: “She will fall. She will fall. She will FALL.” (Of course, I didn’t want her to actually fall — just fall back.)
Then somewhere around mile 2.7, she stopped abruptly from her sprint and started walking. I literally almost tripped over her. I could not believe it.
Worried somebody else was going to threaten my potential victory, I put on the best pump-me-up song I could find and pushed on.
My body feels so heavy. I changed that to I feel like a feather.
What if somebody is right behind me? That turned into So what if they are? They can’t catch you.
I can’t do this turned into You ARE doing it.
Then I crossed the finish line as the first female, with a time of 21:16. This may not seem like an Olympic victory, but in my head it really felt like one. This was the first time I was ever able to control my thoughts during a run, and it was powerful. This was not a personal record for me, which is what makes it even more profound. Had I let those few girls beat me, I would have looked at my time and been confused and frustrated, knowing I could have run faster. But instead, I let my head win the race and let my body do what it knew how to do. This was not a matter of just trying to stay positive for the sake of it; I literally felt my body responding with each strong thought. It was a surreal experience.
Now here comes the comical part. At the awards ceremony, I was handed my fancy glass “First Female Finisher” plaque, and I was beside myself. Awkwardly, I asked a stranger nearby to take a picture of me with it. As soon as I gave her my phone, I dropped the plaque, and it shattered into a million pieces. Yup. A couple of people standing around me gasped in horror and waited for me to burst into tears. But I laughed. Because this is me, folks. And nothing could steal the joy of that victory. NOTHING! Not even a pathetic yet typical clumsy act that I would normally beat myself up about in embarrassment. Today, I was a champion. Shattered plaque and all.
— Jill Diaz —