What seems hard now will one day be your warm-up.
~Author Unknown
The excuses came quickly and all-too-easily to my tongue, but I could tell that my doctor was unimpressed. The reality about my weight was staring me in the face — in the numbers on the scale, in my lab results, on the tags of my clothes — but somehow I had managed to convince myself otherwise. By carefully curating photos that appeared of me online (bad angle, bad outfit, delete, delete, delete) and completely avoiding scales, I had managed to delude myself for a long time. Now, the truth came crashing down like an anvil as I sat, vulnerable in my crinkly paper gown, and wavered under my doctor’s steady gaze.
She was kind but clear: Things needed to change.
I was only 25 years old, but that had been long enough for me to become so fully entrenched in my lifestyle that change seemed utterly impossible. Even as a child, I preferred arts and crafts to playing in the back yard. Any attempts by my parents to involve me in sports were met with resistance, tears, and — if I was forced to participate — stubborn apathy or exaggerated failure. Make me play tee ball? I’ll pick flowers and have a seat in the outfield. Sign me up for swim team? Enjoy my dramatic flailing as I pull myself along the lane marker.
Eventually, I was allowed to drop all athletic endeavors entirely.
I found success in my own way in painting, writing, baking, and caring for animals. I was perfectly happy to avoid breaking a sweat. I just couldn’t see the appeal. Watching runners slogging their way down the sidewalk from the driver’s seat of my car, my only thought was, Why?
Unfortunately, my wide range of hobbies did not do much for my health. As I got older and moved from college to a desk job, I became fully entrenched in a daily routine: shower, work, couch, Netflix, dinner, bed. Most of my week revolved around sitting or eating, and it began to take its toll. I had to buy larger clothing. I started to get winded from just a few flights of stairs. At one point, I decided to “go for a run,” and I barely made it to the end of my street.
I sat there in that doctor’s office, my face burning and my eyes fixed on the doctor’s hands to avoid meeting her eyes. And I swore to myself that this was not how I’d remember my young-adult years — tired, sick, and sad.
And so I gave running — that hobby that had always looked more like a punishment — another try.
The next few months passed in a blur of sweat and emotion that cycled from pride to discouragement to dejection back to determination and pride again. I was slow — and my “runs” contained a lot of walking. But as the weeks passed, I found I could go farther and farther without stopping, and I started to understand why people do this for fun.
Once I had a few 5Ks under my belt, I decided to jump in with both feet and signed up for my first half marathon. Words can’t do justice to the fear that roiled my gut as I stood awaiting the starting gun, or the exhilaration that surged through my veins when I realized around mile 9 that I was actually going to finish. When I crossed the timing mat at the end, I found myself weeping openly with a mixture of relief, pride, and joy.
Since that race, I’ve done countless more — including marathons, triathlons, and even a few obstacle courses. I’ve found my favorite paths and trails around town, where I chase mental clarity, pound out my frustrations from a long day at work, and simply breathe deeply in a multi-hour moving meditation. Running gives me agency over my own body. It makes me feel at once powerful and humble, invigorated and at peace.
Two years after that initial, uncomfortable doctor’s appointment, I changed insurers and found myself under a new physician’s care. She performed the routine annual exam and began to chat with me as we finished up.
“Well, I can clearly tell that you’re an athlete. What sort of activities do you do?”
An athlete.
For a moment, I was too confused to respond.
But I quickly beat back the tendrils of self-doubt and answered, “I’m a runner.”
It’s a word that still feels foreign. After two years, I still wear the label like an untailored suit. But it’s mine to claim, and I’m learning to do so proudly.
I am still a painter, writer, and baker. But I am also now a runner. Stepping out of my comfort zone did not mean losing a piece of myself; I simply gained another that I did not even know I had room for.
— Michelle Anderson —