Face Down in the Dirt, Lessons From the Burpee Penalty

So, here I was in my gray matching quarter zip with my entire Spartan team surrounding me, all 16 of us.  It was a crisp sunny November day in Boston as I set out for vindication from a very lack luster racing year.  "We are Spartans,    AROO, AROO, AROO!"

With the battle cry we would take off up the stairs of Fenway Park.  Mid race, the course took us outside the stadium and we found ourselves standing in a parking lot at the spear throw.  Oh, I had this.  Aim with the left hand, rope attached to the spear over the fence in front of me so it doesn't get caught up in my feet, yes friends, I have made that mistake before, rear back, step and throw.  Here we go, the perfect throw.  Straight, headed for the target, yes I was a rock star.  That is..... until the spear started to descend too soon.  Despite the perfect trajectory and throw, there was not enough power to hit the target and it fell painfully short by two inches.  Two freaking inches.  There I was, face down in the dirt, hands in the gravel taking my burpee penalties in front of my entire team.  Way to go captain.  Burpee after burpee, gravel finding it's way into the palms of my hands, feeling the humility full force that went along with this moment. 

Before carrying on with this story, I guess I should be addressing the elephant in the room......  my blog  has been on hiatus.  Let's be transparent here.  Very few posts in the last twelve months, and you may be wondering why.  Let me keep it real.  Face down in the dirt burpeeing it out in front of all to see is probably the best metaphor for my life over the last few months.  Personal loss, like two dogs and a cat dying in 8 months, leaving us with no pets.  Professional struggles, other personal difficulties, accepting that yes, I am a COVID long hauler with a pile of pills to prove it.  Yes friends, truly face down in the dirt.  I found it hard to support my title as Mama Shark and be all inspirational when I was face down in the dirt for the whole world to see.

So, you can imagine my surprise when I was asked to give the keynote address for the Albany Women in Leadership Summit in May.  I accepted immediately, as I just needed a win, secretly hoping they would not find out I really am, in fact, face down in the dirt.  The topic?  Know Your Worth and How to Increase Your Value.  

I have spent the last few days thinking on this topic.  You know, when I have given presentations before it has always been based on research of various things and presenting information in a concise and organized way.  This is a different animal.  This is my personal thoughts on self worth.  I found myself thinking back to my gravel laden palms burpeeing it out in front of a crowd of onlookers, and how that didn't feel good.  Why?  What was the emotion that went with that?  Worthless.  The trials of the last few months..... worthless.  Now facing down this presentation I had to figure out how to climb out of the hole.    

I started to ask the question, who was it that told me I am worthless anyway?  Oh wait.  That was me.  What evidence did I have?  I didn't meet someone's standard.  Wait.  Someone.  Who was someone?  Well, there were lots of someones if I am being honest, but there's a theme here.  I gave my worth to others to manage.  I tied my worth to other people's vision.  What if I didn't?  What if I owned that.  What if instead of face down in the dirt, I celebrated coming through two bouts of COVID, a broken hip,  being in my 50's and out on the Spartan course anyway.  I would call that grit.  Grit is not worthless.  I began to examine the other struggles, amongst the disappointment there were wins.  I just had to look for them.  

As I put pen to paper, I began to realize, we are not always going to align with others' visions and how we fit into any given scenario.  In that crossroads is where we get to decide if that malalignment defines, or do we have the wherewithal to develop our own vision?  Can we take that missed trajectory and reset to get back up and move forward.

I'm here to tell you, I did get up from my burpee penalty, as the strong hands of my supportive teammates pulled me right up off the ground.  I did go back in the stadium for a couple more hard fought miles.  I ran more than I walked and finished out possibly my greatest race of the year surrounded by people who were not focused on my failure, but instead invested in lifting me up in the hard times and cheering on my success.  In the end, the penalty truly didn't matter, my vision for the race I set out to run and support system did.  

I think the trick to this self worth thing is to develop your own vision and stop giving your worth to someone else to manage.  Bring in the team that has faith in your vision and use that faith and support to build your worth.  It's only in that space that you can go in the right trajectory, only this time with a little  more power, allowing you to gloriously strike the target with staying power.  When this happens I am certain that you will start to see the best is yet to come.

Learning to Lead With My Left

"You swore and said,

'We are not shining stars'

This I know, I never said we are"

                                    -Fun

 Here I sit, two weeks fresh off the Spartan Trifecta weekend in Hawaii two weeks ago. Flanked with my trusty race team and a year of training behind me, I was ready to take this challenge. Three races, two days and roughly 26 miles on the mountain with countless obstacles.  We arrived a few days early to acclimate to the climate and time change and were ready to hit the course on Saturday.  We would take off for about four miles until we hit the hardest obstacle that we would encounter all weekend.  It was a mountain.  A steep mountain.  No flowery trails like Diamond Head, no steps, just steep rugged terrain for miles upon miles up, not to mention the equally steep miles and miles down.  I set out leading with my right leg, as my left leg was the one where I broke my hip five years ago, so leading with the right was always my habit in all things.  One horrific step after another, sliding back at times, cramped at times, and frankly shear misery as I began to wonder if I was ever getting off that picturesque mountain in paradise, any confidence I had was gone and I was shaken to my core.  

After four or five miles of that I'd like to tell you I wanted to cry, only that was not accurate.  To be fair, I actually cried.  The "I can't's" surely beat out the "I can's" at that point.  Certainly not the shining star I set out to be.  If it were not for my team, I know in my heart of hearts I would likely not have finished that brutal 15.5 miles in roughly ten hours on Saturday.  It was dark by the time I got done and I was physically and mentally exhausted.  Later that night, my right quad began shaking so hard, I looked like I was breakdancing.  Panic and doubt were setting in as I had a good 9 miles plus the next day.  Stretch, hydrate, eat.....  did it all, and took off at race number two, only to have my quad fire and fire beginning at 0.3 miles.  I could not take myself off the course.  I just couldn't.  I would ultimately tell my race team to just go on without me.  I would finish, but I was holding them back and I could not in good conscious do that.  

"If you're lost and alone,

and you're sinking like a stone,

Carry on"

So there I was, trudging along alone in the heat, leg firing, just trying to cover the distance and be done.  I stopped at two medical stations along the way.  One offered a trip off the mountain, um no.  The second a mustard packet, yeah well, that didn't help either.  Disappointment reigned supreme.  Months and months went into this and I was failing.  The question was why.  

"I like to think,

I can cheat it all,

To make up for the times I've been cheated on"

In those two very painful miles I had to admit what had happened in recent months.  I had completely removed the word,"No" from my vocabulary.  Extra shifts, extra tasks, travel, lack of sleep, overwhelming stressors, as regular 8-10 hour days gradually turned into 17 hour days as I attempted to conquer it all, somehow believing as long as I was moving I was invincible.  The thoughts all came firing at my suddenly very weary brain with the same force as my quad.  I finished, not even attempting the short race and truthfully sat and cried for a time until a very welcome friend showed up to help cheer the team on.  

"Though I've never been through hell like that,

I've closed enough windows to know you can never look back,"

You may be wondering what has happened in the two weeks since that race.  Make no mistake, as anyone on my race team will tell you, the gigantic pity party happened.  It just did.  They did their best to console me, and I love them for that.  Later, I had a heart to heart with my trainer who agreed coming off the course was the right thing to do, as he had been through similar, but the biggest pep talk came from deep down.  Let's be fair, I trained daily yes.  I ate healthy food, also yes.  Could I have done more?  Not with 17 hour days and overwhelming lists of shit to get accomplished every day.  I had to admit this is how I always do it, do whatever needs to be done no matter what the cost, but so is leading with my right and look what that got me.

"'Cause we are,

We are shining stars,

We are invincible,

We are who we are,

On our darkest day,

When we're miles away,

So we'll come,

We will find our way home"

In the last two weeks since getting back I have stopped leading with my proverbial right, and gone sharply left.  I have stepped up my game in the gym and said,"No" to the things that interfere.  I have rescheduled meetings and vet appointments to renew my investment in myself that quite honestly got lost in the overwhelming busy.   As a result, my running is suddenly better, lifting a little cleaner, and my psyche is beginning to recover right along with my quad.  I even had the courage to pull out my medals from Hawaii today.  Until now, they represented disappointment and failure.  Today, I decided they represent the 22.5 miles where I discovered how to lead with my left and take my life in a new direction.  Do I still plan to get my Trifecta this year?  Oh yes, Spartan Sprint in Fenway for my 52nd birthday?  I'm coming for you, because if there is one thing I know we can learn from failure, there is always a new direction to go in, and only in that space will be be able to see that the best is yet to come.

Let's Get It Started

 I guess it's time I put this out there to the universe.  As with most people, my actual life may not be totally accurately represented by what I push out over social media.  There are pictures of my smiling children, and representations of that side of my persona which is the independent fitness badass.  I post workouts and motivational quotes and pictures of healthy meals I create with my own two hands.  Yep, that's me.  Only, there's two issues with this.  At times that independent badass vibe is little more than a "fake it til you make it" gesture.  In actuality I struggle just like everyone else.  COVID has made the last 12 months a complete nightmare at times.  There have been unforeseen stressors personally and for my children, professional challenges, the assignment of treatable medical diagnoses on me that don't sit all that well, and am learning to deal with a whole host of other things that go with running a charity fighting against the COVID financial smack down.  

All of these things have kept my head spinning and my nights sleepless.  I have had to prioritize what I deal with and how, but about a month ago I was hit with a harsh reality no proclaimed fitness motivator really wants to disclose, but here it is.  My youngest son is not the happy go lucky guy you see on Facebook actually he is neither happy or lucky.  The reality is, he has an eating disorder he did not ask for.  He binge eats and now is struggling with his weight.  He hides his emotion on this by cracking jokes and deflecting.  It is in really looking at his ten year old reality that I now see how it mimics my own reality at that age.  His is coming from an early life of poverty from living on the side of a mountain in Haiti.  His hard wiring says,"there's food now, but might not be tomorrow, so eat all you can."  When we adopted him at age 3 he would eat until he vomited.  It is that reflex of his childhood trauma that I had to face has now gotten to the place he is severely impacted by it.  Until a month ago I was at a loss as to what to do.  This was his hard wiring and until now he was not old enough to understand it himself.  So here I was, fitness success and motivator with a morbidly obese child under my own roof despite what my healthy meals would suggest on Facebook.

So, a few weeks ago, after he was caught hiding with food again, I made the hard choice to sit down with him and discuss my own story.  My own dark history of a childhood of closet binge eating that led me to an adult life of obesity.  Much to my surprise, he was not too young for this.  We connected on a level we had not before.  There were tears as we shared our experiences and emotions and it shocked me how much like me this non genetic obese child of mine actually was.  At the time, I didn't offer any solutions, more a motherly gesture of support for a child who's feelings only I could truly understand.  What followed in the days that followed took me by surprise.

My little big man would sit me down and ask if he changed the way he ate and began to exercise for a month would I get him a phone.  Big stakes for a big man.  I told him yes but no.  Yes to a phone, but not in a month.  If he was interested, we could work to change his lifestyle from now to the end of summer with Labor Day being the coveted phone goal.  I only had two rules.  He was not getting on the scale, and he was not on a "diet," rather he was merely making simple life changes.  Since that time, he has been learning to meal plan and cook with me, how to make healthy food choices, and has decided shooting hoops is his exercise of choice.   As he enters his third week, morning after morning I hear the basketball bouncing on the driveway as he waits for the bus.  The swoosh sound as he sinks another one with a resounding,"two points!"  He now is setting the goal to be fit enough to play basketball on a team next winter.  Something he would not have considered before.  I see an actual smile, a head just a wee bit higher, and a gradual freeing of the very demons that held me down for four decades of my life.  Having a front row seat to this has suddenly made my struggles as of late  just a little bit easier.  

"And the base keeps runnin', runnin' and runnin'.....

Let's get it started, in here....."

-Black Eyed Peas

Alex now greets the day with a dance party, today the Black Eyed Peas, fitting as he has truly gotten it started in here.  This experience was a good reminder that what you see in social media does not always give a nod to the tough stuff in life, and that our demons can serve a valuable purpose when we can use them to pour into others and watch them grow just as we have.  In my case, I see a new, deeper relationship with a son I love more than anything.  This is going to be an epic summer for my big man and I am excited for him to come to the full realization that the best is yet to come.

Swim Out Past the Breakers

 I guess I never really intended to have a hiatus from my blog since the middle of January, yet here we are.  If I am being perfectly honest, life issues have gotten in the way in terms of transitioning from one role to another at work, and some personal struggles.  So, here I am emerging with new transcript just in time to usher in Spring, in what I hope to soon be a post COVID world.  Last  year with the world shut down, my annual spring trip to Florida was cancelled just like everything else.  No trips to the Gulf of Mexico like I had grown accustomed to on an annual basis for the 21 years that preceded.  So, admittedly last week could not have come fast enough.  It was time to go back.  For the weeks leading in I dreamt of warm breezes and sun on my face and salt in the air.  The ocean is where I always find my center and hit reset to come back to a life that generally is a bit too crazy most of the time.

Yes, I had all the breezes and sun, but what I was not prepared for after a two year absence from here, was the grief.  The grief of visiting a place I last saw my mom alive.  I would look at the bench where we had one of our last talks, or the section of beach where she told me all about her latest whacked out political theories, oh yes, she was chock full of those, which was always amusing.  I even sat at the restaurant where we had one of our last meals together.  What was meant to be comforting wasn't in that her death had been sudden, the circumstances unkind and this trip the grief turned itself into an almost unbearable fire of a  monster with it's own fury.  Maybe not being in the ocean last year wasn't so bad.  

Add this to the little matter of my running as of late.  This has been quite lack luster.  Paces are slow which was a mystery to me when I can tear it up on the stepper with 8 minute miles for 9 miles.  What the actual hell?  Why can't I run any faster?  Clearly my body can.  What's wrong with my head?  I came to understand it's simple really.  It's years of gym class bullying during the dreaded mile runs towards my former morbidly obese childhood self.  Running precipitates heavy breathing, which precipitates anxiety, because as a child I would wheeze for days after.  Slowing down meant name calling and heckling as I was always the last one done. So a mild elevation in heartrate during a jog shuts my body down. Well, that's super annoying. Seven years into my fitness journey, fourteen Spartan Races and two Savages later, this still exists.  

As an overthinker from way back, I have been ruminating on all of this for some time.  Then, a simple children's movie would provide the answers.  Friday night, in a rare turn of events, I had opportunity to have movie night with my 10 and 11 year old.  They piled in my bed and we watched,"Soul."  A line in that movie has stuck with me for days.

"One fish says to another,'I'm looking for the ocean.'

The other responds,'you're in it.'

'No, this is the water. I'm looking for the OCEAN.'"

Looking back, that's pretty spot on looking at my past running.  I have always treaded along the proverbial feeder river hoping to one day be launched into the glorious running ocean where the times are fast and the high is amazing.  Yet somehow, it always just seemed like plain old water.  Today, armed with new mental sports psychology techniques to overcome previous demons, I set out on a beautiful trail.  The sun was bright, the temps cool and my running more comfortable with my new technique. As I finished, in usual fashion, the musical timing of my play list would hit just right:

"We can live beside the ocean,

Leave the fire behind,

Swim out past the breakers,

Watch the world die."

                                                                                - Everclear,"Santa Monica"

In that moment I was running beside the fresh waters of the Mohawk tasting the salt in my mouth from the sweat of a great run.  I began to realize I truly was not in the feeder rivers, but in the ocean and probably always have been.  Nope, my times were not any faster,  nope I wasn't winning any medals, but I was 51 years old running nearly six miles without a ton of anxiety, thanks to some effective sports psychology, possibly for the first time in my life, and calling it "Sunday."  That's no measly river, that's full on great white infested badass ocean territory.  Oh yes, Everclear, I was way out past the breakers drowning my childhood bullies and extinguishing the grief fire all on a simple Sunday afternoon.  

This whole experience has me wondering how often we let the trials of life keep us within the imaginary confines of small waters, not realizing we were never in the small waters at all.  We have always had the opportunity to swim with the sharks in the badass ocean.  We forget that no matter where we came from, what we have been through, there is always opportunity to leave the fire behind and be the best versions of ourselves.  All it really takes is the right tools, being surrounded by the right people and the notion that we are always more wildly capable than we give ourselves credit for.  I can pretty much guarantee I will never set any land speed records, and that doesn't matter because I now know I can run better and happier.  As for the actual ocean vacation I took last week?  It's time to pull out the photos, enjoy the happier memories of my mom in that spot and remember that as always, the best is yet to come.

Under Pressure, Navigating the Mystery

 Like so many others, I have spent the first two weeks of this year reflecting on the events of 2020.  The COVID, the unrest, a world like we have never seen.  It all seemed so unreal at times.  I clung to what I could do.  Trust what I had learned in the last five years before the pandemic to create my own training and do my best to move forward .  I held on to my 20 years in clinical practice as a nurse practitioner to shape the way I attacked this thing called COVID.  It was difficult, sure, but I found ways to pull off small wins to propel me forward, maybe not shining as brightly as I did pre-COVID, but forward.  That is until December 9th.  It was what should have been a typical Wednesday.  I was off with a laundry list of things to do, the first of which was my annual physical.

Let me define,"annual".  If I am being perfectly honest, I have not had an "annual" physical in 2.5 years.  Why?  As a healthcare provider, I too am victim of "Do as I say, not as I do."  Life had gotten in the way.  Busy with work and kids and life at 100 mph, had this simple act of a check-up lost in the sea of busy.  I wasn't worried.  I trained.  I ate well.  I drink water.  I attempt to sleep well...ok I'm a miserable failure at sleep but it is not for lack of trying.  Ah, a story for another day.  Nonetheless, what did I need a physical for anyway?  Yet, in the corner of my mind was the small reminder my mom had breast cancer and I was overdue for my mammogram.  That should not be blown off.  I have training to do, a job to work and a foundation to run.  I certainly do not have time for breast cancer.  So, I guess I went if for no other reason than to get a  mammogram order. 

My previous doctor has moved on and I was met by a new one.  A woman I quickly came to like.  She was my age, worked as a provider, had kids and consequently knew what my life was about so I didn't have to explain it to her.  Through the course of the visit she said a phrase that I hear in my head all the time now,"your blood pressure is high."

I was quick to dismiss her and blame the coffee and allergy meds I had taken earlier that  morning.  I told her not to worry, I would check it at home, I was sure it was fine, because even when I was morbidly obese all that time, I never had high blood pressure.  I left there with my mammogram scheduled and a referral for the dreaded turning 50 colonoscopy.  There.  Mission accomplished.  As a precaution, I did begin checking, and I would discover not only was the blood pressure not fine, it was stroke level not fine, 185/104at times.   

I quickly learned what I have passed off as heartburn and sinus pressure in recent months was actually extremely high blood pressure with chest pain. In the couple weeks that followed my physical, I had an emergent work up with cardiology.  No, it was not safe for me to train.  So much for my time with my heavy lifting tribe I have grown to love.  The meds were not working very well and lets be fair, I was rip shit pissed.  You mean to tell me I have spent six freaking years changing my life.  Six years of blood sweat and tears to reach this level of fitness, only to wind up in the cardiologist's office with a blood pressure of 200/100 during that visit?  I found  myself begging the cardiologist to understand,"I have done two full marathons, six half marathons, fifteen spartan races and two Savage races in the last three years alone.  I run.  I should not be here.  I was morbidly obese most of my life and NEVER had high blood pressure.  This should not be the case."  There was something completely unfair about all of this.

He knows me personally and what I have done in recent years and absolutely agreed, yet it absolutely was the case.  Test after test, the EKG, the renal artery ultrasound, the CT angiogram of my heart following a blood test showing some evidence of heart strain, a blood test for my adrenal glands, only to get the phone call,"Your coronaries are clean. Calcium score is zero. Ultrasound is normal.  There's a lot of good news here."  Was it good news?  I suppose it was on the one hand, but it wasn't the three things I really wanted.  An answer, a quick fix and the chance to move on.  I had shit to do, a tribe waiting and goals that were appearing to be further and further sidelined by a medical picture that made no sense at all. By that point, I was frustrated and was done being the patient.  However, I did not have a choice, a stroke truly awaited if I gave up at that point and I really don't have time for that either.  

In the couple weeks since that time, I have done some  yoga and  worked my way into a blood pressure regimen that involves four drugs totaling five pills a day, which is not doing the job totally, but keeps me out of stroke range so that I was cleared to start training again.  I have had a chance reevaluate everything the end of 2020 has brought.  Yes, scary high blood pressure and a bit of a forced time out, but I had missed something important with that "good news" phone call.  Clean coronaries.  I come from a lifetime of morbid obesity, a smoker in my 20's, yet here I sit at age 51, fit, with zero heart disease.  I took a moment to think about how differently that call may have gone had I not done all I have in the last six years.  Would I have raging heart disease?  Would I be on the fast track to other badness associated with my selfish unhealthy ways?  Surely there would have been.  I could be diabetic, have breathing issues, degenerating joints....  the list is endless.  I suppose my wise cardiologist had it right in the first place.  There WAS a lot of good news here.  None of my goals were truly sidelined as my previous pity party would suggest.  I am training better now with a tribe that pulled me right back up and to this day continue to push me to be my best.   The only catch is, I have to take five pills a day and stop being a dumbass about going to the doctor.  I guess I can do that. 

This experience has me wondering how many times we get bogged down with the immediate seemingly paralyzing crisis, drowning in a sea of bad news, and not taking the time to realize no matter what we face, there is always good news.  There is the realization that this proverbial sea could always be deeper, the waters could always be rougher.  However, if we look hard enough we will see our efforts are not for nothing.  If we are lucky enough we will see in the middle of the struggle exists our tribe tossing out the life raft, pulling us to safety and pushing us to climb up the bank on the other side, stronger and better, and patiently waiting so we can take on the next high peak as a collective mighty force.  I don't really have an answer to my medical mystery, and I have more appointments in the near future, that I will take on one at a time, but I do know that with whatever life brings, I have the opportunity to look forward and see that the best is yet to come.

Let's Not Talk About the Weight

 In the last couple of months I have had to find ways to reorient myself in a COVID riddled world.  As a nurse practitioner for 20 years, I thought I knew how to navigate medicine as a provider.  Yet, here we are.  Ever changing rules, guidance that becomes outdated almost immediately after it comes out, testing strategies, quarantine, on and on it goes until at times I find my head spinning just to negotiate it all.  My personal world was turned inside out as well as the kids are trying to adjust to remote learning and trying to understand what exactly has happened in the world and why we can't have a birthday party.  Personally, I had races cancelled, my gym was shut down for months and all of the events I trained for vanished one after another.  It's all just a bit heavy.  

As of late, I have tried a reboot of sorts.  I set big 2021 goals that honestly, seem a bit crazy, but in my mind, if it seems crazy it probably means I should do it.  That being said, I am learning to adapt to a whole new training strategy.  Said strategy is the transition from a solely group fitness type HIIT training to adding in targeted strength training with a trainer and some new training partners.  See, there was always something about group fitness.  My peeps at the usual 8:45, singing along to our favorite songs, teasing our trainers and just having a good time as we busted it out day after day.  However, as fun as that was, it didn't get me where I needed to be on the race course.  Nonetheless, I still go, but outside of there, in a gym across town, there's a guy with a clipboard counting every rep, correcting every miniscule break in form.  He even watches me breathe for God's sake.  Yet, I had to put my fitness in his hands if I am going to get anywhere in 2021. 

In one of our first sessions he pulled out these iron bars.  Apparently that day I was graduating from a kettle bell carry to whatever this thing was. I was pleased with my initial kettle bell carry the week before.  I easily carried 94 pounds 80 feet, not bad at all.  However, with this contraption, he instructed me to put ten pounds on every corner.  As he talked to me about gripping the handles, breathing, bracing, short steps, shoulders engaged, I found myself wanting him to cut to the chase.  How heavy was this?  What was I about to do?

"Let's not talk about weight.  Now, here's what you need to do....."

Ok, well he's the expert.  I did as I was told.  Pick it up, short quick steps to haul ass 40 feet, set down, deep breath, brace and haul ass back.  It was a challenge, but I got it done.  Only then he asked me,"How heavy do you think that was?"  I suspected somewhere where I had been last week.  It was heavy but I was able to do it.  Must be the same.  Right?  OK no.  It was 144, a full 50 pounds heavier.  He explained to me that in talking about weight we automatically put a limit on our capabilities as our preconceived notion of our own ability is always far below what we can actually do.  

Let's face it, COVID is heavy, life is heavy.  I wonder how often we focus on the weight of it all claiming defeat before we even get started, convinced we cannot handle that caliber of heavy lifting.  Maybe the better thing to do is to look for the proverbial guy with the clipboard who can help us grab hold of life's challenges, breathe, brace, stand tall and haul ass forward no matter what the weight is.  

Since that 144 pound day two weeks ago, I have progressed to 170 pound carries, and have come to learn that there is power in taking on the heavy and coming out the other side.  I have also located a tribe of like minded bad ass heavy lifting women who refuse to talk about weight and instead push me to be my best.  It is in this space I am reminded, no matter how heavy life is, the best is yet to come.  

True North

Over the weekend, I saw a news story about a Mount Rainier hiker who set out on a hike with a friend.  Near the end of the hike, this particular hiker planned to finish the rest on snowshoe, while his partner finished on skis and they were to meet up at the end.  As he set out on snowshoe, he would find himself caught in a sudden squall.  A blinding snowstorm would cause him to be less sure footed to where he took only baby steps as he was not entirely sure where he was headed.  He would be found a full day later, in the Nisqually River drainage, unconscious, hypothermic, covered in bruises, and ultimately would go into cardiac arrest for 45 minutes at the hospital.  Finally when nothing seemed to be working, as a Hail Mary, he was placed on a heart lung machine.  A week had passed by the time the story aired and here was this man, a little on the thin side, miraculously sitting on the side of his bed offering thanks to his rescuers, who spent 24 hours locating him, and his medical team that refused to give up on him. When asked what he thought he did wrong to get in the situation he replied,"I made a rookie mistake.  I failed to check the weather."

I suppose if I am really thinking about it, lost in an unexpected snow squall is a decent description of 2020.  Starting in March, I think I can truly say watching my fitness goals vanish one at a time with race cancellations, gym closures, and losing the time I had come to treasure with my tribe. I too had lost my way, to where at some point in August, I found myself at the bottom of my own proverbial Nisqually River drainage, completely lacking direction with no end to COVID in site.

Since that time, I started grasping at some attempt at normalcy.  I signed up for races that were actually available.  Therefore, to date I have done two socially distant Savage Races.  The first was in September.  That race was particularly challenging, as despite training at home and some in my regular gym after it reopened, I was still making up ground from months of lacking the formal training I had become accustomed to and it showed.  As my performance on the obstacles was a bit lack luster, I allowed fear of everything dictate the entire race.  I wasn't as strong as I had been.  Was I going to fall off the cargo net?  How was I going to get off the wall and not plunge 8 feet?  I had never been submerged into chest high mud, and the sudden confining feeling only fueled my fear to where, if I am being real here, ended up being six full miles of terror.  Even to look at that September medal reminded me of something I said out loud on the course,"I just hate being afraid.  I hate being like this." 

Left feeling like my racing life was on life support, plus a little encouragement from my team, pushed me to register for another Savage Race.  I was hoping this would give me a prayer of not leaving fear as my legacy of 2020.  I had 9 weeks.  Nine weeks to mentally and physically prepare for the race that took place this past weekend with my 1DOS Foundation leadership team.  My very own 2020 do over.  Out of the gate,  I began to dial in and train.  I started working with an actual OCR coach and amped up my upper body training at home with the addition of battle ropes and slam balls.  An entirely new training style than I was used to even in pre COVID times.  I'll even go out on a limb and share I did the mental work with guided imagery to start to put fear behind me on the course.  There were the regular check ins with my accountability partner as well as my son, both of whom constantly reminded me I am much more capable than I give myself credit for.  When I emerged Sunday with my son and partner by my side, my efforts showed.  I conquered obstacles I failed nine weeks prior and even came over the cargo net without the fear I had in September.  That may or may not have involved me saying out loud when I approached the obstacle and got a little nervous,"oh no.  I'm not fucking doing this today.  No way."  Head up keep climbing, over the A frame and back down.

We would cross the line and I knew damn well this time, I earned that medal fair and square. Even though this medal is exactly the same as the one from September, somehow it shines a little brighter as I know digging deep, putting the work in and discovering my own true north in the last nine weeks has put me right back in the game.  None of us could have checked the proverbial weather for 2020, and most of us have become lost in our own way from the pandemic.  However, as I celebrated my 51st birthday on race weekend, I find myself with a simple new piece of jewelry.  A sterling silver compass that I have no plans to take off any time soon.  A simple reminder that no matter how lost we are, true north can always be found when you take the chance to face the fear, identify new goals, not be afraid to let loose of old methods and work hard.  Probably even more important than those things is to surround yourself with the people willing to walk along side your journey, pushing you and believing in you even in the moments you are not so sure.  Those are the people who will always show us the best is yet to come.

From Finisher to Crusher

 Wow.  September 21.  Yep that's the date of my last blog post, more than a full month ago.  I guess you could say life got in the way.  Working in a leadership role in a rapidly growing urgent care that offers COVID testing during a pandemic has proven for long days, and lots of hours.  I suppose the sheer amount of work to be done has also put a damper on my creative juices to a degree as well, so there you have it. A month blog free.  However, tonight I find myself finally at my desk with a few hours off.  Admittedly, the craziness of the last month has left my desk in shambles.  There are scraps of papers left over from me working on schedules, lists of things for Foundation related activity  and in the far right corner a medal.  A Mileage Monsters 5K medal from last Saturday.  It was our second annual 5k fundraiser for my 1DOS Foundation.  All things considered, we had a good turn out of 110 socially distanced runners.  Everyone played by the rules, masks on, no gathering before or after, and courteous running.  In all, a fun time for all in one of the first live events of 2020.

But this medal....  my partner and I had a love/hate relationship with this medal.  Last year we set out to be creative.  Who needed another 5k medal anyway?  Oh no.  We had kick ass swag bags and awesome shirts.  Oh weren't we cool?  Apparently not.  The feedback we got from one runner in particular was she would never have run the race without earning a medal.  Several others were on the same page.  So, this year we had medals.  We had $300 worth of medals.  Granted they were pretty cool, but I have spent a long time trying to understand what it was about it that was so important about a medal coming from a small time inaugural 5k.  In fact, as I sit here, all of my medals hang to my right.  Spartans, marathons, half marathons, Disney medals.... now those were medals.  

Suddenly it dawned on me who it was last year that was so disappointed by her swag bag.  It was our last finisher.  She did not appear to be an athlete and our photographer explained she was part of a bigger 5k series where runners were to complete 20 5k's in a season.  This particular participant always managed to finish, albeit usually last. She appeared to be an unlikely candidate to finish 20 5k's and would guess maybe she had not done that before.  Gaining 19 medals instead of 20 perhaps destroyed the visual representation of the accomplishment of a bigger goal she set for herself.  

As I scan through my own medals now I see my very first Spartan medal.  The Fenway Sprint of 2016.  I was terrified at the start line.  I was surrounded by badass racers and here I was 46 years old, fresh off a lifetime of obesity, not totally sure I belonged there or that I could even finish.  The gun went off and we took off through the park.  People were faster than me.  Some did the obstacles better than I did.  My son had to constantly say,"just run your own race."  He was right.  In the end, I would finish and burst into tears on the infield. I had done it.  A year of training reflected in one hunk of medal on a colorful ribbon.   I'm quite certain if I looked at the medal closer there may in fact, be salt stains on said ribbon.  There was my first Spartan Beast ribbon from summer of 2017, where five of us took on my longest race at the time.  Twenty miles on the side of a mountain.  Physically and mentally taxing.  Yes, that medal meant a lot to me.  Still other medals reminded me of fun times spent with a race team I would describe as second to none.  There were Ragnars, half marathons, 10k's, and even two full sets of Dopey medals reminding me further what normal years look like for me.

However, this year, as we all know, racing is largely cancelled.  From my girls' weekend half marathon in the Hamptons, to the Boilermaker in Utica, to a Spartan Super in Denver, to what was to be the pinnacle race of the year for me, the Spartan Beast in Tahoe, all cancelled.  A veritable racing silence.  For as much as I miss racing the various events, in their absence I came to realize something.  I over commit.  I sign up for everything I can with my tribe, which is awesome, but I effectively have become the proverbial athletic Jack of all trades, master of none.  I'm not fast, I'm not the talented obstacle racer like you see on Ninja Warrior, I have stayed where I was planted after that first race.  I am a finisher.  I earned that first Spartan medal fair and square.  A year and a half of training, a lifetime of obesity and an epic finish.  Hell, I even earned that first trifecta medal fair and square, but what has happened since?

I have remained a finisher.  I have trained the same with an amazing gym family and have gone on to finish 15 other obstacle races, two Dopey Challenges, umpteen half marathons and a smattering of 5k's and 10k's, and have the medals to prove it, but here's the question.  What have I CRUSHED?  Crushing a race and completing a race are two different things, and as long as I am asking, what would it take to crush a course?  As I talked it all over with my accountability partner it became obvious.  Finishing a race for the first time was awesome, but by the 15th time I find myself now asking,"shouldn't I be better at this by now?" and better yet,"Do I want to be better at this?" 

As anyone with a good accountability partner will tell you, they always say the thing you think you don't want to hear, but is the best for you anyway.  Yes.  I should be better, but despite training hard, my training has not changed.  Stuck in my proverbial comfort zone maxing out my abilities within those confines.  As far as did I want to be better?  of course.  Who doesn't?  It's the bigger hurdle of what that is going to take.  That is something I am learning.  It's going to take dialing back the commitments, and changing what I normally do because,"if nothing changes, nothing changes."  So, today I took the plunge.  Stepped away from my usual workout for my first private session with an awesome tactical OCR coach.  I learned about breathing, bracing, grip strength and that I was way stronger than I gave myself credit for.  A little glimpse that with the right type of help, hard work and second to none training partners I will continue to take newbies to races as watching someone else find their own success is a passion of mine, but personally? It’s time to work my way past finisher and right into obstacle race CRUSHER next year, and no.  There better not be a bag of swag.  I will save a space for a kick ass medal that will remind me there is always something bigger to reach for and in doing so I will always see the best is yet to come.

 

Soul Sucking Swamp Ass

 I guess you could say in 2017, the Chicago Spartan Super became the iconic race for my race team.  We trained hard and reached our goal and crossed that finish.  The following year we attacked the same course only this time it was totally different.  We had not anticipated what was a dry hunting ground the year before, would now see rain for all the days leading into the race.  It was nine grueling miles in ankle deep thick mud. Oh we exited that race masters of the mud pit, or so we thought.  In fact, "remember all the mud in Chicago?" became a thing among us.  We'd laugh about losing shoes, or the spectacle we made of ourselves walking into the Marriott afterwards.  Oh yeah I knew all about mud.....only now I know I didn't.

Last week, I finally did what I thought was impossible.  I raced in 2020.  Spartan may have cancelled their season, but Savage did not.  I always considered myself a Spartan racer by trade, the iconic obstacle race after all.  I have done 14 of them with three trifectas under my belt, but with COVID I was now to a place where any race is better than no race.  So, I took off for Maryland for a new race with new obstacles, knowing I wasn't as prepared as I could have been.  The race was essentially late notice as we were not entirely sure it would go off as planned.  I had been training but even my own gym has not been open all that long.  The summer had been very hot, and I had broken my finger with a bulky splint which just made running rough.  Nonetheless, we were doing it.  As we arrived at the race, the sun was high, the air was cool, the racers socially distant and the music on point.  Ah yes.... race vibe.  Oh, how I have missed you.

The front part of the race went as expected, I panicked at the top of the cargo net, which is what I always do, but still managed to make it down.  I struggled with the hanging obstacles, because lets face it, grip strength training sucks and with no races to look forward to, it just may have fallen to the bottom of the training list this summer.  However, it was in the last mile and a half it happened.  The mud pit.  At the bottom of the embankment I saw it.  Racers stuck in the mud.  No, this was not the ankle deep mud in Chicago that was annoying and shoe sucking, this was hands and knees to the chest crawling because walking appeared to be impossible.  The racers in the pit needed bystanders with long tree branches to be helped out.  The scene was so difficult to see that  I feared we would not be able to get out of it.  We chalked it up to being late in the day and maybe this mud had evolved and become more difficult with time.  We made the decision to veer to the left where it was much shallower and honestly, a bit out of bounds.  It seemed to be the safer choice.  

As we entered the final mile, down another embankment there it was.  A sign that said,"Swamp Ass."  This mud pit was a clearly marked obstacle, with no way around, and the only way to finish was to go through.  This was not a late in the day change in mud, this was like this by design.  I would fearfully wade in and end up chest deep.  The mud pulled at my shoes, walking was next to impossible.  I was slugging away with my legs that didn't want to move, I was starting to panic that I would drown in mud.  I got to the place I was essentially paralyzed.  I couldn't move.  I don't recall all of my mutterings at the time but I'm pretty sure,"I can't get out!" was screamed irrationally over and over plus a tangled web of profanity that probably still hangs over that very mud pit in Maryland.  In the end, my race partner pushed me along on my left, a fellow racer helped on my right and a guy with a cool Australian accent pulled me mostly out by my arms from the other side.  I would crawl out physically taxed, coated in an inch of mud, emotionally drained and face to face with a race photographer who captured it all on film.  Nonetheless, we had to keep moving, as well you know, there's a medal at the end and I sure as hell was getting a medal for this.  

Less than a mile later, I would find myself at the top of the 24 foot obstacle named Collosus.  As always, the height got to me but the mud cleansing plunge down the backside, which was a water slide, was the most glorious rush I have had in a long time. A short time later, we would cross the finish, medals in hand, tired from a hard fought race and happy to finally have some straight up non COVID normalcy this year.

This whole experience has taught me something.  Sometimes you are faced with hard challenges to where it's easier to rationalize a short walk out of bounds, rather than get stuck, but those challenges will always be ahead, sometimes unavoidable and much more difficult than you thought.  The trick is to stay in bounds, jump into the proverbial mud, start slugging, and if you get stuck look for the people willing to push you along when you are not so sure you can do it by yourself.  As it's really only on the other side will you earn the glory of truly conquering the hard things.

I'd love to tell you I can retreat to my Spartan career for next year and get back into my wheelhouse, but I cannot.  I had a terrifying experience with Savage in the mud I thought I knew oh so well, but really had no clue.  Nonetheless, the motto of my race team has always been, if it excites you and scares the crap out of you, it probably means you should do it.  So, yep another Savage is in the books and a whole new training is underway.  Only this time it includes grip strength, because apparently the Grip Strength Fairy skipped me on her deliveries this year.  Otherwise, I am still working on my fear of heights, but I have committed to no more out of bounds so that I can jump in feet first for a fear busting soul sucking slug through the mud better known as Swamp Ass.  I am quite certain that in truly conquering that course to the best of my ability, I will be able to see the best is yet to come.

 

It's Not Whatcha Got, It's Whatcha Give

After three years and 140 blog posts, I suppose I owe my loyal audience a bit of an apology. Yes. I am aware I have put nothing new out in four weeks, when I am usually a faithful every two week poster.   Here’s the problem. Writer’s block. It’s a thing. To be honest, I have had many a night recently staring at my bloggers blank entry page for a time, ultimately giving up and ending up on Amazon. The problem may run a bit deeper than I imagined as my daughter commented today,"Boy Mom you sure get a lot of packages lately."  Trust me I truly needed a new dishwasher spray arm, but new shoes for every person under my roof may have been a bit over the top.

Oh I had a million different ideas, but none were fresh and new.  It all felt like ground I had covered before.  Overcoming this or that, but somehow none of it seemed to want to flow out of me in any reasonable manner.  To be honest, writer's block didn't make sense to me.  For months, all I wanted was a sense of normalcy.  In large part I had gotten it.  Back to my gym, back to my gym family, workouts every day with trainers who knew me best and even an obstacle race this coming Saturday, something I didn't think I would see this year.  All in, I should be excited and tap into my inner inspiration and share that with my loyal readers.  "Should" is the magic word here.  

As I rolled through the last few weeks, I can honestly say the return to normal was certainly welcome and a vast improvement over the last six months, but something was missing.  I was doing like I normally did, yet somehow it all felt a bit lack luster.  I suppose I accepted a thousand different excuses, like working out in a mask was not ideal or I have made a wee bit of backward process in my strength as my weights as home were not as heavy as the ones at the gym, but the reality is I simply did not know what was missing.

That is until a simple text from a friend came through proposing the most outlandish physical challenge that would take place a year from now.  It almost seemed ludicrous to consider.  I have done a lot of stuff, but this is much bigger than anything I have done before. I talked it over with my accountability partner and my favorite training partner, my son.  I would bargain with myself.  Was it ludicrous?  Yes.  It's crazy.  But... what if we did it?  This is going to require the hardest physical training I have ever done, and will take a year to prepare for.  

In the time that followed this simple proposal, my head spun with "what if's," and it even kept me up at night.  This week I put all that aside and committed to said challenge as did my son and my partner. Our quintessential 1DOS leadership team building activity.  Admittedly, I'm a little bit afraid, and a little bit excited, but mostly curious to see what version of myself  lives on the other side of this event's successful completion.  Today, I would go to the gym with my son, this notion fueled everything I did.  Suddenly, this event had taken hold of my psyche and told me I have 12 months and I damn well better get my ass in gear.  I pushed as hard as I could, and left the gym drenched, out of breath, sore and exhilarated.  What had started as a simple text between friends has now given me the fuel I didn't even know I was lacking with my prior return to "normal." 

 

                                                 It's not whatcha got, it's what you give,                                                                                                     It ain't the life you choose, its's the life you live                                                                                                                                         - Tesla

As I sat in the car cooling off listening to Tesla, it dawned on me.  My return to "normal" was a return to my normal day to day stuff.  No, there is nothing wrong with daily workouts, or mid range obstacle races like I will do on Saturday.  Those, in fact, are good albeit, great things, and I am stoked to crawl through the mud and jump off a 15 foot wall, well stoked about heights may not be quite accurate....  Anyway, for now It's what I got, but It's also what I have had for several years.  In fact, I would go so far as to say there is a certain level of complacency in this particular "normal."  This new goal has reminded me that I actually am always capable of giving myself so much more so I can take this thing called life for a ride. With this, it dawns on me, maybe the thing to do is to not shoot for a prepandemic return to normal.  Maybe the better thing to do is to locate that little voice, that friend who can push us just a bit to remind us that sometimes "normal," no matter how good it appears, can be code for complacency and we are actually always able to do more in order to lead our best lives. I have a feeling this is going to be quite a year, and in that amount of time I am sure I will learn as always, the best is yet to come.

                

Finding the Pandemic Fire

 She's living in a world, and it's on fire

Feeling the catastrophe, but she knows she can fly away...

                                                                                       - Alicia Keyes

I suppose you could say in the weeks, albeit months, that led into my vacation a few weeks ago it did feel a bit like the world on fire.  There were swarms of patients for COVID testing, navigating my way through virtual summer school for my youngest, all while trying to entertain kids who literally were tired of looking at the same walls of the house day in and day out since March.  Beyond all of that I was trying to hold my own feet to the fire as I fought to stay fit with races still on the books, without the help of my gym family and trainers.  For the kids as much as myself, I carefully announced the count down until we were leaving every day.  We marked the days off the calendar and somehow knew life would be just a little bit better flown away from here for a little bit.  

In the midst of all of this prevacation hubub, a crushing blow that Spartan cancelled the whole season.  Everything I worked so hard for suddenly erased in one email.  My foundation cofounder and my son, who is my social media director, had planned for the Tahoe Spartan Beast as our secret team bonding race for 2020.  The quintessential Spartan on rough terrain with the best of the best.  I had trained for a year for this, counting the months, training the inclines, lifting the weights, I was going to be ready pandemic or no pandemic.  As if COVID has not robbed society of enough, now even my personal goals were taken from me.  I suppose you could say this huge loss had me a little lost as to how to pick up and move forward.  

So, I did what I always do. I threw myself a big pity party with the only exercise being done the week I was gone was a 9 mile bike ride one time.  I whined and complained to my accountability partner.  You see it was hot where I was, so why run?    A few days off?  So what.  No races anyway.  Oh yes.  I had hit the mother load of negativity.  Which for someone who is a motivator by trade, is probably not the best head space to be in.  I fought hard to try to put that aside and spend my days on vacation with some much needed reconnection  time with my children.  We swam in the pool, watched the dolphins in the ocean and even played with a school of jellyfish.  All of this was well and good, but as the days wore on I knew where I was headed.  Right back into the fire.  

With an eleven hour car ride home, I had a lot of time to think about the roaring blaze that was coming at me faster than I wanted.  Something had to give.  No races.  No big hairy goals.  Crazy life.  What was I going to do?  My gym had just opened for outdoor workouts.  I was on the fence about paying for burpees on the pavement in scorching heat but a friend talked me into doing it anyway.  Well if she could, I could I guess.

Oh, we got our feet on the ground

And we're burning it down

Oh, got our head in the clouds and we're not coming down

Here I was one week ago.  It was 87 degrees and humid out. I was under a huge canopy which had converted a parking lot into a makeshift studio.  I was sitting on a piece of equipment  I have had a five year love/hate relationship with.  The rower.  Hello my old friend.  As I stared down at the familiar footplates and drum of water, suddenly, I had nothing but love for that thing.  There was one of my trainers, right there in person.  Another person I knew was across the way from me.  People.  My people.  There was music, familiar coaching, heavy weights and 45 minutes of the most normal thing I have experienced since March.  Oh yes.  Here's my spark, right where I left it.  I was drenched, tired and more excited than I have been in months.  Since that time, I have gone nearly every day.   I have open blisters on my hands from rowing, as my calluses that existed in March are long gone.  I have firm reminders that although I never stopped working out on my own, there were maybe some muscle groups that have had some neglect in these months making difficult this week to sit down at times or even lift my coffee.  One thing is for sure, I would not trade one single thing about it as I am suddenly fanning the flames of the old me that existed before the monster that is COVID sent the world into a tailspin. 

This girl is on fire,

This girl is on fire

This little tiny bit of normalcy has given me the opportunity to bust out of the oppressive pandemic mindset and begin to brightly look ahead in ways I have not been able to recently.  I suppose all of us got a little lost in the pandemic with the cancellations of major events, and the emotional battles over the goings on in the world.  However, I think the trick is to find that little spark.  That little speck of prepandemic normalcy, fan those flames and come back as the whole damn fire. Only in the glory of the giant blaze will we see the best is yet to come.

Life Lessons from the Mama Bird

Last night, I took my children to the beach as we are on our annual, albeit socially distant, vacation to the Outer Banks.  I assured them if they just sat still, they could watch the crabs run around as they tend to do at night.  Sure enough, when we got there, there were holes all over the place, with plenty of crab tracks.  However, as with most things, this advice was ineffective.  A crab would pop out of his hole and my youngest two would go running with excitement screaming,"Look!  I see one Mom!"  I reminded them over and over, sit still, be patient and you will see way more than one.  This was to no avail.  The excitement was too much and like most forms of wild life, the big bad humans were just too scary and it was time to flee.

With this in mind, imagine my surprise when we discovered a completely different scene when  we returned to the rental house.  A bird had formed a nest on the supports of the back patio and was patient and unwavering in her guarding of the eggs she was surely perched upon. It was not just any bird actually.  It was a dove. No amount of excited squeals or vibration from children on the patio caused her to do much more than blink.  It would seem that her concern for her babies far outweighed the big scary humans invading her space.

As a mom of five children of trauma adopted from various places in the world, I can honestly say, this simple mom instinct is one I know well.  It's the setting myself aside to champion the fight to have the outside world understand the unique make up of each of my children.  I was quick to take on teachers and school boards who could not understand how spending three years in abject poverty on the side of a mountain, with English not being their first language, could make for a very different kindergartner than the affluent children from the suburbs occupying the same classroom.  I took on friends who could not understand that various orphanage behaviors based on living in "fight or flight mode" in the early years did not constitute simple rebellion, it was a deeper seeded issue that needed understanding.  I disregarded even some family who were not so sure five adoptions, including children of color, was the greatest idea I ever had, but so be it.  I was the mama bird, strong and unwavering.  No amount of noise or discord would stand in the way of me championing the causes of my children.

As far as we know that bird has been there at least 48 hours without moving, anxiously awaiting the magical arrival of her babies.  Studying this aviary symbol of hope closely makes me wonder about how many times we stand in the way of our own fears for everyone else except ourselves.  How many times do we let the slightest vibration, the slightest set back, cause us to give up and flee?  How many times do we let comments or behavior of other big scary humans knock us right out of the nest before the magic happens?

Maybe instead we need to realize we all have a little mama bird in us.  We all possess the ability to look fear and past failures in the eye and peacefully stand our ground to cultivate our proverbial life goal eggs until they can burst open and we can witness the magic that lives inside.  How do we know?  We do it for everyone else.  It just may be time to give ourselves the same priority.  I have a feeling if we do that we will learn the best is yet to come.

Biting the Dust on Dog Water

Are you ready, hey, are you ready for this?

Are you hanging on the edge of your seat?

Out of the doorway the bullets rip

To the sound of the beat

Another one bites the dust

Another one bites the dust

It's fairly ironic that this would come on as I made my maiden voyage on the stepper today after being sidelined for a week.  As the song played I relived the reality of last Tuesday night.  Here I was fresh off my latest insane work jag, and crazy speed training schedule.  It was late and I was spinning around doing odds and ends in the house before finally calling it quits and attempted a simple trip from the kitchen across the tile headed to the bedroom.  I had missed the water that existed outside of the dog's dish, I remember the sensation of the slip, the slow motion loss of balance, the flash as my face hit the pantry door and the sickening sound of my left knee hitting the tile.  I would get up, pace around, try to inspect my lip in the bathroom mirror as I knew it was cut.  Shit.  Light burned out.  I would then walk around the dining room assuring myself my knee was ok and once again, try to cross the same damn floor, only slower this time to my own bathroom within the bedroom.  It was then I noticed it.  There was blood on the floor.  There was a lot of blood on the floor.  I felt my lip, cut but not bleeding, knee already turning purple, also not bleeding.  Hmmmm.... I slowly became aware, my left index finger hurt.  I looked at it and found it was bleeding, and surely the nailbed doesn't normally look like that.  I would wrap it up just as the 14 year old would come down and trace the trail of blood to me.  I assured him I was fine, just a little cut, no biggie.

When I got up in the morning it was clear it may be a bit worse than I thought.  A band aid was not going to do it.  It had bled all night until I found myself in the midst of training two people at work that morning, asking a colleague to look at it.  By the time he was done, I found myself having a small procedure I won't get into, as it made me a little queasy, and some xrays.  The reality was I had an open fracture courtesy of my pantry door.  I had a purple lip too but thanks to the magic of COVID, I am in a mask all the time and nobody could see it.  Honestly?  I wasn't sure if I should be sickened by all of it or downright pissed that I can manage to run 14 Spartans with no injury, but walking across the kitchen was clearly a problem.  Yep, I bit the dust on dog water.

Are you happy, are you satisfied?

How long can you stand the heat?

I guess you could say in the days that followed I would have a little PTSD, as I now refuse to walk on that floor barefoot and every now and then my mind wanders to the flash of my face hitting the door. Every day I find other splatters of blood in places I had missed with the initial clean up.  Today?  Said light switch in the bathroom where the bulbs had been burned out now replaced and illuminating my blood perfectly.  I further had cause to hit the pause button on my training schedule.  I was not going to run and risk elevating my heart rate as my finger already had it's own throbbing heart beat.  I put in 60 hours of work in the week that followed my tumble seeing crazy numbers of COVID patients which was completely annoying as my finger did not fit in a glove easily.  When I finally took a day off, I was completely overwhelmed with the things to do at home and was having anxiety over paused race training.

So I did what I always do, checked in with the accountability partner, and when I say check in, I mean whine about my finger and how it is getting in the way of everything.  I committed to walk that day to see how it went.  It was clunky with the bulky splint on my finger but I even managed a light jog.  Following that was a successful trip to the hand surgeon, and other household errands.  Then it happened  I got a difficult challenge.  As I was busy complaining about the million things that had piled up on me when I was busy with work, I was challenged to a night off.  No work, no bills, no blog, hence this is days late, just breathe.  Oh ok.  A night off?  I wasn't sure I could do it.  I had charts from my work days, I had bills to pay, taxes to prepare, a blog to write, business related things to do, get my kid ready for his summer school calls the next day, laundry......and, and, and.....  a night off?  Damn accountability partner was killing me, now I was just going to be further behind, but I was doing it.

I would find myself on my back patio talking to a friend, admiring my flowers, and enjoying the cool breeze with an adult beverage.  Yes.  I felt guilty.  Yes.  I had so many things undone, but to take the time to be present, I found I suddenly could breathe.  I would later go to bed and find myself getting a full night's rest that night which is definitely a rarity for this card carrying insomniac.  In the day that followed, yesterday, I would break company records in actual number of patient's seen, and not even miss a beat.

Today, my finger was settling down and my lip is nearly healed so I was back at it.  Three miles on the stepper at a sub 8 minute pace, renewed from the simple act of taking the night off.  It makes me wonder how many times its going to take for me to learn the lesson.  I tend to live life at 100 mph.  I am driven to be the best I can be at all times at home and at work often pushing so hard I forget there are cool breezes, good friends, pretty flowers and this crazy renewal thing called sleep.  I suppose I should be thankful for biting the dust on dog water because it helped me to see that sometimes pushing hard is simply too hard and if I am not willing to slow down, surely the universe will find a way.

As for tonight?  I think I'll go sit on my patio again.  I will take a second night off in the same week, crazy, I know.  I'm pretty sure out there I will begin to see that sometimes biting the dust on dog water clears the way to see that the best is yet to come.