Two experiences enabled me to start running after a #metoo reckoning came to NPR in November 2017.
First, during eight years of my childhood, a team of eleven other kids and I toured elementary schools, performing at assemblies for Jump Rope for Heart. To get an idea of what this looked like, imagine a pom squad with their choreographed dances and swap in ropes for the pom poms and a fairly gender neutral experience for the potentially questionable messages about femininity.
Preteen and teen me got to learn that my body could be powerful.
We only participated in a competition once, and when we did, I was the kid in the middle of the double dutch ropes, clearing as many double-unders as we could in a minute. I don't remember how many times the two ropes circled me twice per jump, but I know it was a lot.
My second advantage was that I had once before run as a way to express anger and frustration and desperation. During a previous job, I had a project lead who, frankly, did not value my contributions. No matter what tactics I tried, my suggestions would fall flat. It was starting to get to me.
One day, after a particularly enraging meeting, I threw on my morning walking clothes, and I hurried out the door toward my usual route. As I turned the corner of my block, anger expanded within me. I withheld the scream that would have alarmed the city goers around me, but I let my legs fly. I sprinted inexpertly down the sidewalk, feet pounding the concrete. My breath came in puffs; my calves flexed with each stride.
By the time I reached the field before the woody path, I was spent. I threw myself in the grass and I gazed up at the clear sky, and I cursed my coworker and I relished the endorphins surging through my limbs.
It was a relief.
So, though I didn't think about either experience when I made the decision, it's not a surprise that I turned to exercise as a way to sooth my daily life.
The months after a VP at NPR was (eventually) fired, the organization went through a collective existential crisis. With that crisis were regular meetings which helped, because they enabled communication and accountability, but also burdened those of us who wanted change. Witnessing its halting progress was infuriating, especially when we had little influence on what was done.
Eventually, I got into a routine. I'd twitchily watch an all hands meeting from my home office, my heart racing. I'd silently cheer the people who asked cutting questions (at an organization full of journalists, watching Q&A could be exhilarating), and I'd ineffectively glower at the members of upper management who still didn't get it. ("Couldn't we compel these people to go to therapy?" I'd internally bemoan.)
A couple months in, I started coloring or doing embroidery during the meetings, trying to use my nervous energy. But even with a creative outlet, the meetings were emotionally exhausting. Afterward, I'd get in the shower to calm my nerves and wash the sweat away. The last couple hours of the afternoon, I might be able to get through a bit of email, but I'd realize I felt like a zombie, and would call it a day. Although I was surviving, I was struggling.
The more I experienced these traumatic meetings, the more I noticed that my body was acting as if I were working out: my thumping heart, my sweaty pits, my tense muscles. But the physical symptoms were the result of anxiety and grief, rather than the joy of movement. I told my partner, “If my heart is going to pound, I want it to pound for a good reason.”
One morning in March 2018, I finally went on my first run. It was cold and dreary and gorgeous because I was out doing a scary, important thing. I had gone to a wedding the weekend before and been encouraged by a couple friends who I hadn't seen in a long time, and just before that, I had learned from a different friend about the concept of “couch to 5k,” which helps you build your endurance.
But those are the logistics. What I love about my start to running was my motivation. I didn't want to lose weight or to look different. I ran because I wanted to feel good. I wanted to do something that was in my control and that helped me be present in my one and only body. It was incredible thumping, sweating, and tensing with freedom instead of trauma.
When I ran, I pictured runners that I had seen years before through a smudgy WMATA bus driving down Wisconsin Avenue. There were three of them, and they wore matching heather grey hoodies. They skimmed down the uneven sidewalk, slipping between pedestrians. Their movements were smooth, elegant.
Watching them, I wondered whether running was the most natural thing for a human body to do. Running my own strides, I believed that I could lift myself above the nonsense, and find peace.
Mentioned in this issue: There were many stories covering NPR’s #metoo experience, and I admit I don’t want to put myself through finding a “good one,” but here is an early one.
PS: Really, I had three advantages that lead me to running. The third is that I am not living with a physical disability. Folks living with disabilities are humans with amazing bodies, whether they can choose to run or not.