I raced a 5k last Sunday, two years since my last solid race, two years since I felt strong and capable and fit, two years since a race was exhilarating rather than inspiring mixed emotions. During these years, my attitude has ranged from hating running, to missing running desperately, to complete indifference.
Many of my friends and family don’t understand why I care so much about running or even why I run so much. Running for me has always been an outlet, a place to feel powerful when I often feel powerless, a way to channel all the excess energy I have and to unravel the balls of creativity tangled up in my brain. This was especially true after I left my job as an attorney, turning my back on all that I accomplished in law school and in my career. I became a stay-at-home parent to my infant son seven years ago now. In those early days, I may have been shell-shocked at how not intellectually stimulating the job of SAHM was. I ran with my son daily, sometimes twice a day. I ran 60, 70, 80 miles a week training for a marathon.
Then I had another baby and running was the only thing that gave me relief from the crush of post-partum depression. After my second child, I dug in and ran more and more and more and faster and faster and faster. I ran most of my life-time bests around a year after her birth.
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