Running Into (and through) the Rain

Or is it running into (and through) the pain?  Last Friday, for me, it was both at the same time.

I think a year or more of built up tears and sadness hit me with a sneak attack.  Not that I haven't had the occasional cry, but not as often as you might think.  Fear of sinking too far down has kept me from allowing myself to go there.

There were some contributing factors to my recent meltdown - feeling like there isn't enough time in the day to get it all done, ups and downs at work, financial woes, a more rigorous training schedule than I'm used to, the rain, the gray and dismal day, the holidays rapidly approaching, the picture-perfect Christmas cards, the quiet house - all with underpinnings of grief and an emptiness that is subtle, yet relentless.

But how I faced the meltdown - that's what I want to focus on today.  After giving into the tears for a while, paging through my wedding album, and crawling into bed for five minutes - that's when three powerful influences came to mind: the book I'm reading, a blog post written by a Texas 4000 rider earlier in week, and music.  That's what got me out of bed and out into the rain for an emotional 7-mile run.  My longest, to date, since my half marathon a year and a half ago.

I recently downloaded Chrissie Wellington's "A Life Without Limits" on Audible for inspiration to kick off my Half Ironman training.  Of course I had never heard of her before, but Chrissie's story sounded like one of personal triumph, so I gravitated toward it.  She is most widely known for showing up on the Ironman scene, practically out of nowhere, and taking it by storm.  Not much of an athlete as a child and haunted early on by eating disorders, she surprised herself and the world when she quickly rose to four-time Ironman world champion as a young adult.  

In case you don't know, an Ironman consists of a 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike ride, and a 26.2 mile marathon - back to back to back.  I will be aiming to do half those distances on April 13th for my first Half Ironman.  I've been listening to how Chrissie trained through painful injuries, times of personal loss, intense weather of all kinds, personal doubt ... all while building strength, endurance, mental fitness, self-confidence, and resiliency.  Something else that draws me to her is her charitable involvement and use of her fame as a platform for social change.  She embodies this Nelson Mandela quote: 

“Sport has the power to change the world.  It has the power to inspire. It has the power to unite people in a way that little else does. It speaks to youth in a language they understand. Sport can create hope where once there was only despair.”

Which brings me to the second reason I got out of bed and into the rain for my run... Courtney Schutze's blog post from earlier in the week.  Courtney is a 2014 Texas 4000 rider preparing to cycle from Austin to Anchorage this summer in memory of her father.  Courtney lost her dad to cancer six months ago, and on that anniversary she shared some powerful thoughts on grief and moving forward that resonated with me:

"(My counselor) helped me realize that everyone grieves in different ways, but you don’t lose somebody and all the sudden become a completely different person. It is not like me to fall and crumble and not be able to get up, so that is not how I am going to grieve. Today as I thought more about (that) I became more and more content with how I am grieving. The pain of losing my father is real and it’s tragic, but I don’t have to also live a life that is completely consumed with pain and tragedy. I want to grieve through joy and happiness; I want to grieve through positivity and light. It honors my father more to be happy and seize the day than to spiral into a sea of sadness focusing on the time we have been apart.  

Grief is not mathematical, there isn’t a formula that tells you how long it will take, how much it will hurt, or how you will react. I do think there is a secret to it though; you have to find a way to create something positive out of all the negatives, to find a way to pick yourself up when there is no reason you should. Texas 4000 has been my secret. Everyday I am reminded of how blessed I am to have a place to give my dad’s fight purpose. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t get to do something that helps in the fight against cancer. Words can’t express how much of a difference it can make in the grieving process when you have something positive to hold on to, to be a part of. Time will go by but there are things that will stay the same: my love for my dad, the immense amount I miss him, and the way I will choose to grieve the loss of him."

I draw inspiration daily from Courtney, her teammates, their stories, and the mission of Texas 4000.  I know how blessed I am to find infinite purpose in my job.  Part of why I'm training 4,000 miles this year and participating in a Half Ironman is because it gives me something to hold on to and to be a part of.  I'm pushing myself physically and mentally while raising money for cancer research, but I'm gaining purpose, sanity, strength, and motivation along the way.  

Which brings me to last Friday when I thought about Chrissie and Courtney and decided to get out of bed, put on my sneakers, and set out into the rain for my long run.  Instead of putting on my usual "pump up" playlist, I turned to my "Remembering Ruben" playlist to accompany me.  Many of the songs are slow, but they are filled with memories and meaning.  While this music evoked tears, it also brought unparalleled beauty to the experience.

I love this quote, but I think that I was running INTO the rain (and pain) as much as, if not more so, than running AWAY from anything.  Trust me, I have a long list of distractions I use when I don't want to hurt/feel/cry/remember.  This was more of a conscious choice to embrace all of that - to bring it with me - to work through it.  As I made my way around Town Lake Trail, I let it all flow through me.  Not surprisingly, it was an emotional run.  But there were moments when I looked up with a smile and a laugh, because that's where the song and the memory took me.  

Another train of thought during the run led me to recognize how much I've changed over the years.  Of course this is true on so many levels and due to a host of various influences and circumstances.  But one particular recollection was of my high school track days.  I joined track because our school dropped the gymnastics team and I didn't know what else to do with my time that season.  I figured I could probably jump, but I hated running.  In fact, on more than one occasion when directed to do a "long run" of a whopping three miles, I went to a friend's house within walking distance to watch TV and eat cookies.  We would splash our faces with water (to look like sweat) and timed our return perfectly so the coach wouldn't be suspicious.  I would do anything to get out of a run back then, and even in more recent years.  It's a minor miracle that I'm working toward tacking a 13.1 mile run to the end of a 1.2 mile swim and 56 mile bike ride.  By choice.  And loving every step in the journey.

I took this photo from the walkway under the Mopac bridge during my run.  You can hardly see them, but there are two swans crossing the lake in the rain.  To me, this symbolizes the fact that I'm never alone, no matter what I'm wading through.  The second swan changes identities in my mind, sometimes from moment to moment - it often starts as Ruben, but changes to a dear friend, a family member, a Texas 4000 rider, a new partner, a power greater than myself.  Whoever or whatever it may be, I am not alone and I am not without hope.

Learn more about my journey to 4,000 miles and how to support my efforts.  I have currently raised $525 toward my $11,000 goal and have trained 341 of my 4,000 miles.  I still have lots of work left to do on both fronts between now and September 30, 2014!

Starting Over

I’ve been contemplating the concept of starting over on a few different levels lately.  The first, and probably the most superficial, has to do with my training.  I vowed to train 4,000 miles in one year for many reasons.  What can I tell you?  I am not off to a great start.  I was filled with conviction in early October as the anniversary of Ruben’s death neared, logging miles with passion a few at a time.  Friends joined me and pledged to train by my side.  But when life happened – work events, ACL, other commitments, grief, blues, fatigue, fear… I began to hit snooze and feel hopeless.

I won't give up.  I committed to you, my friends and strangers in cyberspace and in life who send me strength and lift me up.  I pledged to Texas 4000 riders old and new, all whom I admire and respect.  I set this goal in Ruben's memory which I vow to honor every day.  It is my attitude, not the clock, that I need to reset.

And so I will. 

A friend who has become dear to me is helping me choose a half Ironman that we will train for together.  70.3 combined miles of swimming, biking and running – in one day, back to back.  The power of one person believing in me is immeasurable, and I know deep down that she is not alone.  I will have no choice but to find discipline and routine, the traits that often elude me.  Tomorrow is a new day – a day that will start with a run in my beautiful city.



But that’s not the only “starting over” I am faced with.  Ruben has been gone now for more than two years.  Sometimes that remains so hard to wrap my mind around.  Often when I think about moving forward, it hits me all over again that moving forward with him is not an option.  I want to stomp my feet like a toddler and scream, “It’s not fair!”  However, I’ve chosen over and over again not to go that route.  Or at least not to stay in that state for more than a few minutes.  I am grateful for the time and the love that we had and I accept that it was brief.  On what would’ve been our third wedding anniversary, November 6, I compiled the collage below.  I look at these photos and it just doesn’t seem possible that I could ever be whole again.  You can see how it is an endless circle, round and round in my mind, right?

One of my most powerful experiences with starting over was about five years ago.  I traveled to Austin from Philadelphia for the first time in November 2008 for a work conference.  There was no question – I felt at home instantly and noticed a subtle tugging – something telling me to consider a life in Austin, Texas.  In my early 30’s with a good job and no real reason to move – I tucked the thought away.  Then, boom!  I was laid off from my job.  The universe was practically forcing me to act on my instincts.  Despite people thinking I was losing my mind, I set my sights on a big move to Austin and made it there by March, driving myself halfway across the country with a few job leads, one friend from college, and a strong gut feeling.

Most of you know what happened next.  I led with an open mind and open heart, networked my butt off, met wonderful people, made a life and a home for myself in Austin, and was soon introduced to Ruben.  I could write volumes about the last few years and the countless people, experiences, opportunities and blessings that made them rich and full and unforgettable.  But my point here is that I have evidence – true and personal evidence – that I started over at least once before.  And the outcome was somehow beyond my wildest dreams.

While I have been working on acceptance and letting go for a long time, it is only in the past few weeks that I’ve sensed a shift in my perspective.  I recently asked someone who lost his loved one many years ago about how to move forward when nothing will ever be the same.

“It will be different.  It has to be different.  We live in the present.  And you'll be surprised what you may discover in due time.  No, not surprised - delighted.”  

Just when I was running low on hope, those are the words that rescued me.  I know I’d given myself permission to be “okay” long ago - partially because I knew Ruben would have wanted me to be.  But it is finally starting to sink in that I’m allowed to be more than okay.  Maybe… just maybe… I will even be delighted.  

And so I start again...

The Little Voice In My Head

There’s a video I’ve wanted to share that was edited from an interview I did over a year ago.  I wasn’t sure what context to use it in, but the connection came to me in an inspired moment tonight and this blog post is the result.  (Note: if you're short on time or interest, the video is about halfway down the page!)

This evening I was tasked with wearing a costume to my trail-running group run.  To be perfectly honest, if I wasn’t writing this blog and needing mileage for my 4,000-mile challenge for Texas 4000, I can guarantee you this is a night I would have skipped – giving some lame excuse to get out of it.  But I feel accountable, so I decided to go.  Of course I got busy, waited until the last minute, and ended up digging a “doctor costume” out of the bottom of my closet.

I had to laugh when members of the group joked, “Good thing we have a medic here.  We’re all safe now with Jen the doctor in our presence.”  The “little voice in my head” had a field day.  “Doctor?  Ha!  I can barely take care of myself, let alone anyone else.  I’m about as much an athlete or a trail-runner as I am a surgeon.  At best I’m an occasional jogger.  I’ll probably trip over my scrubs and sprain my ankle.  Then they’ll all see me as I really am.”  We passed a rock-climbing wall I’ve recently climbed and I thought, “That’s where I pretend to be a climber, kind of like how I’m pretending to be a trail-runner and a doctor right now.”

Somehow I ended up in the middle of the group, spaced out enough at one point to where I was running alone with time to think.  My mind wandered to other times when that little voice gained volume and power in the past.  Throughout various stages of my time with Ruben I heard, “I’ll make a terrible girlfriend/wife/partner/caregiver.  I’m not equipped to handle our circumstances.  I’m not qualified.  There’s no way he can really love me as much as he says and seems to.  I don’t deserve to be this happy.  I can’t take care of him.  I won’t survive the loss.  I will never get out of bed again.”

This video, a relatively raw and honest account, was filmed about a year ago after I spoke at a Seton AYA Survivorship event.  When I was approached about speaking, the little voice said, “They’re only asking me because their first five choices were probably busy.  After they hear me, they will regret ever asking me.”   Here it is – basically some reflections on being a “caregiver”…

Watching this a year later, I’m able to call bullshit on the little voice.  Participating in that day was really powerful for me, and also for those who attended.  I received great feedback. 

I’m reminded as I listen to my own words that I was wonderful at every role I played in Ruben’s life, regardless of whether or not I knew what I was doing.  You don’t have to be qualified or flawless to love or be loved unconditionally.  You don’t have to be a medical professional in order to provide exceptional care for someone who is sick.  You don’t have to allow the loss to drown you forever.  You just need to face what’s immediately ahead of you and put one foot in front of the other.  Over, and over, and over again.

Somehow I ended up leading a portion of the group during tonight’s run.  It was dark out and only my second time running at night.  The trail was rocky, muddy, slippery, and occasionally steep.  The little voice piped up, “Why on earth would anyone want me in front and pacing them?  Is my headlamp even working?  I can’t see an inch in front of me.  Which path should I take?  Am I about to run blindly into poison ivy, a snake, or a wild dog?  I’m tired, I’m sweaty, I’m lost.  I need a break.”

But that’s life, right?  The path isn’t always illuminated for us.  We don’t know what we’re walking into or if we’re going in the right direction.  Do we freeze?  Stop moving forward?  Regret our choices?  I prefer to approach life the way I approached Ruben and his illness (most days).  Without fear.  With blind faith.  With a willingness to leap every now and then.  With trust that I will be okay no matter what.  With permission to fail.  With permission to slow down if necessary to regain my footing. 

I needed to be reminded of these things right now.  That nagging little voice has been creeping up from time to time to say, “What if I’m not on the right path?  I’ll probably never have a family.  There’s no way I can hit 4,000 miles.  I’m getting too old.  I’m not good enough at my job.  Am I really helping anyone?  Nobody even wants to read this.”  Tonight I’m calling bullshit on the little voice.  I’m putting one foot in front of the other, with faith and hope and trust.  I’m choosing to believe that I will be okay.  That I’m making a difference.  That we will all be okay.

Learn more about my journey to 4,000 miles and how to support my efforts.

Guest Blog: ACL Weekend Run by Sarah Townsend

A quick intro from me (Jen)... Sarah Townsend is my "sister from another mother." Our mom's were best friends before we were born, so we've been bonded for decades.  Shortly after I moved to Austin in 2009, we instituted a tradition where Sarah and my sister, Jessica, would fly in for Austin City Limits.  We all love live music and miss the weekend trips of our childhood spent together with our families, so we decided to bring them back in our adulthood, at least for the three of us. That first ACL came a few months after Ruben and I met and I will never forget Sarah turning to me at one point to say, "Jenny*, I think you're in love.  I think he's the one!"  *Side note: there are 3 people in this world who can call me Jenny, so don't get any ideas! ;)

Sarah and Ruben connected on a deep level almost instantly and in a way that is hard to put into words. They just "got" each other. Another declaration of Sarah's that is etched in my mind - when she told me she started every morning by reading an email from Ruben which he entitled "Ever Present" - something he wrote shortly after accepting that he was finally out of options. Sarah is one of many who consider his sentiments to be words to live by. Our last ACL together with all four of us was in 2011 when Ruben was in hospice care, yet still made his way out there and even got on stage. But there is no question he was with us in 2012 as well as just two weekends ago, jamming to Wilco and many more - taking it all in! 

And an excerpt from Ruben's Email:  You are all someone to me. I did my best to be someone for you. My currency was time, understanding, and presence. When the day comes, I miss now that I won’t be there with my time. When the time comes, my understanding will lay ever available in your memory of me. But the day will not come when my presence will be subtracted from your life going on. It will change, but not be lost. The physical will become intangible, spiritual, faithful. Do your best to become childlike in these moments. It will be real. You will mourn away the physical and embrace the change, the presence will not fail you. Know this in your head and your heart, be faithful to this truth.

There is time left. I am alive. Others call it dying; I’ve only ever known to call it living. If you see me, see me, the life. Our time under the sun should not want an umbrella, but instead let’s look up, get dizzy, go blind with life. Our time under the rain should not want an umbrella, but instead let’s look up, get soaked, and drink up life.

ACL Through the Years:

And finally, Sarah's Guest Blog Post:

What typically happens when the alarm clock sounds and my brain and eyes are awoken is an immediate press on the snooze button.  Never have I been a morning person or found pleasure in the early wake-up call when I am training for an event or race.  However, when the purpose is more than just getting a workout or instilling discipline but something more like raising funds for awareness of a truly great cause such as cancer, or participating in an event which honors loved ones…the motivation becomes easy, clear and inspiring.  Four years ago I trained and participated in my first triathlon with Team in Training.  Meeting multiple cancer survivors and recently diagnosed cancer patients throughout my training, it was an experience that no longer was about breaking a sweat or crossing a finish line, but one of true dedication to help in any way possible those dealing with and battling life-threatening diseases.  On the day of my race I tattooed in marker the name of my dear “pseudo-brother” and friend, Mr. Ruben Garza.

Ruben will always be close to my heart and in my thoughts for he was the most thoughtful and courageous man I have ever met.  Today his memory lives on through his family, friends and especially his wife, Jen Garza, who honors his memory in countless, beautiful ways.  Her most recent quest, Jen’s 4,000 Mile Journey, is without a doubt her most challenging endeavor - but I know she will achieve and surpass her goals.  Ruben would be so proud.

Only a few days into Jen’s training, I was fortunate enough to be visiting for Austin City Limits weekend.  In honor of Ruben and to help support my girl Jen, we went for a run.  Now this wasn’t a crazy long run by any means since I no longer am in triathlon shape, but it didn’t matter the length or distance.  I felt blessed to be next to Jen during even just a few miles of her 4,000 Journey, a journey which will raise funds and awareness to help so many battling cancer.  And most importantly, I got up that morning without hesitation or an alarm clock to run for my friend Ruben.  Ruben is missed every day and even more so on a day when the crowd gets quiet, the guitar is first strummed, and the music plays.  I will never forget that run for Ruben and so many others on ACL weekend with Jen!

Good luck on this journey, Jenny…you are a constant inspiration to us all!!

Love,

Sarah


Learn more about Jen's journey to 4,000 miles and how you can support her efforts.