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.