I used to do coke in the middle of the night with my ex-boyfriend. I used to steal at every department store I walked into. I used to drink a case of beer alone every night. I used to pop pain pills for fun. I used to sleep with a different guy every night. I used to lie about anything I could. I used to gorge myself with food. I used to hate myself.
Yesterday, I ran fifteen miles. And with every step, those thoughts consumed me.
My entire childhood, I was told I would never amount to anything except becoming an exceptional alcoholic. Now here I am, getting my master’s and training for my first marathon. Running consumes my life—it’s all I talk about. Because for whatever time I’m running that day, my mind feels free, like I can do anything.
I show up for myself even when I don’t feel like it, even if every step hurts. It’s the pain I decide to endure, every time. Every time I show up, it reinforces that I can do things that are hard, and I’ll get through it regardless of how I feel or what my mind is trying to convince me of. It helps me believe in myself more and more each day. It saves me on the days I need it most.
But first and foremost, I don’t think running makes me special. I couldn’t even run a full mile until about three years ago. I think anyone could do what I do. So, when I talk about my pace or how long I ran, I don’t say it to brag. I say it because I’m proud. I’m proud of the woman I’ve become, and I’m proud of the fact that while I was always told I would amount to nothing, I show up every day anyway.
I’m fighting for the little girl that wanted to die. I need to prove to her that it got better. So, I won’t feel bad if my goals make you feel little. My goals aren’t for you—they’re for me and me only. And if you don’t want to sit here and support me, then leave. No one is stopping you.
I won’t apologize for the person I became while learning to survive.