Repairing My Relationship With Running

I ran my first and only marathon in January 2015. I was a sophomore in college, slowing transitioning to full recovery from disordered eating. But exercise was my crutch. During training, I had run 30+ miles weekly — 5 then 10 then 15, 17 — up to 20 miles. I had convinced myself that I “loved” running, and maybe I did for a while. But those runs were hard. They took everything out of me, required a lot of time, and often left me in physical (and mental) pain.

But that’s the point right? Push till it hurts. “Become a better version of yourself.” No pain, no gain. Until the pain costs you more than you bargained for.

The last five miles of that marathon I limped, walked, tried to jog. I was the definition of fighting through the pain. When I finished, I cried—out of relief but also because I was upset. My legs were recked and I knew it. I tried to celebrate the race, but deep down I thought—“How will I be able to run again?”

(how I really felt [top] — smiling through the pain (re: the ice pack on my hip) vs what I posted on social media that day [bottom])

Insight 1: Pushing myself past my limits during training without proper recovery (rest) and adequate fuel (food) prevented me from finishing the race without injury. I was more concerned with “looking like a runner” than being one.

What I would do differently: I probably won’t ever run another marathon (mostly because I don’t want to) but that doesn’t mean all marathon runners have disordered eating and don’t recover properly. If I ever were to run that far again (or do any other race), I would make sure my training schedule optimized my performance (and included plenty of rest days), instead of draining my mental and physical capacity. I’d also focus on listening to my body, stretching everyday (seriously) and incorporating weight-bearing exercise to prevent muscle atrophy.

Insight 2: My preoccupation with running prevented me from truly celebrating the biggest physical accomplishment I’d ever done.

What I would do differently: I’d appreciate that even though the race didn’t end perfectly (when does it ever?), I still completed it and that in of itself is huge. Then I’d remind myself to focus on and celebrate today, right now, instead of worrying about what will be. Can I get an amen?

Weeks after that race I couldn’t run. Pain shot down my leg every time I walked. It was out of the question. Fears flooded me. I ate relatively competently at this point, but I couldn’t help but wonder: if I can’t exercise, will I gain weight?

February and March I painstakingly attempted to run a few times per week. I was depressed. Even though it had become a borderline obsession, running was still a big part of me. Who am I if I’m not a runner?

After a few months, I began to run a little more, refusing to accept that I couldn’t run like I had before. But there was still pain. This went on for almost TWO YEARS. (It’s now December 2017).

Because I couldn’t just accept that the only thing my body was actually craving was the one thing I feared giving it: rest, stillness — not exercise.

In the last few months since I officially became an RD, I have delved more into Intuitive Eating and movement. I have changed a lot of my habits, began to really accepted my body as it is, and also drastically changed my movement patterns. I won’t pretend that I don’t sometimes miss running 10+ miles. But really (as of now) I just miss that idea because every time I go out to run there ain’t no way I want to run 10 miles.

So my relationship with running and exercise will keep changing.

For the last six months, I’ve been doing a lot more weight-training, actually working to improve my glutes/hips/hamstrings because I’m TIRED of the pain. So even though I’ve been really a stubborn and slow learner for the past two years, I am finally doing something about it. Because of that, I’ve been able to incorporate more walking with the occasional run. It’s weird, yeah, but it’s helping to repair this relationship with running I so badly damaged. For the first time in about two years, I don’t have any pain when I run. And maybe I will get to a point when I can run long distances again, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that forcing it is not going to work.

After all this — the overexercising to pushing through the pain to reevaluating why I even run to changing my exercise routine, I have learned a lot. I’ve learned that exercise is important to me—it’s fun, when I’m utilizing it instead of abusing it. It’s stress-relieving when it can fit into my day, not when I force it in. And it’s exhilarating when I meet a goal or am drenched in sweat, but that doesn’t need to happen everyday.

Maybe you can relate. Maybe you’ve overexercised in the past or felt guilt or shame for not exercising. Maybe you think if you don’t get “in the gym” your exercise doesn’t count. I don’t think that’s true and I don’t believe that’s how it’s supposed to be. Gardening, hiking, biking (outdoors!), walking our pets, exploring a city, mowing the lawn, short jog/walks, moving furniture — that’s all movement. When we honor our bodies with rest, recovery, food, and the movement it desires, we can start to appreciate it instead of micromanaging it. We can use our movement to cultivate relationships and add more meaning to our lives and the lives of those around us. So that’s where I am right now, and it’s helping me. I feel like it could help you too.

Throughout all this burnout and recovery — this whole experience leaves me with one burning question that I think I know the answer to:

Are our bodies actually good at telling us what we need to feel our best?