It's about to get real...
The first day I walked up to the group of Cross country runners in late august my Freshman year of high school I wasn’t convinced. My mother had all but forced me to go as training for track in the spring. In the age old reality of Mother knowing best it was by far the best choice made in high school. Day one I couldn’t run a solid mile. I had to stop for breaks every 400meters. By day 3 when I ran that solid mile (at a tortoise pace mind you) I was hooked. I had done it, and I wanted to do it some more. By September my enjoyment of the Sport was a passion. I trained hard and by the first week of October our third race of the season I made varsity.
In December I had to see a doctor due to pain in my knee; Immense pain that was bearable when I walked but killer when I ran. The orthopedic surgeon advised me to quit. Said my knees didn’t fall right into place and was causing too much deterioration for my age. That was like asking an addict to give up there drugs. It had become an addiction, but mostly it had become my coping mechanism.
(Flattering picture I know!) Look at that bandage on my knee and that was just my third race.
My teammates had learned how to tell by sophomore year when I had had a rough day without even asking. I’m an introvert by nature so I would be unusually quiet all throughout the warm out. Speaking only when spoken to and brief answers at that. I would warm up to hard and stretch to fast and then I’d hit the road running with more effort and longer than instructed pounding away at the pavement and my racing thoughts and feelings. On those days I was first out and last to come in. It was my therapy. Problems seemed to fade with each mile. The endorphins kept me from focusing on the negative and I would come back a new person.
Sophomore year I was told by the same Surgeon that my cartilage was nearly gone. He gave the analogy of a pillow and a sheet, saying I at my age and in optimal health should have a “pillow” of cartilage and I was down to sheet at 16. He said to stop. I couldn’t. It was my therapist, my identity, my safe place, my escape, my passion.
I was a happy person despite my growing knee pain. I easily saw the bright side In everything. I was the advice giver, the “mama bear” of my teammates, and the eternal optimist. In the fall of 2010 everything changed.
All summer I had been in an internal battle with my knees. I had taken to running alone, away from my teammates everyday so no one would see my knees buckle mid stride and me hit the ground. I Started having to explain cuts on my legs and hand by saying I tripped, when in reality it was from my knees not being able to support my body.
People always remember their last of something; the last kiss with their first love, the last day of high school, the last time they talked to a loved one before they died. For me, one of my definitive “lasts” was my last good race. It was the pre-season race and I blew my knees out that day. I ran harder than ever. I killed myself that race. I crossed the finish line and collapsed. I beat everyone on my team and placed in the top 10 females of the whole race of about 350 people. It was my glory day, and it was the last time I’d ever get that feeling.
Three weeks later my grandma died. I moved a lot in my life and don’t have a big family, but my family is close. My grandma had been a constant in my life. I took it hard. Very hard and one of the hardest parts, aside from deeling with her death as a whole was that I couldn’t run it out.
My coach no longer let me go out on the road to run. He had seen me collapse at that race and knew about my deteriorating knees. My mileage had been reduced to a supervised and moderately paced 3 miles. I was only allowed to race in big races. Then the third race of the season became my last. Tears streaming down my face I passed one of the coaches at mile 2. She saw me limping as I tried to brush off the tears. She yelled for me to get off the course and not to finish. I shook my head and yelled to her I couldn’t do that. I came in with the worst time of my running career. I was pulled from varsity and was told I would no longer be competing for my own good. In one month I had lost one of my closest friends and cheerleaders, and lost my ability to run. In doing so I began a downward spiral and the loss of my identity.
To say I grew bitter is an understatement. I was now a cynical person. I disliked most people and hated anyone who could compete in anything. I made school my focus but found it hard to focus at all. I was discontent and disconnected from everyone. I withdrew from my former teammates, even withdrew from my mom who had always been my best friend. I was combative and I was depressed. Events of my senior year that were scaring left me in a severe depression. I had never dealt with the loss from my junior year and I couldn’t face what was happening to me. Friends I had made outside of my sport I kept at a distance and I found myself growing apart from even them. I wanted nothing to do with anyone.
I became good at faking happy after a while. I even made myself find joy in some things.
But I could not find the joy. I eventually became less combative and relatively happy but I still didn't know who I was anymore or how to feel like my old self, I liked my old self. There's a lot more to my story (I know surprising after how long this sucker is) but in dealing with my world and my relationships I needed a piece of the old me
In January of this year my second year of college. I decided I had had enough, enough feeling sorry for myself, enough of missing who I was.
I wanted to work out again, to feel that rush. I wanted to have the clarity that came with the adrenaline. I wanted the satisfaction that came with completing a workout even when you can't complete anything else. I wanted the ability to control my body and defy the odds, when I couldn't control my world or the odds stacked against me. But it was harder this time. I was naturally good at running and if you read A Little About Me you know that if I am not naturally good at something I don't enjoy it and it's hard for me to accept or to attempt to do it again.
I would love to say I concurred that quickly. I didn't. It wasn't until I decided that I really needed to find, not necessarily what I was good at, but what I enjoyed. Becoming good at said activity would come a little at a time (see what I did there). So cue clumsily tripping in Step Class...Loosing my balance and in Yoga (repeatedly I might add), and spazzing my way through Zumba (and half a dozen more classes and exercises).
A strange thing happened though. When I finally let go of needing to be a prodigy in any of these classes I actually enjoyed myself. So right now, I'm still doing all those classes and am still fumbling my way through them all but it's fantastic! And I promise to keep you updated on my fitness adventure! Until late my Littles!
XoXo,
Kendalin!
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