At nearly 31 years old, I finally decided that all I want to be is right here.
For so long, I’ve gotten bogged down by the idea that I am the things that I do. Every single time I started to identify too much with a label based on an activity — like a writer or runner — inevitably something beyond my control would interrupt me, and I’d find myself after a stretch of time where those activities either didn’t feel good, or weren’t possible at all. In those moments, I’d swirl into the drain of a crisis wondering, if I can’t do this defining thing, am I even somebody at all?
The answer — and one I’d dole out to others in a heartbeat — is that of course you’re somebody beyond your titles. But who readily takes their own advice?
I had one of these moments around this time last year as I continued training for a marathon on a worn out Achilles tendon. In a tale as old as time, I ran myself into the ground (couch). I had to take more than a month off running, and when I came back I was doing 15 minute run-walks at a time, followed by icing and stretching.
This is not the first time I had been sidelined from an injury (and let’s be honest: It won’t be the last), but it was the first time that I maintained an obligation to a group of extremely active runners and athletes. As a co-leader of November Project DC, I had made a commitment to showing up to workouts at least twice a week, rain or shine.*
I’ve been a part of this free fitness community for the better part of seven years at this point. When I’ve gotten hurt previously, I would subconsciously take off my runner hat and invest in other activities. I’d take a break from November Project and pick up something else — like yoga — because that way, I wasn’t stripping myself down at all. I was just replacing one self-imposed activity-based identity with another. When I was ready to be back, I could go back to thinking of myself as a runner again.
As I co-led through this injury, though, I didn’t have the hours in the day to take on anything else. I still had to show up, and I’d give the workout or a bounce and then I’d improvise what I’d do with the next 40 minutes before 7 a.m. I’d walk around or spray paint shirts with our logo (called tagging) or take pictures. Sometimes I’d just watch the sunrise or try to identify the early-morning bird songs.
Because the best moments I’d had to date in November Project were the deep conversations I had with others while running, I had assumed that I would be missing out on these moments as I recovered. But over time, I found that the combination of forced consistency and stillness resulted in other kinds of connections.
It seemed that just being there made me accessible in a new way. Community members would stop by to say hello if they had someone to talk to if they wanted a water or stretch break. It quickly became a two-way street, because I realized that simply being present for these early-morning workouts meant that someone would see me, too, in a state where I wasn’t performing or doing anything particularly interesting — I was just there, in whatever state that was that morning.
It is so rare, these days, to interact with someone else in a totally natural state. That’s not a bad thing: We all need to put effort into how we show up for our friendships, our relationships and our jobs.
But there’s an often overlooked honesty that comes from just being as you are exactly in that moment — even if it’s frustrated or tired or reflective — and seeing others as they do the same. What a joy, to be witness something as remarkable and routine as a sunrise.
I retired from my co-leadership of November Project today. It’s a strange transition. Even though I wouldn’t describe myself as sad, I do feel an ache in my chest. I think its another kind of love I’ve stumbled upon, the kind you can’t help but fall into over time.
When I think about that feeling, I realize that that there is very little that I capital-D Do that will actually meaningfully better the world. That’s not to be nihilistic, but rather to be humble: There are more important things in the course of a lifetime, and they involve no special skill other than being present, still and consistent. Bearing witness to others as they are is probably the most important thing I can do for myself and others in my brief stint on this planet.
The first step of seeing others honestly, I think, is to be honest yourself. And one of the ways I can be honest with you, dear reader, is by writing essays like this one. I’m so glad you’re here, and I’m so glad to be here, too.
P.S. — If you liked this blog, you can find it and others like it on my personal newsletter, Scrap Facts! You can find me there, or at NPDC workouts where I’ll have simply moved to the back of the bounce.
Share via socials:
