Dreaming Big Again: Honolulu Marathon 2018

I took a bit of a hiatus from race reports at the end of 2017. I got so caught up in working out and fitness that, in truth, in probably got a little unhealthy. By the time I finished those marathons, I had a crazy amount of work and I was just trying to get my life back together. By the time I had a moment to breathe, I was so removed from the races that it felt difficult to write at all.

So, an update. Last December, I ran two marathons within six days of each other, at 3:54 and, wonderfully, 3:49:30 for a small PR. The Hawai‘i Bird Conservation Marathon is a tiny race that’s net downhill, and I felt blessed I could PR 6 days after a warm Honolulu race.

Now, so I don’t repeat the mistakes I made, let’s talk about 2018.


Intro

I came into this race with a lot of cautious optimism. I’d had a good few weeks of training, and was feeling really strong as a runner.

This year, I opted to not run the Hawai‘i Bird Marathon. It was a tough choice, and I had been planning on running it all the way up until this past November. Then, I got invited to an awesome weekend in Sonoma, CA, that felt sort of once-in-a-lifetime. It was a tough choice, but in the end I think it was the right one. One of my goals for 2018 was to stop doing things out of obligation, so when the time came, I decided to do what made me happy instead of just what I had “agreed” to do.

In the end, though, I made the right choice. It meant that I was able to really focus on this race as a benchmark for how my training was going so far. That also meant a new race strategy. I’ve always been an very conservative runner. It’s a mixture of things– fear of bonking or hitting the wall, residual fear from my injury a few years back, and my general worry-wart attitude always mean I tend to pull back so I don’t die before the finish line.

This year, however, I decided to be more strategic about my racing and go out faster then I had in a while. My eventual goal pace for Revel Kūlia is under an 8-minute-mile (which seems absurd to me right now), but I’ve been able to steadily hold ~8:30 in my distance training runs. I decided to go out trying to hold that 8:30 pace for the entire race, just to see what would happen.

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Sleep, Now.

I once had someone jokingly ask if I was a vampire.

“How many hours of sleep do you normally get a night?” The question comes from everywhere– doctors, coworkers, my parents. “Eight” is always the preferred response, most people respond that they six to seven, with a sad sigh and a wave of the hand, a universal symbol that says, It’s not enough, but it is what it is.

I, however, was always proud to respond, “Oh, four or five. Six if I’m lucky, but I’ve never slept more than eight unless I was sick.” I would smile, proud that my body seemed to need less rest than other’s, and nonchalantly shrug when people seemed surprise. Maybe my internal processor was just churning too fast to rest much; maybe I just recovered quickly. Mostly, I just enjoyed the small sense of self-importance.

Cut to the last month, where it feels like I’ve been doing nothing but sleeping as many hours as I can. I nap often– wrapped in a blanket on my couch, after working for an hour on a weekend morning, curled onto the tiny bench in my classroom between classes. If I can find a spare ten minutes, I’ll turn into myself, let my eyes go soft, and shut down.

I’ve been trying to understand what’s been happening to my body, since I’ve always struggled to sleep, including a two-month bout of insomnia a year ago that knocked the life out of me in a powerful way.

Since overcoming that insomnia, I had still never become much of a deep sleeper. I’d get my six hours, normally waking up midway through, to the dismay of my partner. Recently, though, my body has been in a perpetual state of sloth, as though I am trying to recover from some kind of illness.

Maybe I am. Over the past four months, I have reverted to many of the same, problematic behaviors I had a year ago. I move so fast I forget to breathe. When I finally am forced to sit still– on a long flight, for example– the air whooshing into my chest hits me like a bucket of ice has been emptied over me. Without warning, events that I had moved through as quickly as I could wash over me, and I am left sitting stunned as I review the tape of my life over the past days or weeks. Was that really me? I ask myself. Did that really happen?

Of course, it’s not as dramatic as all that. I’m known to need a little storm to settle me down sometimes. There aren’t any huge problems in my life, and generally, the process of settling into my seat and reviewing my life has been overwhelmingly positive.

I suppose, if anything, my descent into a week of rest has allowed me to enter into the dream world of my subconscious that I had left untended for too long. Sandra Cisneros, when asked about writing when she presented at my school, said that we need to take solitude to sleep, dream, and look into our own imaginations to be able to write.

So, this is just a reminder to breathe, to rest, perchance to dream. As I prepare to board another long flight home, I am immensely grateful for the week to be surrounded by so much love and care, and look inward. It was, then and now, the time to sleep. Tomorrow is coming too quickly, and I need to get ready.

 

Pause Before Crossing: A Life Update

I am 30 years old and today I am experiencing my first snow day.

I have to say, my trip to Philadelphia so far has been exactly what I needed it to be. I haven’t written here in a while because, frankly, I had overwhelmed myself past the point of feeling like I could do anything other than breathe and try to exist.

It’s not like I haven’t done that before. I find things I like, get really into them and then overextend myself to the point in which I sit on the couch in a state of stress-induced anxiety, unable to move.

That’s where I’ve been the past month. Don’t get me wrong– the general structure of my life is great– still love my job, still have amazing people in my life– but once I started feeling good, I went too far too fast and put myself in a bad space.

Thankfully, I have a lot of people in my life who love me and help me take care of myself. I made it to Spring Break and got on a few red-eye flights to Philadelphia to see my friends Daria and Chris. I had every intention of doing Crossfit’s 18.4 Workout when I arrived and, fortunately, there is a box a two-minute walk from where Daria lives.

Of course, I was barely able to get two hours of sleep on the flight. I ended up writing and reading, so by the time I made it to Philly, I was pretty zonked.

Still, I planned to get to Fearless Athletics, until I made it to Daria’s apartment. “You know,” I told her, “I kind of wish I could nap instead of doing the workout.”

Daria looked at me for a moment, then said, “Yeah, it definitely sounds like you should do that instead.”

I thought about it. My brain screamed at me that I couldn’t miss a day of working out, that I  needed to push push push. Then, I stopped, and decided that now was the time to take care of myself.

So, instead, I got into bed and slept.

The past few days since have meant some working out, sure, but also just… being happy. I slept a lot, hung out with Daria, Chris, and their adorable dog Max while watching Bar Rescue, met Daria’s grandmother, had some stupid good food (much of it homemade), and just… took a breath.

Recently, I was lucky enough to get interviewed by the 30 by Thirty Photo Project, a photo project by Erika Nizborski. She took some beautiful shots of me, and interviewed me about my experience as a thirty-year-old woman. I told her that, now, at 30, when I turned thirty, I was in the best shape of my life.

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And that may be true–  I certainly put in the work.

But, looking back, I don’t think I was the healthiest I’ve ever been. Health isn’t just the measure of how hard we can push, but our ability to step back and let ourselves heal as well.

So, in the name of healing, I’ve tried to be kinder to myself the past few weeks (hence, skipping 18.3 and 18.4). A few Saturdays ago, I spent the day on my couch, watching Crazy Ex-Girlfriend and, honestly, crying. I realized there were a lot of things I needed to let go of, and some things I needed to forgive myself for.

I also gave up teaching Yoga at Mango Tree. As much as I really do love teaching Yoga, I needed to create space in my life to do some other things I need to focus on like my writing. Funnily enough, the day after I quit, some exciting opportunities started down the pipeline. God is always working.

I feel like there are some things coming, but I know I have to prepare myself for them, if only to appreciate the view.

The morning after I arrived, I woke up and took a very chilly run across the Ben Franklin bridge. It was beautiful, and right before I crossed over the bridge to head back, I took a second to stop, looking around, and just appreciate where I was.

That pause is so essential, such a powerful part of experiencing not just happiness, but understanding joy. Happiness is temporary and situational. Joy is being able to appreciate your life and its bustling craziness and the beauty in the breaths before the grind. Joy involves taking stock because it is the bone-deep belief that there is beauty and magic in your life if only you are willing to wait. 

So, at this pause, before I cross, I am so, so grateful, and excited to see what comes next.

The Girl Who Laughed at the Ashes: 2017 in Recap

You know, at some point I’m going to need to stop burning my life down if I want to keep anything.

Sorry, that was for me. I was looking back on my writing, and noticed that I’ve used the analogy a couple of times in the past few years. I keep insisting that things have to burn and break if I want to inevitably grow in any way.

And that’s true. I’m a firm believer in that. Still, I’ve realized that I’ve probably done quite a bit of demolition work in my life these past few years. I’ve cleared the field a few times, looking at the way my life was turning out, shaking my head, and firmly saying, “…NOPE.”

I don’t regret it– I’m a little frustrated with myself, at times, for getting into situations that I so clearly need to leave, places that were unsafe and unstable, that have been a huge emotional suck for me– these past few months especially. I know that these personal things have gotten in the way of my career, my work, my ability to be the person I wanted to be.

Yet, I’ve come out on the other side and I feel stronger and more like myself than I have in a very long time. Yes, everything burned down, but I discovered so many beautiful things in the process. I realized that I could stand on my own and say no when I needed to. I realized that I was stronger than I previously thought. I realized that, in the end, my gut had been trying to tell me things I already knew. Despite what I’d been told– I could trust myself and my instincts.

In the aftermath, I was immediately surrounded by so much love and support that I was frankly a little blown away. I have struggled with asking for help in the past but this time, when I reached out, I had a number of people hold me (physically and metaphorically), validate me, encourage me, and let me know things were going to be okay.

And they were. Even though there were times when my stomach wouldn’t stop aching, where I couldn’t sleep, where it felt like I couldn’t breathe, things inevitably got better– as they always do.

On New Year’s Eve, I was standing out on a black sand bay in Kona, at a mellow get-together that was warm, inviting and full of good food. I had danced and smiled. I walked out onto the shore, the full moon reflecting off the water and the lava rocks, everything looking like silver had been painted over the world.

And I laughed. I looked back on all the ridiculousness of my life and that was all I could do. What a farcical, unexpected, tumultuous journey I had been on! There have been a few times in my life where I’ve said that, if you’d told me where I’d end up, I would’ve laughed, but this time I had to actually laugh.

Then, I smiled and said a silent prayer of gratitude. As ridiculous as it had all been, this past year had also brought a number of wonderful, beautiful things and people into my life. I was grateful for the friends and family that had been there for me from the beginning, I was grateful for the people the universe had conspired to bring into my life when I needed it most, and I still feel very blessed that I had been given so many wonderful opportunities despite it all.

I had chosen, perhaps, the path most ridiculous, and I was still able to come out the other side with a smile on my face.

There are worse things, I suppose. In the end, I am the girl who looked at the ashes of her life and laughed under the moonlight.

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So, what’s happened this year?

I posted this update on Twitter, and I actually find them to be a fairly succinct view of where I have been:

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When I look back at my resolutions for last year, I got 3/5? Sort of?FullSizeRender

BUT! I have hopes for the new year!

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So, 2018. Let’s do this. I’m moving in a few weeks (a few blocks away from my current place), I am happier than I deserve, and I’m seeking joy and laughter in every moment I am blessed to live.

On The Other Side

When I first wrote this a few months ago, I was a mess. I wrote this in a flash and closed the window, unable to look at it again because it was too raw.

Today, I looked in the mirror, looked at my life, and did not feel like a mess.

So, I went back to edit it, and I was finally ready to actually read it. It feels good to feel like myself and be writing (and re-writing) again.


I didn’t realize how truly turned around I was until you started acting exactly like I would have a year ago.

“I get in my head,” you told me.

I know the feeling.

So, when I told you I’d been out on a date right after you left (me! The one who writes love stories for boys the minute I meet them. How strange to unabashedly risk everything and not care about your reaction), you exhibited the exact kind of false, cool, calm that is trying to mask a brain fast at work. The emergency lights blare and the alarm is “woo woo woo-ing” all over the place. I hear it in your voice as it insists that this is fine.

You say that, but I know you because I think you are like me and I know myself. Behind your assurances, I can hear the crackling of fire as my honesty burns down the paper pedestal you put me on far sooner than you should have.

See, the problem with me is that I’m a mess right now.

I know this because, right now, you don’t seem like a mess. You seem like you might be seeking stability.

I know all the tell-tale signs. You slip in pet names when we talk, seeing how I react. You ask me what I want from you. You sit there when I ask you the tough questions and then, instead of running, you make me bulleted lists with answer. You spend your time checking in on me and opening up to me and telling me you want to be better this time.

And the thing is, I’ve lived that life. I’ve made of living of it, in some ways. I have spent a lifetime opening hearts up, breaking walls down, providing the vulnerable foundation on which men can come to a better understanding of themselves and what they want.

And, to be honest, I’m tired.

Something broke in me and all my ability to open up, be the one who moves forward, be the one who gives anyone stability, feels like it’s gone. I have spent a lifetime cleaning up other people’s messes only to become the mess myself. I tailspin into impulsive decisions fueled by the one-too-many-beers I had two beers ago. I tell myself that this is fine with the same false, cool, calm you exhibit, but mine is a brain fast at work too.

The difference, though, is that you’re masking your terror so as not to scare me away. I don’t know who I am hiding my terror from except myself, and when I see so much of my old self in you it holds up the mirror that makes me ask where I lost myself before I met you.

It started with a lie.

Not your lie though. Or mine. Someone else’s lie. Someone else’s lies and someone else’s baggage and someone else’s pain running the show because isn’t that always the fucking case with a woman.

Eventually the lies felt bigger than my ability to love and everything was broken and the only way my mind could triage was to shut down the whole fucking system. Total reset. I refused to notice the emergency lights blaring or the woo-woo-wooing of the alarm and threw up my arms. The only thing was to move forward, to try and find a way to feel good again, to slowly make my way through and cling onto anything that felt vaguely like hope.

And maybe that strategy worked. I don’t know. I’ve made it to the place now where at least I can look in the mirror and finally start seeing the truth of things.

I am a mess right now. You are not a mess.

But, as the system slowly reboots, I guess things are becoming clearer.

And as I try and wade my way out of the mess— pushing the debris to the side, holding onto what I can of myself as I make it out of the muck— I am slowly learning to listen to the signs. The emergency lights blare, and I stop, shake my head, and turn in another direction. I hear the “woo” of alarm sirens approaching in the distance, and I close my eyes, take a breath, and change course.

Maybe, just maybe, I can find my way out of the mess.

When I do, I will brush myself off, and look in the mirror. I have no idea who I will see on the other side.

But I think I have to get there on my own.

And The Walls Come Tumbling Down

I’m taking a sick day for the first time in forever, and I’ve spent much of it sleeping.

I wrote this a bit ago after another re-reading of Junot Diaz’s This is How You Lose Herwhich is evident in the style. This is a highly excerpted and edited version of a much longer piece that I’ll probably never publish (though, thanks to Doug, Colin, Leslie, and Lindsey, who gave me feedback on the full reads). But it felt good to get this out.

Oh, and for what it’s worth, story-truth is an interesting thing. Timelines are fuzzy, things get fictionalized, etc.

And I’m sleeping just fine now.


 

You always assumed your love triangle phase would happen in your twenties. Some youthful lark, you figured, some princesa shit you’d pull on some guys when being young and bitchy was acceptable and you could chalk it up to youth. You’d roll your eyes at this younger version of yourself someday, and you’d be able to blame the selfishness of it all on your twenties and be happy you moved on.

Now, though, you are thirty and the stakes feel higher for everything. You still wear your hair long, your shorts short, and cling to something you cannot yet name. You didn’t spend your twenties being bitchy and pretty like you hoped you would. Instead, you were chubby and awkward and terrified you’d die alone. You nurtured and loved and were so desperate to not miss on the opportunity for “the love of your life” that you ended up letting the brief period you thought could love yourself selfishly slip through your fingers.

So, after kicking the last heartbreak, you figured you finally had all your shit figured out. You knew what you wanted, you told your friends. You were gonna focus on you. You weren’t going to rush anything and you were gonna be patient and wait for the right guy. They nodded their heads hopefully, encouragingly, but silently laughing that you’d fuck up again and end up causing the same internal drama you always do.

That’s what makes your current predicament so fucking annoying. You end up with the same internal drama. Now, you find yourself in a weirdly shaped cage that you don’t know how to get out of.

You have not slept properly for nearly two months— you refuse to admit that the myriad of reasons your friends list (post-breakup trauma, current inner-turmoil, a new job) may matter. You insist to your parents that you are seeing a therapist and that you are fine and that you’ve simply never slept well. These things are all true, but even you quietly admit to yourself that three hours a night for a month doesn’t make for the most lucid version of yourself.

This is the version of yourself, though, that is riding high-octane fuel into each weekend, turning yourself into a woman with a variety of interests that you vaguely hope will not only make you happy, but pique the interest of a dating life that sometimes feels dead inside you. You teach all day, then run three-miles as a coach, then run to CrossFit, then run to Jiu-Jitsu for few hours. You are usually tired, but feel like if you stop, you will be turning your back on things you fought so hard to regain control of in your life. You often don’t come home for twelve hours, dripping with sweat and barely able to stand. You’ve never been in such good shape, and you keep silently praying that putting your body through this will mean that, finally, you will sleep.

But you don’t. Somehow, sleep still eludes you.

So, you have to fill the time.

We’re not talking about anything physical, though. It was never about that. You just miss having a person. The one you talk to throughout the day and night. The one who listens to your dumbass jokes and sends you news articles throughout the day and gets your shit. You have friends who will be there, sure, but you’re consistently concerned that you are bothering them. Secretly, you’re worried that if you’re not repaying someone with love or money, they have no obligation nor desire to listen to your shit.

It’s the nothingness, though, that scares you. It feels foreign, unreal, unfathomable. That night, for the first time in a while, you cancel a second date. You have no desire to go out that night.

It wasn’t the date. It was you.

To be fair, you’ve had another three-hour nap for sleep, and this week you have realized that sometimes your eyes don’t focus properly for a few minutes. Still, you don’t know what is going on. You, who were always so passionate. You, who were always so ready to jump into the arms of the next great love story and open your heart. Where are all those feelings now? Where have they run off to?

You’re so tired and your eyes still won’t focus and you don’t know how to stop your mouth anymore. Instead of the date, you call a friend, rambling and lamenting to him that you’re scared you’ve lost the parts of yourself that wants to want someone else.

He listens. Then, he asks you: what if you’re not ready?

You sit with that for a second. You ask yourself— did you want to bail on the date because you wanted something else? Or did you bail because you wanted a friend and not the work of being someone’s thing-I-got-right?

You tell him he may have a point. He tells you to get off the phone and write.

That night, for the first time in months, and without the aide of liquor or medication, you sleep for six hours straight.

And the walls of the cage come tumbling down.

The Ragged Sweetness of My Own Voice

“You need to get up now. I need you to get up.”

I am kneeling on a cold floor, sobbing into bedsheets.

“You need to get up now.”

I brace myself against the command, the voice thick with emotion and wet with tears. I grasp tighter at the soft cotton, the smoothness of it against my palm soothing. I shake my head, sobbing harder. My anchor-heavy heart sinks further into the ground, the leaden weight ripping a track down my gut as it goes. I open my mouth, and my sadness begins to tumble out and patter to the ground like broken shells, each one cutting my throat and making a thin, little wail and cough each time they hit the floor. I actively open my jaw wider, as though I could let out all this feeling, all this hurt, all this stuff out with tears and small-hurt-animal-sounds. I shake my head again, so sure I will not be able to get up, sure I will not be able to pick up my keys, sure I will not walk out the door. I am sure I will be anchored forever by the bed, in a broken harbor of my own making.

“You have to go now. You have to do this. I need you to do this.”

Even more strained, the seriousness makes me snap back to myself. I struggle to take a few deep breaths, my own inhalation rushing into me like ice. I blink my eyes a few times. I cough, the last few shards of sadness sputter out again, cracking once they land.

Stop. Breathe. Again. Good. ”

“You know you need to get up now. You know you can do this.”

I nod, recognizing the voice as my own. When panic hits, the separation between the head and the heart becomes so clear, so precise, that it’s jarring when the wall shatters and comes down.

Still, after years of begging others to help me come home, I take a deep breath, and hear my own voice– ragged and strained, but still sweet and drunk on its own agency– bring me back to myself.

“You know you can do this.”

I take a breath again. I see so many faces, people who have wrapped themselves around me like warmth in the storm, nodding as I finally, for the first time, come into myself as master of my own fate.

Today, that fate is merely picking up my keys and being able to leave the house.

I take another shuddered breath. I nod to myself again.

I pick up my anchor-heart. I feel the weight of it in my palms, notice how my arms strain to carry it. I sweep away the bits of my own sadness, mindful not to get cut, not scared if I do. I listen to my own broken voice, a siren’s call, begging me to come home. My throat is ragged with painful truths. I hear the sweetness of its own power. And I leave the house.

Today, that small victory is the flag on top of Everest. It’s the medal at the end of the marathon. It’s the ravaged warrior, finally come home again, not dead as once-believed but scratched, beaten, scarred, and smiling that they came out the other side.

Today, the call was my own voice. Today, I listened and came home.