Why I Write About Running

Today is one of those days where I normally would hide in my bubble, barely post on my social media or let alone, blog. I started off with one of those mornings where I realized the necessity of me staying home instead of trudging to work and having a full list (or lists, in this case) of items to take care of are truly more important than my paper-pushing job.

When I get in these moods, I spiral fast. Usually it means it's time to run (most likely speed work) or do an intense strength workout or a bikram yoga session is in order. An intense workout can counteract my feelings of collective stress. Stress about budgets, time management, relocating, my injury and lack of working out, my lack of excelling, my inflated expectations of myself. The more intense workout means the more I can let go. Just let go of it all.

I admit letting go is difficult for me, even with a [bad.ass] workout. Even admitting that I am not always the strong [bad.ass] that several people may see me as is horribly difficult. Yet, it gives me a chance to show how I funnel my emotions into fuel for physical intensity. I get the chance to show how physical activity is not only good for the body, but for the mind and the soul. I get the chance to show how pushing through a run full of hills and crappy roads and 68%+ humidity cleans the slate and shifts perspectives. This is why I write about my running adventures.

Remembering Why

Over the last few months, I have neglected running (and writing) on a regular basis, making excuses and throwing self pity parties. This last week or two, I have eased back into running again. Fighting excuses daily; getting angry when I do not push myself beyond the mental wall. Yet, today, through a friendly "checking on you" text, I was abruptly reminded why I started running in the first place.

On December 4, 2008, my stepbrother, John Jared Savage was killed in Mosul, Iraq, just a mere four days before coming home for good. When we should have been celebrating, we were shedding tears of loss and grief. When we should have been hugging him and thanking God for his safe return, we were mourning over a closed casket and wondering why God let this happen.

His death happened to make us stronger people. His death made me a stronger person. His death has pushed me every step I have run since then. His death has made me prove to myself that I can do things I thought not possible. In a sense, his death gave me a way to find myself, find my life.