Going all the way

My lungs were burning. My legs felt heavy. Sweat was pouring down my face as I came to that first stop sign about ¼ of a mile up. The 1-mile long hill still taunted me to keep going but I listened to my body and stopped. "Listening to my body" had become an essential part of my self-care because I could easily push myself too far and spend the rest of the day depleted and exhausted because of my determination.

Earlier that morning, something had happened at home — another moment of feeling unheard, the kind I'd felt too many times before. I went upstairs to get dressed for my run rather than stay in it.

Back on the hill, I walked the rest of the way up feeling pretty good about myself anyway. Maybe it was the run, or maybe it was just some distance from the house, but I found myself thinking about my body instead — about how it's changing. I am 50 now. I have been trying to find the balance between acceptance that doesn't disguise itself as giving up. I still wanted to push my edges, but my edges were changing and I wanted to let that be okay too.

I walked through the door at the end of my run feeling gentler toward myself and lighter. I was still aware of the distance from the tension earlier, I didn't want to move toward them, but now I felt calmer and more centered in myself. Once again we moved on with the day acting like nothing had happened.

Still that hill called to me. I wanted to go the distance. I wanted to make it to the top. Was I just dreaming? Was I too old now? Would it take training that I wasn't prepared to dedicate the time to? Why did I even want to, anyway? Is that just my ego? I had a good run. I took care of myself. That's what it was all about. But did I have more in me, or was this it? And the hill continued to call to me.

On my next run I was pretty fired up about something that had just happened at home, again. This time I was feeling pretty hot about it. Argh! I can't keep doing this. It's not okay. I'm not okay. Why was I still here? How come I wasn't stronger? I'd spoken my truth and stood up for myself before, but eventually I always backed down again — back to this place where I felt small in my own life. Like it didn't matter. I didn't matter. I can't believe I'm here again.

I didn't believe in myself. I didn't believe in my own capacity. That was it! On my way down the hill I started to plot my journey up. I am getting up that hill today! And I'm figuring out my life. I am not going to stop this time. I have to go all the way. I'm not going to stop short of proving to myself that I matter to me!

At the bottom of the hill, I ran 3 laps around the park like I usually did. This time, I walked a 4th lap in order to catch my breath. I knew that if I was going to tackle that hill I was going to need a breather first.

On that walk, I created a playlist — music that had some oomph to it to help me tackle that hill. That playlist has since evolved, but on that first run it was just about beats per minute.

I stood at the corner crosswalk waiting like I was at the beginning of an important race. I had a mixture of self-doubt and determination. I didn't want to let myself down. Come on Kori, we've got this. The light changed. Here we go!

I took off across the street and felt the first wave of the slope hit me. My breath quickened, I could feel my legs working harder. See, in this mile-long hill the slope varies — always steep, but in a few points extra steep. I was wearing a hat like I usually do to keep the sun and sweat out of my face. This time it also served as a visor. I kept my gaze down just a few feet in front of me and that's all I needed. One step at a time. Come on Kori! You've got this!

I saw the white paint of the P of the first stop sign. I also felt the hill get a little steeper. Here we go, the second big wave as the incline grew steeper. Pace yourself. Don't stop. Just slow down. You've got this. I slowed my pace and my breath evened out a bit. I looked up for a moment and saw how much more I had to go. I felt a little disheartened, but then I dropped my head, looked right in front of me, and held steadfast. I vowed not to look up like that again. Phew! One step at a time. That's all I have to do.

Here came the next white P on the concrete. I was approaching the second stop sign. I knew where that was. I was almost there! I looked up to make sure there were no cars, but I didn't let myself take in the distance I still had to go. I was already farther than I had been before. I've got this! I slowed down even more, but I kept running.

I felt it under my feet — the hill started to round out. The ground underneath me was flattening out. I looked up. There was the edge of the fence where I had started my run. I'm going there! My pace picked up. The slope started to turn slightly downward. I let my legs go. With the help of gravity I ran those last few steps to the finish line. I did it! I did it! I stopped running as the tears streamed down my face. I did it! I went all the way. I can go all the way!

I walked the rest of the way home and I knew something really important had just happened. That was the beginning of a transformation that would change my life in a million ways, both terrifying and wonderful. I haven't looked back since.

I continue to run that hill several times a week. It has become an essential part of my healing. Some days it's harder than others. Some days I need the reminder more than others. I timed myself one time because while it felt like I was running up that hill for 30 minutes, I knew it wasn't that long. 9 minutes! It took me 9 minutes to get up that hill. Now it was on! I can push myself for 9 minutes. I've got this!

I refined the playlist too. Now I start with Unstoppable by Sia, followed by Fighter from Christina Aguilera for the hardest part of the hill, and then Love Myself by Hailee Steinfeld as I celebrate my finish and walk it off. [Spotify Playlist- the Hill]

It turns out I didn't have a relationship problem. I had a capacity problem. I had an enormous tolerance to survive in a relationship that was lonely, painful and unfulfilling. What I didn't have the bandwidth for was making the changes I needed to make in order to truly matter to myself and stop waiting for someone else to show me I mattered.

The old form of the relationship had to change. It did change. I grew to the point where it was intolerable for it to stay the same. My capacity to take care of myself grew to the point of no return. My whole body contracts at the thought of going back to what it was. And as I said, I've learned to listen to my body — not just to know when to stop, but to know what it's ready for now.

I have always had the strength to tolerate discomfort. Before the hill, my self-care had helped me recover and endure after yet another familiar painful moment. The hill helped me increase my capacity to believe in myself, to choose myself, and to not stop loving myself even if it got hard to breathe. It taught me to rest in preparation, not just recovery. To feed myself inspiration. To keep my feet going in the direction I wanted to go, then narrow my focus to the few feet in front of me, moving one step at a time. It taught me to pace myself instead of stopping. And to celebrate — to let myself go, to let my stride open up into the hard-earned freedom of rounding the crest, of accomplishing my goal.

What's the hill you keep circling back to, and what's one step — just the next one, not the whole climb — you could take toward the top of it this week?