Letting Go of Crazy Goals

Remember how I mentioned that it took me several months to make the decision not to pursue basketball?  While I can look back and laugh at the 15 year-old version of myself, I know that at the time it was a really hard decision.  I had been so obsessed with it for so long.  I had invested so much of my time and energy into it.  I had talked about it nonstop. 

But by that point in my life, I didn’t even like it anymore.  Actually, I sort of hated it. 

So why was it so hard for me to quit? 

I had let basketball become a central part of my identity.  If I quit, who would I be?  While all my friends were rushing off to practice right after school, I’d go straight home—for what?  To watch TV?  To talk on the phone?  To do homework? 

As a runner, I’ve found myself facing this same struggle time and time again.  Everyone knows I’m a runner and that I have a borderline irrational emotional attachment to it.  I cry watching races, I cry talking about races, I cry at the start line, I cry at the finish line.  It’s absurd.  And every time I get injured, I find myself thinking, “So what do I do now?”  It’s not because I’m a total fitness junkie and feel worthless if I’m not working out. 

It’s because I am a runner.  So when I can’t run, who am I?

Even though qualifying for Boston is still my ultimate running goal, there have been times when I’ve had to decide to set it aside for a while.  For example, when I was diagnosed with mono last summer, I was in complete denial.  I don’t even want to think about how much time I wasted creating “revised” training plans for Chicago.  I couldn’t let it go—because I felt like I was giving up.

The question is cliché, but what is the difference between giving up and letting go?  Really?

For me, I think it all comes down to my identity and worrying about what other people think.  Letting go means that I’m accepting the situation, that I’ve made a decision.  Giving up means that I didn’t have what it takes, or I wasn’t good enough, or I wasn’t willing to work hard enough, or that my goal was unrealistic.  I’m scared to let go because I’m afraid that other people will see it as giving up. 

Realistically, no one else cares.  I mean, sure, my friends and family always want to support me—and they do an awesome job.  But they would never think I was giving up.  I guess I create expectations for myself, and then I lead myself to believe that everyone else has those same expectations of me.  So I feel all of this self-inflicted pressure that ultimately kills the joy of the very thing I love to do.

When I decided to attempt Chicago last fall, I worried about all the people who would look up my time and know that I didn’t run a good race.  What if they didn’t know I had mono?  I know some of you are thinking, “Seriously, Renee, who would take the time to look up your results?” But I know you runners are thinking, “Yeah I looked up your results the day of the race.  No, actually I was tracking you during the race.” Some of you are thinking, “Wait, you can do that?”  If that’s what you’re thinking, God bless you for reading this series of posts. J

At the end of the day, who cares?!  Either way, people weren’t even going to know or care that I ran the race—let alone what time I ran or what a “good” time would even be.  Or, they were going to look at my time and know it wasn’t great.  So what?  Why was that so hard for me to handle? 

I sort of wanted to wear a sign on the back of my shirt that said, “If I’m dying, it’s because I’m recovering from mono.” (I would never actually do that, for the record, but you get my point.) I battled with myself, thinking, “Renee, you know that doesn’t matter.  Stop worrying about what other people think.  It’s amazing that you’re even physically capable of running!  Don’t mention the mono thing one more time!”  But as soon as I started talking to someone about the race, I’d find myself casually dropping the “Well, I had mono for the last two months…” line.  WHY?!  Just let it go!  It was seriously like word vomit from Mean Girls.

The ironic thing is that I would never judge any of my friends (or any runner, for that matter) the way that I was judging myself.  It wasn’t even really about my time or my failed attempt to meet my goal.  Heck, anyone who has ever run knows that running any distance is an accomplishment.  Period.  And isn’t it ironic that one of the reasons I love running so much is because of how inclusive it is?  I admire the 5-hour marathoners just as much as I do the Olympic qualifiers—seriously.  So why do I judge myself this way?  Who am I doing this for anyway?  Why am I doing this in the first place? 

I judge myself because I know that I’m not meeting my expectations of myself.  And by telling myself that others have those same expectations of me, I find myself worrying about what other people think.  And I’m out there in the first place because I absolutely love the sport.  I’m doing it for myself.  My love of running is so deeply ingrained into the very core of my being, and even still, it’s so easy for me to forget that and worry about what other people think...even though NO ONE ELSE IS THINKING WHAT I THINK THEY'RE THINKING.

In the end, I did let go of my crazy goal...even if just for the day.  Mile 5 of the 2013 Chicago Marathon was one of the most liberating moments of my life—it marked a pivotal moment in my journey of learning to let go of what other people think, as well as my expectations of myself.  It was the moment when I decided to allow myself to find complete joy in the sheer fact that I was able to do the thing I love most in the world. 

I may not be able to run forever.  I also may never qualify for Boston.  I certainly hope that’s not the case, but I realize that I have to learn to be okay with it if it doesn’t happen.  What if I burn out and decide that it’s not that important to me anymore?  Hard to imagine right now, but it’s entirely possible.  Would I be able to let it go? 

I’m trying to learn how to pursue my goals relentlessly without letting them define me.  I definitely haven’t figured it out yet.  Sometimes I try to differentiate between the things that I do versus the things that make me who I am.  Sometimes I even write it down.  Sort of ridiculous, but I think it helps to actually put it on paper and make it tangible somehow.  Almost like it’s my way of proving to myself that I am more than my goals—so that when my goals change, or when they aren’t met for one reason or another, I don’t find myself asking the question, “Who am I now?”

Till next time,

RR