health

I deleted Instagram for a month, here’s what I learned

As I climbed into bed on July 31st, I held down the little Instagram icon on my phone until it went shaky and then I hit the X to delete it.

It felt exciting and thrilling.

I woke up the next morning to start my August without my favorite social media app.

I did it because I needed to get some stuff done I’d been putting off with excuses of never enough time and I’m so busy. I did it because I could feel myself having a free second and immediately grabbing my phone. I did it because I wanted to see what living my every day life without telling anyone about it felt like.

I loved every second of August without Instagram.

The first few days didn’t feel as bad as I thought they would. I figured it would take a little bit of time to remind myself to not see what strangers were doing on the internet and to tell strangers what I was doing. But instead it just felt like relief. I felt free in a surprising and light way.

We bought a new camper and I didn’t announce it on the world wide web.

We went camping and on road trips no one knew about.

I buried a friend and processed my grief with friends and family members, not by a short blip matched to a cute picture.

I had dinner with friends, read influential books, attended events, and dealt with a sick puppy with the full attention of someone with nowhere to zone out on the internet.

I didn’t delete Twitter or sign off Facebook, but those are places I don’t spend much time anyway. My usage didn’t go up in August, didn’t take the place of Instagram’s absence. I didn’t find a new place or way to waste time, I just stopped wasting time.

It was really nice.

In August, I was a whole lot less likely to know where my phone was or care about it being near me when I couldn’t use it to address boredom or to avoid something. My phone was left upstairs on the nightstand a lot more than normal; a morning or whole afternoon would pass before I realized I hadn’t checked my phone. I was slower to respond to text messages or phone calls and no one seemed to care.

I noticed a lot of us (me included) have an exaggerated sense of self and our own importance when we explain how we have to have our phone with us—accessible at all times—so others can reach us. Unless you’re on the donor transplant list or in the Secret Service, you probably don’t need to be as easy to get a hold of as you think you should.

This break didn’t help me establish better sharing boundaries; I did that years ago after a bad experience on a blog post I wrote. I learned hard and fast what I should write about on the internet and what I should not. I’m sure there are some people who say are you sure? about my proclamation of boundaries and limits, but I can assure you, I share maybe 1% of my life and stories and moments on the internet. I rarely share things in real time and there are very large parts of my life I won’t be writing about here or anywhere else.

That shouldn’t feel shocking or disappointing; the best parts are always better in real life, in real relationship, in real moments on our living room couches or at a friend’s kitchen table.

Last year we participated in a group at church with some people who knew me only from the internet. At the end of the experience, one of the people commented to me that he didn’t realize I held all my cards so close to my chest. He assumed he knew me from this little space and then suddenly here I was being vulnerable in a group about things he hadn’t picked up from Facebook.

As creators of content on the internet (if you share things on Facebook or post on Instagram, you’re a creator of content), we know we don’t share all parts of ourselves on there. But somehow when our roles are switched to consumers of content, we forget that part.

I have strong boundaries about the stories I share on the internet. It’s hard for some people to believe that when I share some hard stories here, but the reality is I share very specific parts of my life here. And other parts I don’t. August reminded me about where I want to focus and what I want to keep for myself.

One thing I did learn while away from Instagram is there are some people I need to unfollow. If Instagram is not real life (and it’s not), I don’t have to keep following people I don’t want to follow because it might hurt their feelings. There are a few people I mute because I can’t stand how whiny or negative they are, can’t stomach how much they claim to be victims of their own lives. I follow a few people who are so unhealthy and unaware of themselves that it’s shocking.

Hey, Mary, you actually don’t have to follow them at all!

What a relief and joy. When I sign back on to Instagram, I’ll be unfollowing the obligation follow. Thanks, August, for that lesson.

Tomorrow is September 1st. I won’t be running back to Instagram the minute my eyes open in the morning. It’s Labor Day weekend and we’ll be camping with friends, celebrating the long weekend and my husband’s birthday. Maybe I won’t load the app back to my phone until we get home, who knows.

The reality of my work and income means I can’t be completely absent from Instagram. Instagram drives traffic to my blog, creates income for our family, and helps me share events and experiences of people I partner with. For me, Instagram is a business strategy. It’s not my only business strategy–that would be a horrible way to run a business, to rely solely on a free service that could go away at any time–but it is one of them.

But the break was good.

I think I’ll purposefully schedule more of them, be more intentional about stepping away from it to make sure I’m not using it in an unhealthy or damaging way. To clear my head, my heart, and my purpose.

I love Instagram. I loved it when I left, and I love it right now even as I’m not using it. There are lots of great things going on there. But there are also lots of great things going on outside of the app, and I don’t want that small screen to get in the way of the bigger, more beautiful and real picture.

hummingbirds and heavy loads

The hummingbirds show up in the morning. They fight and dive at each other, suspicious and nervous. They gather around my kitchen window, coming in for a quick sugary drink then darting away before you’re done blinking.

They come because of my grandma.

For years, she had a bright red feeder outside her kitchen window, the one by the island where we piled the appetizers for holiday dinners and where the teenagers sat when they became too cool for the kid table but didn’t have room at the adult one yet.

Hummingbirds remember.They remember where food was last year, and they come back. Their kids come back, their kid’s kids come. I don’t know the innate workings of how they show up every summer, but it’s what happens.

We love watching the hummingbirds. They eat a similar schedule to humans, showing up three times a day for a meal, which means when we’re in the kitchen getting ready for the day or gathering around the counters to chop and mix and wash for dinner, they are there too.

It takes a while to train the hummingbirds to come back every year. You have to be patient, keep putting out food even when you haven’t seen them in days, and trust that your hard, consistent work will eventually bring them around.

I imagine you also have to stand inside your house and sing “my sugar water brings all the birds to the yard,” but science is still studying that.

My grandma did all the work attracting the hummingbirds to her yard, and now years later, her granddaughter and great-grandkids are reaping the benefits. We get to enjoy the tiny little rockets who show up outside our window at almost every meal.

I think often about my grandma’s work and how it’s still impacting our lives. I think about it as I chop fresh tomatoes from the garden to make salsa; I think about it as I microwave my lunch in the middle of a work day; I think about it in the evening as I fill the coffeemaker for the next morning.

She had no idea we’d live here one day.
She didn’t plan to live anywhere else ever, but old age and failing bodies changed that.

She unintentionally left us a beautiful gift.

Our families leave us unintentional gifts all the time, but some are not as enjoyable as hummingbirds at our windows. Some of them are painful and heavy and devastating.

Parenting is hard, one of the hardest things to do. We have to teach kindness and toilet flushing, sharing and chewing with your mouth closed. We have to help you learn to read and tie your shoes, show compassion and not bite anyone. Parents are in charge of sending humans out into the world to make it a better place and, hopefully, not a worse one.

But we also send our kids off with gifts we’ve been ignoring, gifts we should have handled instead of passing on. Gifts like untreated depression and out-of-control anxiety, sexual brokenness, and addiction. We work really hard to pretend these things don’t matter to us, they don’t really affect us, and so we shove them off to our kids and ask them to carry them for us. The problem is our loads don’t get lighter, we don’t rest easier when we hand them to the next generation. They just weigh down more people, it doubles the burden, finding new people to suffocate, destroy, and drown.

We are all giving gifts to our kids.

Gifts that will change their friendships, marriages, careers, families, and kids. Gifts that will help determine how they spend their time, their energy, their money, their life.

I ask myself often what I’m giving my kids that day. What am I giving them that they’ll carry into adulthood? What they’ll wound others with, what they’ll love others with?

And if I don’t like the answer, I begin my work.

Right now, my work looks like modeling healthy boundaries and friendships, what we should allow in relationship with others and what we should not. My work is taking a breath before I speak, not responding to hurt by hurting someone else, and making sure I look people in the eyes to tell them I love them. My work right now is being patient when I really want to move this show along and going to counseling to heal wounds I don’t want to saddle my daughters with.

My work in this season is honesty because it always leads to healing, guarding my time because those girls aren’t little anymore, and making sure guilt and shame are not parenting tactics I fall back on when I’m being lazy.

My work looks like making sure my daughters ground their identity in who God says they are instead of the world and not rushing them to grow up faster than is necessary.

Work in my marriage looks like strong boundaries, clear eyes on what enabling looks like, and a refusal to settle for less than I deserve.

My grandma spent years consistently putting out food for hummingbirds whether she saw them every day or not. Her work and dedication to making those tiny birds appear in her kitchen window have brought joy and entertainment to our daily lives.

It’s the same with us; the things we give our attention to–good or bad–are what will be floating around our lives, our families, our relationships years from now. When we gather in the kitchen for a late breakfast on a slow weekend morning, we’re surrounded by hummingbirds, the choices our parents made, and the scars of things they didn’t address when we were younger.

But with consistency, hard work, and faithfulness even when the job seems fruitless, we can allow our futures, our children, our next decade or two to be lighter, more peaceful, and healthier. If we want less chains, less burden, less chaos and heartbreak for our children, their families, and their futures, we do the tedious, complicated work now so later there will be hummingbirds, freedom, and joy.

I am here for backpacks, and you should be too.

I am here for backpacks.

Not emotionally, like they need a shoulder to cry on (please acknowledge that creative turn of word RIGHT NOW), but for buying them and wearing them and admiring them and advocating for them.

So maybe I am here for them emotionally. Let me think about that some more.

I’ve been anti-backpack since I left college. I’m not a kid anymore, I will use a sophisticated shoulder bag like a real adult, I thought as I amassed a large collection of mom bags and teacher bags and after-work gym bags.

But now I’m older, my back hurts more, and WHY IS THIS PURSE ALWAYS SO HEAVY?

Enter: the backpack.

We’ve been using them for hiking and camping for years, but they were left in the camper, never making their way back into the house for everyday use. Until recently.

Now I carry a backpack when I go to the office or to a coffee shop to work. I carry one to friends’ houses, to the grocery store, to the library.

Why was I allowing one tired shoulder to do all the work when my full, strong back was available?

No one knows.

According to the market- research firm NPD, sales of women’s backpacks are up by 28 percent in the past year, even though men’s backpacks are down. Women’s handbags, too, have suffered a drop over the past few years, says Beth Goldstein, NPD’s accessories analyst. (source)

If marketing companies are noticing the rise in backpacks, you know it’s official. But even if it weren’t, I’m here to tell you about the glory of a backpack and the ease it brings.

Need some guidance jumping into the world of backpacks? Lemme help.

Land Diaper Bag Backpack
WAIT. Come back. I don’t care if you don’t have babies. Neither do I! I use the Land Diaper Bag Backpack for a laptop and work backpack. The pockets are great for charger cords and water bottles and pens. It’s sturdy and simple, plus it’s not expensive. I have the navy one, but I also really like the gray. Ignore the bad reviews, I’ve had mine for over a year with no complaints. (If you do happen to have babies, ditch the over-the-shoulder diaper bag for this. No regrets.)

(Are you impressed with the size of those backpack pictures? Me too. I’m getting ready to leave on vacation and I can’t get them to size right so here we are with giant pictures you don’t need contacts or glasses to see. It’s a public service, honestly.)

Jansport Classic Backpack
You probably had a Jansport backpack at one point. Please go get it out of the closet and give it new life with no shame. This is what we use for day hiking when we camp. Obviously, not a great bag for long hikes, but if you just need a few water bottles, some snacks, and a first aid kit, this is your backpack. Ours is light pink and looks great on all of us, Chris Graham included.

Classic brown leather backpack
My friend has a backpack like this, and I covet it. There’s nothing better than a classic brown leather backpack. This one has the best reviews, and I’ve ordered it to replace my purse this summer. I’ll let you know how it goes once it’s broken in a little more, but I already love shopping or being out hands-free. I don’t think I’ll go back anytime soon.

Pottery Barn Harry Potter Backpack
Ellie will tell you no Potterhead is legit until you own a Pottery Barn Harry Potter backpack with your name embroidered on it. Because she has so many people who love her (and are really good at giving gifts), she has two of them: one for school and one for travel, sleepover, and camping. They’re a little pricey, but Pottery Barn runs good sales so you shouldn’t ever have to pay full price for it. These backpacks are really well made too. After Ellie went through two cheap backpacks one school year, I decided spending the extra money to buy a nice one that would last for years was a better deal in the long run.

Burton Kilo 2.0 Backpack
This one is for guys (or anyone, really), but it’s similar to the well-loved backpack my brother carries to work (his is no longer available. *moment of silence*). He’s on team backpack like me (is it genetic?), and this one works well for the office or a weekend hike. He has a blue one, I really like the gray (again…), and if you want to be a little more fancy, get the black with white squares. There’s a color or pattern for everyone.

What about you, are you wearing a backpack yet? Do you sing the Dora the Explorer song in your head when you put it on like I do? Do you need to join the dark side with a snazzy new backpack? Hard hitting questions for your Friday.

how to find a therapist

At the beginning of the year I shared five resolutions I thought others should make in 2019. I have no authority. I have no credentials. I just own a website and like to write demands on it. Who knows if anyone actually listens. But honestly, that has never stopped me before.

One post that generated a lot of questions was my get-a-therapist recommendation:
How do you find a counselor?
How do I know if my therapist is good?
What if I can’t afford therapy?
Where do I even start if I want to find a counselor?

Good questions.

I don’t know. Good luck, I guess?

I kid, I kid.

It’s really easy to write a blog post about how everyone needs a therapist this year while not addressing the financial strain, the stress of finding someone you feel safe with, and the time it takes.

Many people know they need therapy and would love to go to therapy but can’t afford it. I don’t have time to disparage all the ways our healthcare system is letting us down in terms of mental health, but I think we can all agree many of our most vulnerable and needy citizens don’t get the care they desperately need. We need to do better.

If you need/want counseling and resources are tight, I’d start by calling local churches and community centers. Many churches have access to low-cost counseling services or can recommend places that do. You do not have to be a member of these churches to ask for help (and if you call a church who only wants to help you if you’re on the membership list, hang up and call a different one; also don’t go to that church.).

When Chris left his treatment center, he spent some time counseling with an addictions counselor at a community center downtown. The setting wasn’t traditional and sometimes there was a crisis he had to attend to so he cancelled at the last moment, but it was worth it to us because Chris was getting help he needed and we were still able to buy groceries.

Yes, there are therapists who charge $100 to $150 an hour, but there are others who don’t. It will take some work, some perseverance, and some trial-and-error, but asking for referrals and about reduced rates is where you start.

Also, find a intern! It’s like getting two counselors for the price of one and with a discount. Sure, interns don’t have years of experience yet, but they’re still trained and beneficial. Plus, they’re monitored by someone with the experience so if money is a concern, this is an accessible way to still get the counseling you need on a tight budget.

I know I got lucky when I called my church asking for help and was referred to my therapist. It’s common to have introductory appointments with a handful of therapists to see if you have chemistry. You don’t like every person you meet, why would you like every therapist? (Wait, do you like every person you meet? Seriously, you need a counselor, that’s weird.)

This seems like silly advice, but if you have insurance, please call and double check your mental health services. You might be surprised at what they cover, and, again, it doesn’t hurt to ask. Our insurance doesn’t cover counseling, and some counselors don’t accept insurance, but asking all the questions anyway is worth it. Asking about a counselor’s insurance rate and their cash rate is okay too.

Not everyone will feel comfortable doing this, but asking your people for references is a good way to find a counselor. When I was looking for a marriage counselor, I asked a few friends I knew had been to counseling before or were connected to the counseling community. I’m all for getting past the stigma and shame associated with saying you need help and what better way to do that than announcing it on a Facebook post?

That’s extreme. Maybe don’t do that. Or do. I don’t know what you’re about. But seriously, asking people in your circle is bound to point you in the right direction.

Asking your physician is a good idea too. Doctors make referrals all the time, and some offices keep a list of mental health professionals to recommend when asked.

So basically my answer is speak up.

I realize that’s hard to do when you’re struggling, but if you can only do one brave thing this month or even this year, let this be it. Ask for some help and see where it leads.

If all else fails, just Google.

I mean, the internet holds all the answers, right?

Welcome back seasonal sadness, my old friend.

It’s here.

The point in the winter season where everything turns a little gray and sad. I’m not talking about nature though. I’m talking about me; I’m talking about my mental health.

I first noticed the struggle to get through winter in 2014. I was having trouble getting dressed in the mornings for work, finding my way to the gym after school, and lacking all motivation to make dinner or take care of my family. I don’t think (and still don’t) think it was full-on depression, but I referred to it as being ‘seasonally sad.’

I’m seasonally sad again.

But what’s different this time is I’m equipped to deal with it, I knew it was coming, and I know I just have to ride it out. I know this isn’t permanent. One perk of getting emotionally healthier is I have the ability to see my current state or emotion, acknowledge the hard or painful parts of it, and know it will not last forever. It is a season, a week, a moment, a time.

It is not forever.

Last winter when I felt the sadness coming, I asked my therapist for help. She explained seasonal affective disorder or seasonal depression is a real thing and not uncommon. Once she gave me the name, I consulted my doctor (AKA: the internet) to learn that seasonal affective disorder is also known as SAD which is totally cruel and a really funny joke. It normally sets in during early adulthood and some scientists believe it’s related to hormone changes and/or lack of sunlight in the winter. Of course, it’s more common in women than men because why wouldn’t it be? (source)

We had a mild November and December so in the back of my head I was slightly hopeful it wouldn’t hit me so hard this year–THE SUN WAS HERE JUST RECENTLY. I’LL BE FINE.

Another cruel and funny joke, because it is most definitely here.

Last night I was asleep by 9 PM and had trouble getting up to my 6 AM alarm. I got nine hours of sleep, wasn’t tired anymore, but couldn’t get out of bed.

Seasonal affective disorder coming in hot, friends.

But I know how to handle it now. I know how to not let it take me down completely. I know to be patient with myself as I wade through this yuckiness and wait eagerly for spring. (Plot twist: I don’t hate winter. I like snow. I like wearing layers and wool socks. I like watching my kids sled in fluffy snowsuits and chug hot chocolate overflowing with marshmallows afterwards. So it’s hard to wish away a season I enjoy.)

Even though I was hopeful in December I might not get seasonal sadness this year, I prepared for it anyway. I am an odd mix of overly optimistic and very practical.

Here’s what I’ve learned to do (with the help of my therapist, reading, and trucking through this season for a while now):

Take my vitamins
My therapist recommended I start taking vitamin D and vitamin B6 daily. I don’t do this in the other seasons regularly, but as December winds down and I see the long, boring parts of winter approaching (January through March), I start my morning vitamin routine.

Move my body
Purposefully getting out of my desk chair and stretching or taking a walk is important. When I transitioned out of the traditional classroom four years ago, I stopped moving all day. Teaching means you’re on your feet all day, and it helped to combat some fuzzy feelings. Now I’m sitting at a desk staring at a computer for hours on end and, if I don’t get up and move, the funk settles faster.

Refuse to skip my morning quiet time
I don’t buy into the idea you can get out of depression or serious mental illnesses with just some good Bible reading, but spending time in my Bible as part of my plan of attack is important. Beginning my morning with Truth and talking to my God helps clear cobwebs or lies that might have settled in during the last 24 hours. This is my touchstone, my re-calibration, and if I miss it, I know things will feel more off during the day.

Find the sunlight
I fling open all the curtains in our house as soon as the girls get on the bus. I don’t even care if the sun won’t be peeking through the clouds today, our blinds are open, and I’m letting in as much natural light as possible. I know I’m emotionally impacted by the state of my house so clutter or dark rooms add to my blah-ness. I straighten and let light stream in to help shake off the sadness and yuck. (Some people do well with a light therapy lamp during this season as well; I don’t have one and haven’t used one, but I’m keeping the idea in the back of my mind as the winter progresses. If things get too rough, I’ll be ordering a small one for my desk.)

Talk to someone
Every time I start to wonder if I should take a break from therapy, I find new and exciting things I need help handling. Cool. At this point, I am acknowledging I will be in therapy–in some way or another–for the long term. Right now I go once a month as a health check-in. If I need to, I can up my appointments. Maybe you don’t need a therapy appointment, but don’t keep this sadness to yourself. Tell your spouse or a friend things just feel off and sad right now. If it feels right, seeking a therapist or counselor is okay. When my therapist helped me understand what was happening and ways to cope with my SAD, I felt more in control. It didn’t make it go away, but it made it feel manageable and more settled (even if that feels weird to say).

Drink more water
My tendency is more coffee and Diet Pepsi when I’m tired or need energy and right now I need all the energy I can get, because I’m feeling so blah and apathetic. The problem is that’s not what my brain or body needs to work its best. I know everything feels fuzzier if I’m not drinking enough water. So sticking to my daily water routine is imperative right now. No excuses, drink the water, Mary.

As Indianapolis gets ready for a foot or more of snow this weekend, I’m gathering my supplies: books, snacks, a list of Netflix shows to binge, freshly-laundered blankets to snuggle under with my girls . But I’m also paying attention to my mental health, reminding myself to drink water, take my vitamins, say out loud when I’m struggling, and find the light when possible.

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when I Forrest Gumped a half marathon

I really don’t know what happened; the best way to describe it would be that I accidentally ran a half marathon last week.

Um, yes. Without meaning to, I ran 13.1 miles.

I signed up for the OneAmerica 500 Festival Mini-Marathon last year with every intention of training like I have in the past. For a few years now, I’ve liked the routine of rebounding from the holidays with half-marathon training. But this year, with a new job and starting the year on a really restrictive diet that didn’t allow me to exercise, plus lots of work travel, I never got around to all the training. It takes me 12-14 weeks to be trained and ready for 13.1 miles. My best half-marathon time is 2:09 and my ultimate goal is to eventually run a half under two hours.

This year, I knew that wasn’t even on the horizon, but I had paid the registration fee and the Mini is such a fun race to run, I didn’t want to miss it. So I headed downtown with a friend and with plans to run as much as I could and then walk the rest. I work out consistently and run about eight to twelve miles a week, but I have not run more than four miles at a time in quite a while. I like what running does to my body and my mind, so while I haven’t been pushing myself with long runs, I’ve been running.

In my head, I knew I could run five or six miles without killing myself. The momentum of the race, the cheering, the loud music, the electric air–all those race day fixtures give you a little extra push and make you go a little farther than you think you can.

So with a few miles under my belt and no race day prep, I crossed the start line carefree and optimistic. It was a beautiful day, I was running through a city I loved, and I felt good.

Running 13.1 miles can seem never-ending, but walking 13.1 miles actually is. It’s so slow. I was all by myself and that’s super boring. I don’t remember the exact moment, but at some point between miles five and eight, I just told myself I was going to run as much as possible to get this over with as quickly as possible.

By mile eight my body was revolting.

There are so many things that happen when you train for a half marathon that makes race day not so bad. All those training miles build up calluses on your feet. Your legs become gradually stronger so they don’t cramp and give up on you. You work on posture and breathing so your body can relax and run. You practice fueling and energy supplements so you can finish with energy and not death. Most importantly, all those training miles are mental battles. You want to give up every mile. I am completely serious when I say the majority of your time training for a half marathon is spent talking yourself into not quitting.

I didn’t have the luxury of those things as I ran. I had no gel or gummies to replenish my reserves an hour into the run. My feet weren’t prepared for mile after mile and by eight, I could feel nothing but blisters as they slowly worked their magic. By mile nine my back was hurting and my shoulders were sore. Running is so much more than just moving your legs and my body was reminding me of that with every step.

I’m not sure how I did it. It was very surreal. Even as I ran, I wondered where I was getting my energy, my strength, and my willpower. I took walking breaks when my body raged against my brain, but for the most part, I ran. I ran like Forest Gump, and I just didn’t give up.

I crossed the finish line happier than I can even describe.

I have lots of proud running moments: running my first half marathon, running my fastest half marathon, running a half marathon with my dad.

But crossing the finish line at 2:30 without training might be my most proud moment. I am in awe of the strength of my body, with what it is capable of, and how hard it can work when I put my mind to something. I didn’t run that race fast; when I ran, my pace was consistently a ten-minute mile (some quicker), but with my walking breaks, I ended with an overall pace of just under 11:30. So many people ran faster than me. I normally run faster than me.

This race wasn’t about time or speed; this was about doing something that seemed impossible–that I didn’t feel prepared for–and just doing it anyway. So often the voices inside my head tell me I can’t do things. I, like most of us, am my own worst critic and really good at believing the lies that come, seemingly, out of nowhere.

This battle wasn’t about 13.1 miles. It was about so many things in my life I don’t feel worth of, capable of, or good enough at. It was a battle against the part of me that says you’re not skinny enough, you’re not fit enough, you’re not strong enough.

I won some wars during those 13.1 miles that I didn’t know I was equipped to fight. Triumphing felt momentous because I didn’t feel prepared, didn’t feel like I could do it. But during that two-and-a-half hour run, I learned I’m more ready than I know and more powerful than I ever thought possible.

I’m guessing we all are, actually.

the joy of the Lord is my strength @#$%^

I have been running a lot lately.

All the running culminates tomorrow with my third half marathon in four weeks. I’ve been training since January and, frankly, I’m ready for a break.

Things have been harder this year than they were last year. Last year, I trained and ran my first ever half marathon. The fear of failure was strong and I trained hard. I was prepared, mentally and physically, for the big race. Then it didn’t go as well as I wanted it to–my pace was considerably slower than I had trained for–so I signed up for another half two weeks later. Then a few weeks after that, a friend texted and said she had an extra bib for a half marathon she was running the next morning if I wanted to join her.

So without much planning, I did three half marathons last spring. I lived through it, set a personal record on the second one, and loved most of it. With those thoughts in mind, I purposely signed up for three this spring.

Idiot.

Running three half marathons in four weeks is difficult. Especially when you don’t train as hard as you did last time. But I haven’t died. Yet. I haven’t posted any super-impressive times, but I’ve crossed every finish line. I’m trying to run with more joy and pleasure than I normally do. I’m running with my dad which has made it better. He has to slow down a lot to run with me, but he doesn’t seem to mind too much.

You learn weird things about yourself when you’re ten miles into a half marathon and you just want to quit. You learn how mentally strong you are. You learn how mentally strong you are not. You learn what songs really get on your nerves and what songs give you just a little extra bit of energy.

This year I’ve been running my races with a verse on my arm, something to encourage or focus me. As I struggled through my first race feeling unprepared and lacking, I focused on Psalm 121: 2:

“…my strength comes from God who made heaven, and earth, and mountains.”

During my second race, the Mini-Marathon that kicks off the month of May celebrations here in Indy, I wanted to run for fun and joy. I didn’t want to focus on a time, I just wanted to feel the miracle of being able to run long distances and enjoy my time on the route so I had Psalm 63:4 on my arm:

“I will praise you as long as I live, and in your name I will lift up my hands.”

In the beginning of the races, I was upbeat and happy, enjoying my verses and praising God.

But.

As things progressed, the miles got longer, the body got more tired, and I got less joyful. I’m sure God was super-impressed with my attitude change as the miles continued.

Mile 2: joyfully repeating the verse, happy to be running and experiencing life!

Mile 4: this is fun! Praise the Lord! All the verses!

Mile 7: earnestly praying the verse, asking for focus and strength

Mile 11: angrily repeating the verse, followed by special commentary created by me

Mile 12: abandon all hope of repeating the verse and just resort to salty language

Mile 13: prayers to die

Finish line: the verses are back! We made it! Praise the Lord! He got me through!

I’m sure you can pick up all the morals of this story without me explaining in poetic detail why this is basically my whole life pattern explained in 13.1 miles.

So tomorrow, one last half marathon for the spring. I haven’t decided my verse yet, I’ll pick something during my quiet time before the race. I’m sure it will be encouraging, uplifting, and motivational. And at some point, I’ll abandon all hope, believe my God has forsaken me, and decide the race will never end.

Then.

Then the finish line will appear, I’ll be renewed and totally forget all the struggles. Yay, for a finish line. Let’s finish strong, friends.

things they don’t tell you about running

Runners are gross.

No, like really gross. If I had known just how gross runner were and how I would one day be gross with them, I would have rethought my running plans. But now it’s too late and I’m hooked on the torture, so I just thought I would let you in on the secrets so you can be well informed and make the wisest decision for your health.

Runners love snot rockets

Near the end of my half-marathon training last year, I went on a long (11 mile) run with my dad. Things were going okay, I hadn’t died from exhaustion yet and all of the sudden I hear my dad having a snot issue (or maybe it was a booger issue?). Either way, it was an issue. Then before I knew it, he was closing one nostril with his fingers and shooting that issue out as he ran. If there had been enough air in my lungs, I would have started dry-heaving; if there had been enough energy in my legs, I would have turned right around and run from him. It was the most disgusting thing I had ever seen my father do.

Later I was telling others about this incident because I enjoy talking about gross things and none of my runner friends were shocked by this and they all assured me it was no big deal, it’s just what runners do.

I’ve been running for almost two years and I have never felt the urge to shoot a snot rocket out of my nose. I think this is actually an optional runner thing that people just take advantage of.

Pee your pants

When I learned for the first time that running without underpants was allowed, it changed my world. I am Ruth’s daughter and you NEVER FORGET YOUR UNDERPANTS AT HOME. It’s a rule, it’s probably even in the Bible somewhere. So when I read this book and learned of the freedom of running with no underwear, finally getting an answer to the constant wedgie problem, it was like I had seen the light.

What I learned next is that hardcore runners often pee while running because they are so into their training that they don’t have time to stop. I’ll let that thought sit for a minute before I proceed…

Peeing while running. Again, something I would never do. Until I accidentally did it.

And, guys, it wasn’t that bad.

It was never in my plan to pee my pants. It was an accident, but because I was running, I like to consider it just a part of my rigorous and dedicated running journey. It was last summer while running a 5K in honor of my friend Joe. I knew the course wouldn’t have a port-a-potty option because it was a small race on an out-of-the-way trail so I didn’t drink water beforehand, but on the drive in, I ate a whole pint of raspberries (hindsight, yes, they were full of water; that did not cross my mind at the time). So my friend Heather and I were finishing the last half mile when it hit me. I had to pee RIGHT NOW. There was no time to finish, no time to run to a bathroom. It was go time. But I was trying to fight it, doing that weird run while you’re trying to cross your legs and you just look like a wounded giraffe. My “friend” Heather wasn’t helping because she was laughing and I didn’t know whether to join her or punch her. The impulses were pretty neck and neck.

Then it happened. I ran to the nearest bush as other runners ran past completely aware of what I was doing. It probably didn’t help that Heather was taking pictures of me as this catastrophe happened. Related: Heather is no longer my friend.

The bad news was that this was a race a lot of my students were participating in also. Good news: it was raining so I was a little wet already and I was wearing black leggings which are the perfect color if you want to pee your pants. Black leggings effectively trap the pee but also make wet spots blend in nicely. So I finished the race, posed for pictures, and then went out to breakfast with friends and family after the race. All while wearing my pee pants.

Like I said, once you do it, it’s not as bad as you think. Really, try it.

Toenails falling off

In May, I ran my second half-marathon in two weeks. It wasn’t planned but my first one wasn’t what I wanted time-wise so I signed up for another one, this time with my dad. About half-way through, I felt like my shoe was falling apart; I could feel flopping, sort of like the sole was coming off from the rest of my shoe. But every time I looked down, nothing was wrong so I just kept running. I finished the race with a much better time (2:07) and went home tired but happy. When I finally got to sit down and take my shoes off, one of my socks was bloody and slimy. I immediately thought I was dying even though I wasn’t in pain and until the moment I took my shoe off, I didn’t even know anything was wrong.

But obviously, with that much blood loss, I was going to die.

When I finally got up the nerve to take my sock off (give or take twenty minutes until someone else got home to supervise in case I passed out when I saw my foot), it was done bleeding and my big toe, where all the blood had come from, looked fine.

It was very anti-climactic like most things in my life.

But slowly over the next few weeks, my toenail turned from red to purple to black. Eventually the whole nail was just black and dead. It was disgusting. Runner friends assured me it would fall off. I assured runner friends I would die if my toenail fell off.

Luckily, it never did. But it was dead and black and ugly for months. It took almost eight full months for it to grow out and stop being old-woman toe. I had to continuously keep my toenails painted so that no one would be grossed out from my dead toe. It was quite a chore.

In October, I went to get new running shoes and learned that I had been running in shoes that were the wrong size which lead to my toe injury. So it was completely avoidable and completely my fault. Cool.

Is this enough? Do you see how gross runners are? So many weird things happen to your body when you run. So many weird things you accept when you run. I’ve always thought runners were crazy.

They most certainly are. And now? Now I’m just happy to be one of them, pee pants and black toenail included.

lessons learned running my first half marathon

I had no doubt that I could do it. It seriously never crossed my mind that I wouldn’t finish…until I started running. And then I started having some doubts. I knew my body could handle it, but mentally, it was a challenge. The crowds were overwhelming, I couldn’t run as fast as I wanted to because THERE WERE PEOPLE EVERYWHERE, and my bum, old lady hip started hurting around mile six. But I wouldn’t trade a minute of it for the world. Here’s what I learned and why I’m already signed up to do it again next year:

You will feel all the emotions when you least expect it.

Leading up to the big day, I had been anticipating a good cry at the finish line. All that work, all those miles, I just knew when I finally got to the end I was going to lose it. Except I didn’t. I lost it standing in the corral, waiting for the race to start. I had a good sixty seconds of ugly crying before I pulled myself together. I don’t know if it was the excitement in the air, the idea that my family was coming down to cheer me on, or the energy Jelly Belly beans I had just consumed, but I couldn’t help myself. I had been training for this moment for four months, it was finally here, and I was just so overwhelmed by all of it.

You have no idea what a runner looks like.

In my head, runners look like models only with more muscular legs. I’ve seen the cover of Runner’s World before, I know what a runner should look like. And I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I don’t look like that. Apparently, neither do ninety nine percent of those that run. And that’s easy to write but hard to understand because my head tells me all the time that I’m not a runner, I shouldn’t be running, and who are you to try and run a half marathon? It’s crazy and dumb and completely untrue. But it’s what goes through my head all the time. Even when I was passing people smaller and more fit than me. Even when people bigger than me were gliding by me. I ran the majority of the race with an eighteen year old bikini model. Or at least that’s what she was in my head. She was super-tan, skinny, pretty, and, I bet, super-nice if we had spoken one word to each other. Basically, she was perfect. According to my overactive, high on running, slightly delirious mind. And she ran the same pace as me the.whole.time. We finished within thirty seconds of each other. I won, of course. We weren’t racing each other, but IF we were, I would have been the winner. Take that bikini-model-who-wore-the-big-tube-socks-on-Saturday-who-is-probably-really-nice.

Time is dumb and you should just focus on finishing.

My goal was under two hours and ten minutes. That wasn’t a lofty goal or completely unattainable. I’ve consistently run all my miles between 9:30-10:00. Even my longest run of eleven miles leading up to the race wasn’t bad. I started off slow at ten minute miles, picked up the pace in the middle, and then ended my last two miles with 10:20 and 10:38 respectively. So I figured I could hit the 2:10 goal. Everyone says the atmosphere and the adrenaline keep you going and I had trained so hard, never quitting early or skipping a workout, that I felt good about my goal time. And then I ran 13.1 miles on Saturday and never got below a 10:00 mile. Ever. The only spot I could have gone faster if I wanted to was when we hit the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and by that point (I was into mile six by then), I had lost all confidence in myself. The app I use to pace myself, Map My Run, wasn’t working so I didn’t know my pace and I just felt I was going so slow but there was nothing I could do about it (although according to Map My Run, my first mile was three minutes and twenty seconds…a personal best, for sure!). It was a hard realization that I was going so slow and even as I type this, I have to keep telling myself I just ran THIRTEEN POINT ONE miles and not be discouraged or so critical of myself that I miss the big picture: that I did something I never thought I could do.

You’ll take encouragement from anything.

All those strangers holding signs and cheering? They were for me. All those bands and dance troupes and cheer squads? They were out there for me. I tried to smile at everyone as I ran by, too tired to say thanks, but wanting them to know I appreciated them, whatever weird thing they were doing. Right after mile eleven, I hit a wall, I couldn’t find my focus or energy and then suddenly, I see a giant sign being held up that says MARY GRAHAM IS MY HERO and I thought, huh, someone else with my name is running today too! that’s weird! and then I got closer and it was my friend Brittany and she was talking to me and cheering me on and I just started crying and laughing at the same time. It was completely unexpected and wonderful and perfectly timed. I was wondering if I could keep going and then there she was telling me I could. And I believed her.

You’re gonna need more water than you think.

I kept trying to wipe sweat off my forehead but there wasn’t any there. Ever. I knew I was hot and drained, but I wasn’t sweating. I attributed it the nice weather (it was a little cool when we started) so it must have been keeping me from really sweating. (Even though in hindsight, I would work up a sweat on a run in thirty degree weather so I realize what an idiot I was being now.) At the finish line, my mom remarked at my lack of sweat and then my dad mentioned I might be dehydrated. I said I had been trying to wipe sweat off my forehead, but all I was getting was chalky, sand-like stuff and apparently THAT’S A RED FLAG for dehydration. Now that I’ve talked with some people that know what they’re doing, I should have had a Gatorade the night before and one before I ran. Good to know.

Those last two miles are never-ending.

I hit a wall at mile eleven. LIKE THE BIGGEST WALL THAT WAS EVER BUILT. If I had had enough energy, I would have kicked myself for not having some kind of refuel/energy shot ready for the two hour mark. I did my Powerbar gummies after mile six like I had practiced but didn’t think anything about the second hour mark. According to people that know things about running, you should refuel at an hour because at that point your body is out of reserves and needs more energy. So I had my gummies pinned inside my little back pocket and happily chewed them for a minute or so as I ran around the track. But I hadn’t even thought about the two hour mark and how I wouldn’t be done and I’d need to refuel again. Which made those last two miles even more unbearable then they already were. I had never run more than two hours on a training run before. I had no idea I’d need more. And I paid for it, big time.

You’re going to swear to yourself you’ll never do this again. And that would be a lie.

There were certain points where I could talk myself into this race being a one-time gig. Been there, done that. Got the medal, here’s my shirt, the end. But that didn’t last more than a minute or two. Even in the midst of my misery, I was thinking about how I’d do it differently next year. And so Sunday I signed up for next year’s Mini Marathon. And then yesterday I signed up to do another half in two weeks. To prove to myself I can do it better. I’ve done all the really hard work, all the training at the gym, all the long weekend runs when I’d rather be sleeping, all the sprints where I thought my lungs would explode. I’m not satisfied with my performance and so I’m going for a re-do. In two weeks. A different course, but still a redo. It’s like some weird addiction.

FYI: What I use for fuel before and after the race.

Winner of the McDonald’s Mini Marathon giveaway: congrats to Mandy T.! Your prize pack is coming in the mail this week to help you reach your health and fitness goals. I’d like to thank McDonald’s of Central Indiana for supporting and sponsoring my run this past weekend. It was an amazing feeling to have so many people behind me as I made the 13.1 mile trek through our beautiful city.

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