Ten years ago this weekend, my life turned upside-down. It was Martin Luther King, Jr. Day 2003 when
my husband of almost nine years went out for a job interview and never came
back. I got a call from him that
afternoon; he wasn't coming home – ever.
I think I may have stopped breathing for a short while. It certainly felt as though every ounce of
life-affirming air left my body in an instant and it took several minutes of
eight-month-old Leo’s cries to bring me back.
It’s funny – I have no idea on what date I was
divorced. I’m not even sure of the
month, though it was summer and I seem to recall it being a “J” month. But every. damn. year. I remember the day
that my identity changed from “married” to “single.” What a stupid anniversary to remember. But… since I can’t seem to escape it, I've chosen to celebrate it. True, the months
and years that followed that awful day were… well, awful. There were times when
I didn't think it was possible to feel any more sad and low. Yet, that same time marked a rebirth of
sorts, too. Through the haze of red-hot
pain, I found strength that surprised and sometimes scared me. And I found that strength through three
things:
My child.
My friends.
And, yes – running.
I love Leo with more of me than I think there is, but I
celebrate him on the day he came into my world.
This post is about friendship and running.
By the time he left, I’d mostly forsaken my friends, turning
always to my husband for comfort, laughs, support and love. I kept in touch with a select few ladies whom
I’d known most of my life and made friends with a few more that we saw
socially. But I kept them all at arm’s
length and generally only showed them what I wanted them to see: a happy
marriage and a happy me. When I suddenly
found myself bereft of the one person I’d made my “best” friend, I turned
inward and tried hard to handle it all on my own. My girlfriends, though, would have none of
that. They circled their wagons, insisted
on helping in every way they could, from legal research to food shopping to
babysitting, and gave me the opportunity to grieve I so badly needed. I cried on shoulders, got drunk on fruity
cocktails and watched funny-sad movies, yelled obscenity-strewn responses to my
soon-to-be-ex’s emails that I could never actually send, all with a few amazing
women who insisted on being there for me, though I’d never much been there for
them. I talked late into the night with
my childhood girlfriends and discovered that they still knew me well, still
cared and would move mountains if only doing so would make it all better for
me. Those women, the ones who refused to
let me fall, who reminded me every day that I was more than half of a failed
marriage, more than a single mom, more than I believed myself to be – they saved
my life.
But they had a little help from my treadmill. And a jogging stroller.
I’d started walking on the ‘mill as soon as I had my doctor’s
okay after delivering Leo and had lost all of my pregnancy weight through
twice-daily long walks and yoga sessions during my maternity leave from
work. But once back to my preferred
weight, I slacked off some and fit in exercise when I felt like it. Between battling a series of bouts with
bronchitis and caring for an infant, I didn't often feel like it. In the weeks following my husband’s abrupt
departure, though, I felt as though I’d been strung too tight; I couldn't seem
to breathe in more than quick, shallow breaths, and my muscles were perpetually
clenched, always on the ready to flee or fight.
Unable to focus on even the most inane of television shows, I hopped on
the treadmill one night, thinking a walk might help. I kept inching up the speed setting,
progressively getting faster and faster until I was at all-out sprint. I ran as hard and fast as I could until my
lungs felt like they’d burst and then… There!
There it was – an easing of tension in my limbs and, most therapeutic of
all, a full, deep breath, the first in weeks.
It felt so good, I did it again the next day, and the next, and the one
after that. Before long, I was getting
up an hour early to do yoga and was hitting the treadmill every night, as soon
as Leo went to sleep. On weekends, I
strapped my boy into the jogging stroller we’d bought for his dad and I ran
around and around our neighborhood, walking when I needed to catch my breath
and talking to Leo about who-knows-what.
I had no GPS gizmo and hadn't the foggiest idea what kind of pace I was
keeping. It never even occurred to me to
wonder. That kind of data was
irrelevant; what exercise did for me had nothing to do with speed or endurance
and everything to do with finding focus, diminishing stress and creating a
physical strength to get me through when my emotional strength waned.
In the decade since, my life has had its ups and downs. Some of the friendships forged back then have
drifted apart, and others have only grown stronger. There were years in which I never ran a step,
and years in which I again sought solace in the steady hum of my
treadmill. But the lessons I took away
from the single, crushing event ten years before have stuck with me. I love and value my friendships in a way I
never before knew possible and I try very hard to give back, to be the strength
to others that they've been to me. And I
know that exercise, whether in the form of running or other activities, is now a
permanent fixture in my life. It’s not always
fun, and it doesn't always feel good, but it, too, gives me the strength to be
strong for the people I love.
In another sort of anniversary, this month marks one year
since I took on the role of “distance runner.”
It marks a year of supporting and being supported by an amazing group of
women who, despite our many different backgrounds, interests, families and
geographic locations, came together through our love of Disney to train for and
race the runDisney Princess Half-Marathon.
I can’t imagine doing this race in any other way, with anyone else. Once again, good friends and running are the
glue holding things together.
There is no question that I’m a better mother, better
friend, better runner, better me
because of one stupid day ten years in my past.
So yeah – I’m letting the sad stuff pass on and will celebrate the
successes this year. Here’s to my 10-year
runiversary/friendiversary/me-iversary – may the next ten years bring more of
the same.
