When your mind hasn’t caught up to your body

It took me 11 years to try long-distance running again because the last marathon training broke my heart.

At the time, I knew that by signing up for a marathon, I’d hold myself accountable to drink a lot less and use a lot less. While I still drank bourbon most nights, I’d wait til after my run, and I’d stop at about 4 drinks to make sure I wasn’t too hungover to train the next day. Cocaine was limited to once or twice a week (when I knew I wouldn’t be running the next day). It felt like I was making healthy changes to my life. I was trying.

I adopted Lady because training at night scared me a little bit, and as winter drew nearer and the days grew shorter, I knew I wanted a running partner to make evening runs after work feel a bit safer, and less lonely.

Loneliness overall was a big thing. A big cloud. A big wall. A gigantic weight sitting on my chest when I tried to sleep. A gigantic fishbowl around my head when I tried to see or hear so that everything was distorted, blurry, painful all the time. Hard to breathe.

But I’d never had a dog before. Let alone a 100-pound traumatized, reactive dog with a slew of health issues.

Before that morning Lady dragged me down a hill to go after another dog, I’d already been feeling like my knee and hip were bothering me. I wasn’t stretching, strength-training, or keeping up with my nutrition. 27-year-old me still believed in the power of self-imagined invincibility.

Not being able to run the marathon as a result of the injury felt like a betrayal from my body. I couldn’t believe it wasn’t healing in the time I willed it to. And it felt like a betrayal from Lady. That she wasn’t healing in the time that I willed her to.

In the 11 years since that happened, my body healed. Lady healed. Our hearts healed. The changes happened over time, with intention, with love. And when I look back, it’s hard to believe I was ever in such a hurry. The time passed so quickly.

And maybe that’s why my mind still told me the same story.

“Running’s not for you anymore.”

“You were a runner before. You’re a weight-lifter now.”

“Running hurt you. You don’t need it.”

And yet, when I took up running again these past few months, I was reminded of how much I loved it. How much it relieved my anxiety. How easily it came to me. How free it made me feel.

And on the other side of that coin, how quickly I could see myself starting to tighten. To push myself too hard. To not want to take rest days. To keep wanting to go faster, for longer. The competitive streak in me, not wanting to let myself slow down.

I was feeling more tired. More run down. I was getting sick and not getting better as quickly as I usually do.

The pattern I saw was what I’d noticed in myself for awhile now. And that is - my mind isn’t always caught up with my body.

Our bodies can only ever be in the present. They cannot wander to the past or future, like our minds tend to.

And so while my mind was thinking I couldn’t run long distances anymore, my body was saying, actually, I can.

And when my body had proven to my mind it was possible, my mind immediately jumped to race day and how it wanted me to perform. Train harder, so you can run faster in a few months time! But my body said no. And if the past 11 years have taught me anything, it is to hear when it’s saying no.

Deciding to not go forward with the marathon was neither a hard nor easy decision. It was simply a decision. I didn’t take it so personally this time. And maybe that comes with getting older, and more than a few heartbreaks. Acceptance of what is, and my feelings around it. Knowing that all of this is temporary. It was a fun experiment. There will be others. And so it goes.

So, where is your mind now? In the past, reliving things your body has distanced itself from? In the future, where your body has no reality in being? Your body only ever knows how it feels now, in this moment. It will tell you exactly what it needs now. And if we truly listen, we may come to realize - it never asks for much. Maybe a glass of water, a bowl of fruit, or a quiet sit by the window. Maybe a short lie-down, or a long walk, with someone or something or somewhere that feels like a salve for our nervous system. Maybe nothing, because all its needs are satisfied. And the only thing we need to do is to be in the feeling of enough.

It is enough that I’ve picked up another tool that helps me when I’m experiencing difficult emotions. It is enough that I have another modality of exercise to help me feel strong and connected to my body. My mind will continue to tell its stories, as that is its job, its assigned role the moment I was born. And I will continue to select the ones that help me, and gently put to bed the ones that aren’t really here, with me, but a fragment of a past self or perceived immaterial future.

When I start to feel the quiver of unease, that tremor of fear, I know my mind has gone off somewhere again. Running, lifting, meditation - all of these bring the mind, body and breath into one plane - and it is here that I’ve learned how to experience peace.

Every day there will be things asking to draw the mind away. Learning that the separation of the trifecta is what causes this turmoil inside me is what’s helped me in growing my awareness and effectiveness at bringing myself back, again and again.

So take a breath. Take a moment to slow down the body, and let the mind catch up from wherever it’s gone. And know that like training a traumatized, reactive dog, it will seem impossible at first. But like with anything, with time and intention, it will heal. It will get better. And it will become your most faithful, trusted and loving companion - before you’ve even noticed that the time has passed.