Posts in HERSTORY
On Mindful Self Compassion

There was a thing that happened about a year ago that really made a lasting impression on me. And when I say it made a lasting impression, I mean that it encouraged me to dig deeper, to do more of the dirty, yucky, mucky work of self realization... getting to the root of things, to have a greater understanding of my effed-up-edness so that I can break up with these unhealthy old patterns that hold me back, heal and become the radiant beam of light that I so aspire to be. So this thing...

I had just completed my first Ironman and I was on my friend's porch picking up my little monsters when my friend's mother said to me... "I am so proud of you!"

Wait. She's proud of me? Tracy's mom is proud of me?

I froze. Deer in the headlights frozen, accessorized with a smile. But only for a split millisecond, because that's what you do when you suffer from CEN — you kinda go numb, not knowing how to respond, all while masking the inadequacy away. The feelings are out there somewhere, but they're impossible to grab a hold of. Like bobbing for apples. I'm under water, everything's foggy, and I'm frantically bobbing for those slippery feelings that I just can't seem to get a hold of. That's what goes on inside.

So that's when I kept smiling and mumbled something about needing to go, while turning away quickly toward home to hide that I was literally crying.

Those words — I am proud of you — HOLY SHIT, y'all. They are powerful!

And it struck me that I don't think my parents have ever said that to me. I can't say that they never did, but I honestly can't recall a single moment where they have. I remember being on the phone with my parents and briefly mentioning the Ironman, thinking to myself, are they gonna say that they're proud of me? Or exclaim, "What an awesome accomplishment!" Or something — anything — to acknowledge this moment of badassery?  And I remember being disappointed that they hadn't. It was a big deal for me — them not acknowledging my accomplishment. It sent me in a spiral.

But it also shed a light.

The silver lining in that downward spiral was understanding. It allowed me to better understand how I evolved into who I am right now. And I was able to be more compassionate toward myself. To empathize with myself. Self-empathy. It's a thing. I think maybe the millennials might call it mindful self compassion. It's real and can help heal (look who's a poet).

On That One Time I Was Propositioned

I'm sure that there are probably a lot of things beyond participating in adult beverage consumption that one can do whilst visiting the French Quarter of New Orleans, but my friends and I were not about to sacrifice a moment of Bacchanalian revelry trying to discover what they might be. A night of debauchery was going to be had.

Which is how I found myself in the middle of a strip club at the end of the night... watching some chic do her thing. As she finished her number by gathering up her tokens of appreciation, we all stood up to leave when suddenly the guy sitting to the right of me asks me how much I would be for the night.

(Let's use this line to let that sink in.)

I. Was. Mortified.

I was most definitely not the woman that I am now back then, but even my twenty-something year-old, people-pleasing, self-objectifying, anything-to-please-my-man, not-yet-feminist-identifying self that I was back then was SCREAMING silently inside my body.

Why would he ask me that? Because I wore my makeup all dark and smoky? Because I wore those tight black jeans with my sexy faux-see-through black lace top? Seriously. When is it ever okay to ask any random woman that? In a strip club? Because idiot assumes all women in strip clubs are sex workers... ergo I'm a hooker?

I immediately turned to the guy sitting to the left of me — my bae, but not just my bae, my boyfriend for at least over a year (because that matters) — and whispered to him that the dude sitting on the other side of me just asked me how much I was for the evening.

Part of me kinda thought that my then boyfriend would immediately confront the dude to defend my honor. Because he loves me. And because he was strong and all knight-in-shining-armor-y. For half of a split second I even romanticized the notion (remember, this is twenty-something-not-yet-feminist-identifying me). Of course he'll defend my honor!

 

"Take it as a compliment," he said.

 

Wait, what? Take it as a compliment?! Are you effing kidding me?

I was horrified.

Dear dudes,
When something like this happens,
never
ever
tell your gal to "take it as a compliment".
Just don't.

 

I'm not really sure why I'm writing about this. Probably because I'm still horrified by this story, even now, twenty-something years later. Maybe I just want to document it for being one of those stories that helped inform and mold the woman I have become. Maybe it's because I wish that I was the woman I am now back then. (But I don't really wish that because I own my story. And I believe in the butterfly effect. And I don't want anything to change where I am right now.) Perhaps it's because I'm three chapters into Jaclyn Friedman's Unscrewed: Women, Sex, Power, and How to Stop Letting the System Screw Us All . That's probably it.

 

Film I'd like to watch after writing this post: Indecent Proposal (1993)

Nevertheless, She Persisted.

I haven't been around lately.

In writing that first sentence, I was simply thinking about not having written here in a couple of weeks, but just as I started typing, it occurred to me that it was also true on at a very macro level. I haven't been around lately.

I've been stuck in this gloomy, stagnant, apathetic funk lately. I'm not quite sure how it started, but I'm finally at the point where I'm frustrated with myself. At 40, I've grown to learn my patterns, to recognize them, and to want to change them. The bad ones, anyway.

Worldly goings on might be somehow playing a small (subconscious even) roll in sending me off to the doldrums. Here are some of the things from the past couple of weeks:

Of course I'm not quite sure if I can blame it all on the aforementioned goings on. Sometimes life just cracks you open and sits back to watch you scramble to retrieve all of your insides and put them back in order. I think that's about where I'm at in my spiral-pattern — I've retrieved all my stuffs, now I go about the business of putting myself all back in.

The stuffs never quite get back in the exact same way. But they get in.

Onward.

HERSTORY, LIFESTYLE, HEALTHKIMComment
Recovery

Five years ago I wrote about ditching traditional new year resolutions for something much more exotic — one word. One might call it a mantra. To live by for the year. So instead of creating a list of will-dos that may (or probably much more likely, may not) get done, resulting in end-of-year feelings of regret and failure, selecting one word that would set the tone for how you lived the entire year. A polaris or guiding light of sorts.

I finally came up with my word for 2017 (and it's not 'procrastination'). It's...

RECOVERY.

I turned forty a month ago. There was nothing foreboding about it for me. It was a really beautiful event. I celebrated the strong woman that I've become. The gift that 4 decades of life brings is also comes with some realizations, compounded self-awareness, and wisdom.

I lost a bosom friend three years ago and life has been kind of dumpy for me ever since. But it is time to drag myself out of stage four and five of the Five Stages of Grief and Loss, already! It is time to move on!

Thus, RECOVERY. Time to find myself again. Time to understand the person I've evolved into after such a loss. Dear 2017, let's get it done.

The Big Red Buoy
Ironman North Carolina Start

I spent the first 10 minutes of my very first Ironman clinging to that big red buoy just a short 100 yards from the shore in which I entered. (See above) And I know exactly how I looked.

Pathetic.

I had no delusions of gradeur going into this. I knew it would be hard. I am merely an amateur with no other goal than to simply finish in the time allowed. But this?!

I can just see myself floating there, my face wide-eyed and troubled with the overwhelm of it all, desperately looking around at all the badass athletes swimming, swimming, swimming past me, toward their dream.

MY DREAM.

I'd been chasing the Ironman dream for 5 years. It’s been said that, "When you want something, the whole universe conspires to make it happen."I remember with vivid detail the night I sat in a friend's living room, criss-cross-applesauce in her green arm chair, declaring to myself, to my closest friends, and to the video camera in front of me that, "I want to be an Ironman."

Don't get me wrong. I worked hard to get to that moment. I joined a team. Went to team practices. Went to more team practices. Practiced on my own. Did a sprint triathlon. Then did an olympic triathlon in which the swim was cancelled, which meant I'd have to do it again because that totally doesn't count, does it? I continued doing this for another two years. I kept training. I did another sprint, and another oly and more sprints and another oly.

THEN a 70.3 that felt so good it was ridiculous! (Thank you Coach Carrie!)

I'd never committed to anything in my life, but I committed myself to triathlon. And I attribute part of it to that one night I told the universe what I wanted.


So there I was, doing my first ever Ironman, clinging for my dear life, to the very first buoy I could doggy paddle to, while gasping, wildly, for air that I just could not breathe in fast enough.

How is this happening right now?!


It had been three years since my last triathlon. In the space between, I hadababyitsaboy. At his birth we discovered he had a congenital heart defect and had open-heart surgery six months later. All of this is another story, but needless to say, my world changed direction very quickly.

When I decided to come back to the sport in early 2016, the impulsive "go big or go home" dreamer half of me eagerly clicked "submit", committing my more rational "what the cuss did I just do?" half of me to swimming, biking, then running 140.6 miles of coastal North Carolina in just 17 hours (which ended up only being 84.6 miles in 14? hours, but again, that’s another story).

As wild and capricious as registering for IMNC might’ve seemed, the truth is, I had some unfinished business to take care of. I was supposed to have raced the Ironman Texas in 2014, with some really great team mates of mine, but I chickened out. A month or two before the big day, self-doubt barged its way into my brain, set up camp and just would not leave. So I bailed. I deferred to the Ironman Louisville race in October of that same year.

But as life would have it, I pulled my hamstring while trying to water ski over the 4th of July weekend. That, coupled with a huge, move from Texas to Virginia made it super easy for me to DNS at Louisville. Here's some good, yet seemingly obvious advice: never try a new sport while training for any big race.

But luckily, this time around there were no injuries. Training for North Carolina had gone well enough despite not having my team, my tribe, to help ease the emotional oxymoron that is training for an Ironman.  I followed a good training plan, pretty much. Not as much as I could have or should have. But just enough. Enough to know that I’d make the bike cutoff, and probably the run cutoff. The swim was the lone question mark. I knew I could swim 2.4 miles. But I didn’t know if I could swim it fast enough. Add to that not having the chance this season to train in open water, and never ever having trained in the ocean, home to my Trinity of open water fears.

SALT. WAVES. And SHARKS.

I knew that come race morning I’d have to face those challenges, along with the fact that I didn’t even really know if I could make the swim cutoff. Yet despite all this, I had a lot of confidence that I could do it. I have an uncanny ability to, at times, be grossly over confident.

On race morning I did not get anxious until right after they played the Star Spangled Banner. The gun went off and I walked toward the start.

That moment stood dizzyingly still. Everything a blur. I couldn’t hear anything, but I could hear everything. Then…

BEEP!

I crossed the start line. I think that’s when I started hyperventilating. I walked a few steps out where the drop off forced me to begin swimming.

So then I was swimming and hyperventilating.

Which just means that I was flailing.

I managed to flail myself to the red buoy, grabbed hold of the anchor ropes and did not let go. And there I was. Trying to catch my breath and fighting back tears, I took off my goggles.

A good many thoughts went through my mind as I hung there, clinging, the minutes ticking by. But in those miserably pathetic 10 minutes of thought, there was also a little magic. Magic that I didn’t understand until days after Mike Reilly announced me an Ironman.

 

  1. It’s better to look pathetic while chasing dreams, than it is to look perfectly fine while not. I know how ridiculous I looked. I realized there might’ve been some volunteer or participant who rolled their eyes at the chubby lady who, through their lens, did not train properly enough to even go 100 yards. But you know what? I showed up. I was there. In the water. Trying. In the end, it doesn’t matter what other people think of you, it’s what you think of yourself that will consume you.
     
  2. Listen to your body while training so you can make good choices on race day. During the first 20 minutes of the Ironman I couldn’t believe how tight my wet suit felt. It felt so tight that there were many times that I considered taking it off. But I didn’t. I trained in that very wet suit for the past 3 months and I knew that it could not have suddenly become too tight. I likely felt that way because I was panicked.
     
  3. Your mind is the strongest muscle in your whole body. I don’t care how much you can lift or bench press or squat. If your mind isn’t strong enough to pull you out of the depths of panic and doubt while you cling to a red buoy, the strength of your leg muscles won’t matter.
     
  4. Bad training days are actually good training days. I used to really hate my bad training days. But what I’ve discovered about those bad training days is that they’re not really bad training days at all. They’re just days in which, instead of getting stronger in your swim, your bike or your run, you strengthen your mental muscle. And come race day, it’s the muscle that will matter the most.
     
  5. Don’t give up too soon. The thought of quitting must’ve went through my mind hundreds of times while I was hugging that buoy. I could have chosen to listen to that voice any one of those hundreds of times. But then I wouldn’t have known if I could have done it. And I certainly would not have been called an Ironman later that evening.
     
  6. Know your WHY. Why are you doing this? What is driving you? For me, each time the thought “I should quit” went through my mind, almost simultaneously the thought of my husband, or my kids, or my family and friends, or my coach, or that time on my bestie’s couch, or a montage of all of my training days, would also. Each of them a reminder of why I was out there. And why I should not quit.
     
  7. Live in the moment and for that moment. After I was able to catch my breath, I felt like I could swim again. So I did. In that moment, I knew I could swim a few strokes. And in the next moment, I felt like I could do a few more. I didn't think about 2 miles, just each moment and each stroke until I finally fell into my rhythm. I finished the swim by breaking it down, one moment at a time, one stroke at a time.
     
  8. Doing hard things makes you better at doing hard things. The Ironman is hard. But training for the Ironman should be harder. If I hadn’t pushed myself while training, I wouldn’t have known what more I had left to give beyond a certain point. I wouldn’t have been able to ask myself for more. To put my goggles back on. To try that one more stroke that led to more strokes that led to finishing the swim before the cutoff.
     
  9. It’s okay to take a minute or two, or ten. Even when you think you cannot possibly go on, if you give yourself a minute, you might find a little extra “I can” hiding in the shadows of the “I can’t.”
     
  10. Give yourself a break. Sometimes those 10 miserably pathetic minutes can magically transform into 10 singularly triumphant ones.