For about 5 minutes, on Thursday, I felt sorry for myself. I have been dealing with a foot issue since before Christmas and finally visited the orthopedic. I left the office in this lovely boot and the promise of an MRI in my future.
I bemoaned my situation, irritated that my training for the NYC 1/2 is on hold and each day that I don't run, the fitness I've worked so hard to build is dwindling. Boy, it was so easy to throw a little pity party for myself!
Then I remembered why I started running in the first place. My journey started while watching cancer steal away my mom's mobility. I couldn't do anything about it. I couldn't stop it. I couldn't make it better. After she passed away, I decided to start running. I had never run in a real race, nor had I ever believed that running distances longer than the dreaded 2 mile run for high school field hockey would become such an important part of my life. The only motivation I had was watching my mom's fight, knowing that her courage is my courage. Remembering that my mom's life was never easy, and might I say fair, I've come to realize that this potential stress fracture is just a minor setback in an otherwise blessed life.
How can I feel sorry for myself when so many others have and are suffering much greater and more serious situations? In the last two days, I've caught the sad and angry feelings boiling up inside. Working out and running have become so important to my well-being. Not being able to go all-out and push myself is frustrating. Sure, the rational side of me understands that my foot needs time to heal. But my emotional side isn't so patient. For the time being, I'll take it easy. I can't say I'll be happy about it. I can't promise I'll be a beacon of positivity, but I'll try. Because I started this journey to heal a broken soul and run for all those who can't. I'm not going to give up. My mom never did and so many others don't either.