I’ve been running my whole life. Not figuratively obviously. At least, that’s not a can of worms I’m willing to open today. No, in this case, I mean running in the literal sense. From my early days of school cross country, all muddied legs and bursting lungs, to patting myself on the back after ten-minutes on the treadmill at that boxing gym aged sixteen. As an adult it has seen me through multiple running partners, miles of pavement, and every kind of problem. My kit taking valuable space away from beachwear or work attire, my run shoehorned into an early start or a free half-hour.
Still, this morning it was difficult to force myself out of the door. I’ve noticed that of late. Running has become hard. It has never been easy in the physical sense, that rarely changes. But recently, it has grown mentally tough in a, I don’t want to leave the house kind of way. Even today with the gift of the light morning, and the cloudless blue sky there was an internal debate. Should I? Shouldn’t I? Later? Tomorrow?
It’s draining.
Difficult-Easy
Getting out of the door is the hardest part. And those first minutes. The cool spring air nipping at my legs. The wind billowing in my ears. Hands tucked into my sweater, hidden from the biting cold. That’s when the negotiation takes place. Just around the block. Walk if you need to. You can always turn back.
Five minutes in, ten minutes maximum, all of that is forgotten and I’m in the flow. If by flow, I mean that nagging voice in my head that likes to tell me how awful running is. But after all these years, I’ve learned to tune that voice out.
My dad would say that running for me is difficult-easy. It can be stressful, and challenging, even annoying, but it is familiar. It’s pain that I recognise. It’s hard, but I know I can do it.
There are a lot of things in my life that are difficult-easy. Meditating every day. My regular yoga practice. Eating a balanced diet. Abstaining from alcohol. None of these acts are easy per se, and for other people, they may feel impossible. But for me, there is precedent.
Difficult-Difficult
The opposite to difficult-easy is difficult-difficult. This term describes those actions that sit outside of our comfort zone. They feel uncomfortable. They present a greater challenge and require more skill, but once mastered, result in increased personal growth.
My biggest difficult-difficult is public speaking. The mere thought sees my heart thundering and my mind blanking. It doesn’t matter how much I prepare, it always ends with me drowning in a babble of incoherent words before coming to an abrupt end and giggling maniacally.
It’s humiliating.
On her Letters from Love Substack this week, Elizabeth Gilbert said something that resonated.
“Here’s what breaks my heart: watching women oppress themselves. It’s bad enough when that oppression comes from external sources, but when women oppress themselves through self-hatred, self-harm, a reluctance to create, a refusal to be seen, a silencing of their own voice, a fear of imposter syndrome, by pretending they don’t know what they know, or by remaining in relationships and roles that harm, drain, and demean them — that breaks my heart.“
Imposter Syndrome
So much of this quote rings true. The years of striving for change, imposed by extreme self-hatred. The outsourcing of my own mind, to men who I thought knew better. That overwhelming fear that I’m not good enough.
One of the reasons I struggle to speak in public is because I don’t feel like I deserve to be heard. I vomit my words as quickly as possible, skimming the surface of what I actually want to say, for fear of getting it wrong. Eyes lowered, shoulders hunched. Apologising for taking up space. Needing to justify my very existence in the world.
I’ve done enough work already to know all of this. It’s not new information. But seeing is spelled out in black and white, realising that this is not unique to me, took my breath away. I’m both comforted that it’s not just me, and furious that I’ve allowed this to happen. I’m in my mid-forties. When will I finally start to give less fucks.
Be the Light
As I was running earlier, a burly, bearded man rode past me on his bike. On his back he wore a portable sound system; his questionable music contaminating the otherwise silent early-morning streets.
Well that says it all. I thought.
I’m plodding along, questioning my place in the world, keeping myself small, staying in my lane. In contrast, he is zig zagging across all the lanes, with no obvious consideration for how anyone else responds or feels.
Clearly the issue is gendered. After all, due to his appearance alone, he is less likely to be confronted for disturbing the peace than someone who poses less of a threat. It makes sense then, that sometimes small and unseen means safe.
But I no longer want to be afraid.
As I sprinted up the final hill towards home, arms pumping, muscles strong, I felt powerful. Life is not binary, and in that difficult-easy space, I glimpse a fraction of my worth. But I want more. So, I’m going to have to lean into those difficult-difficult situations. Force myself out of that comfort zone. Dare to claim my place in the world.
On her podcast We Can Do Hard Things, Glennon Doyle reminds us that all we have to do is the next right thing. One small step at a time. That seems manageable.
Last week, I asked my daughter to paint me a picture. A couple of hours later, she presented me with this candle. Maybe she was nudging me to shine my light into the world. I like to think so anyway.
