running away from it all

I forget how much living with an active mental illness is like running a marathon. It is about endurance, and perseverance. You need to have good supportive people to 'pit crew' for you. It takes preparation to get through the hardest miles, and you need to have good healthy snacks and lots of water along the way. Parts of you will most likely bleed. You will cry. You will want to quit and you will want to sing. Good music makes it easier. There are definitely times when you will need to slow down and walk, and don't be surprised if people stare every once in a while. At the end of the marathon, you'll be a completely different person than the one who started--stronger, braver, in a whole new skin.

When I say 'active', I mean what mental health professionals call 'crisis'. I live with a mental illness every day, yes, but there are days and weeks that are sooo much harder--where it is so much more noticeable--than others. This happens to be one of those weeks. It's actually week 5. Or 6. I've lost count, and that's ok. I have a hard time sleeping. I have a hard time balancing emotions, and an even harder time controlling them. Some days I can't feel anything, and some days I can feel everything so hard that I want it to just be over. Sometimes I hear things that aren't there, and sometimes I have overwhelming urges to hurt myself or others. In a word, it can be terrifying.

It's hard to find the balance on days like this--hard to look up and see that maybe, just maybe, I've hit the half-marathon mark, or the quarter marathon mark. It's hard to look up because I don't want to see if I'm only at mile 2. There are things I can do--keep getting up, taking meds, going to work, talking to people, eating right--but something that I've just recently rediscovered is running.

Running hurts. When I can't feel anything, I can at least feel the burn in my arches and the sweat down my back. I can feel the wind streaking my face and the cold tensing my fingers. It keeps me focused. Hear something that's not real? It's ok, just keep running. Want to cry, or shout? You can, but keep running while you do. Want to bleed, want to die? Nope. Just keep running. So I run. I run everyday, just a little bit, just a lot. I run til my toes are bleeding, til I can't hear anything but the pulse of my own heart, til the ache that rests right below my sternum has subsided. Days when I can't think of any other reason to do so, I run for my family, for hugs and baseball games and summer dinners by the firepit. I run for my grandfather who knits me scarves and my uncle who makes me salmon cream cheese. For my parents, who love me despite it all. For my siblings, who are there when no one else is, who give dinners and hugs and compassion like the sun. On the worst days, I run for my neice, for her first birthday and park playdates and choir concerts and graduations, for all the things I don't want to miss.

I run until I know that I've turned into a new version of myself, into a person who can survive the next 24 hours until I get to run again. Right now, every day, I outrun my demons. I cross that finish line and am ok until the next day.

Sometimes people ask me why I run. There's no answer I could give that would truly say it all, so usually I just answer 'I run because I like it.' That's true. I run to be healthy, to feel good about myself for a little while, to be happy again. But most of the time, at least these days, I run because I don't know how not to. I run to get ahead of the terror and the shame and the unknown, and I run to get home one more time.

Starting Over

Today was a good day to start over. It's easy for me to give other second chances; harder with myself. But today, with Rose at my side (thank goodness!), I started over. First steps are easier the second time around. Who knew?

Here's to a year where I lose the 40 extra pounds. Here's to a year where I do many 5ks, 8ks, 10ks, 15ks, and half marathons. Here's to a year where I do at least one marathon and at least one ultra marathon. Here's to a year where I rediscover my running community, and a year where I run for the friends who no longer can. Here's to a year where my toenails fall off, my thighs are chafed, my face is sunburned, my fingers are cold, and my heart is full. Here's to a year where I again find faith in the trails and the pavement. Here's to a year where I find faith in the women around me, and in my own self. Here's to a year of running!

Holding On For Dear Life

-->13 days ago, The Boy’s grandpa, Papa Ron, died. It was a short battle with a vicious disease, and a sudden end in the course of it all. He left an amazing wife, 11 children—biological, surrrogate, in-law, and 18 grandchildren of the same variety. He left us devastated. To me he was the head of a family that saved my life and gave me a home where I was safe when no one else could, an uncle, a quiet and gentle man who literally never locked his front door. To this day I remember my first Thanksgiving with them—Tiny threw up down my back and Ron came over to play with her and sit with me. He cradled her compact body in one arm and distracted her by dancing his fingers above her eyes; a trick I still use with Paws today. His booming smile, the warmth that emanated from him, the security that I felt in his presence, will be missed every day. The holidays are encroaching and it is impossible to imagine Christmas morning brunch without him. Whatever will we do without Ron?

All this week I have been longing for home; not the home my own parents created but a community where I found a place without restriction, where I could be whatever kind of person I was at that moment. All this week I have been grieving alone, isolated from the people who were mourning his loss, my sadness a fraction of their own. I am very close to Ron and Kathy’s oldest son, Josh, and his wife Kristin. When I followed them home, a little lost and a little lonely, they made me part of their family. And I am lucky. Josh and Kristin have 3 children who I love dearly: Sprout, The Boy, and Tiny. Now they are 10, 8, and 6—when I met them they were 2 1/2, about 10 months, and not even a glimmer in her parents’ eye. Coming home to them this weekend was a revelation, an affirmation that I do indeed belong there and that no matter how far I roam, they will always be my family.

After the graveside service, and then the tailgate party that Ron had requested, Kristin and Josh asked me to take the kids home so that they could stay and help clean Kathy’s house. After hugging Kathy—ah, my Amy, I love you—she whispered to me, and all I could say was I love you back but what I meant to say was that and then thank you for everything, Kristin and I loaded the kids into the car. She mouthed are you ok to me and we gave each other one more hug. Thank you so much she said and it was right that I was there to do that, there is no where else I’d have been. After a half hour drive, they were all tired and far away. Grief is unbearable at best but seeing it settle in children who you would do anything for, lie down in traffic for, is crushing. All their lives I have existed to give hugs, bump noses, carry on my back, and sing songs with; all their lives I have lived for their smiles back at me. We got into pjs and curled up on the couch to watch Stargate: Sprout, lithe and ascending into teenagerhood all too soon, put her head on my shoulder and her feet under my own. Tiny, graceful and wise, snuggled up with her head on my stomach; the Boy kissed the tip of my nose with a smile and put his hand lightly in mine. After the movie we moved towards bed—each of them sending a text to their mom and settling in. Sprout, confident and brave, went calmly; Tiny cried over little things until we band-aided a superficial scrape and gave each other bear hugs. The Boy, stuck on pause in the hallway, said to me I miss Papa. Tears lit in his eyes and suddenly I was on my knees, his skinny arms around me and head on my shoulder. We stayed there holding on to each other; again he whispered I miss Papa and I tell him that I’m sorry, that I do too. We talk about what he missed, and over and over I remind him that his Papa loved him more than anything. He says I know and several times almost lets go only to renew his hold on me. Right then and there I am stunned, grateful for the thousands upon thousands of hours I have spent with him so that in this moment I can be the person he needs, so that I can hold him tight and whisper I love you, baby. The Boy rolls me astounded, the word, breathless: he is a fearless kicker for his football team and at 8 is wise enough to know that playing football doesn’t mean you can’t do ballet too; he is lean and long and compassionate, open with how he feels and more than willing to hug me in public. When I am with him, with them, that is home. Last night I wanted to march into the host of heaven and pull Ron back to earth if only to see The Boy’s smile return. And of course there is nothing more helpless than that, isn’t there?

Lights out time. Kisses for Sprout, kisses for Tiny, the realization that I spent more time today holding on to a kiddo than not. Realizing that here my arms are never empty. I stand on the lower part of The Boy's loft bed and entwine my hands with his own. He lays his head on the railing and tells me again I miss Papa. His eyes shine tearful once again and I kiss his forehead, willing his sadness into my own heart and out of his. 3 minutes later the girls are asleep; 10 minutes after that he is out too, mercifully for both of us. In his sleep one arm settles over the side of the bed, reaching out towards the door for a beloved grandpa who will never again come through it; in my sleep I too will cry. 

Moves Like Jagger

To tell you the truth, I hate this song. Moves Like Jagger kind of makes me want to gouge my eardrums so I don't have to hear it. Hyperbole? Well, duh. But still. It is the one song that makes me override the 'kids choose the station' rule in my car. It is the song that makes me wish Maroon 5 had never gotten together. It is the pop equivalent of 'The Song That Never Ends'.  So when that song made me burst out crying the other day, no one was more disgusted than me. This song? Really?!

But there is a good reason: my friend, Dan. Dan was a coworker--a good friend at work--who figured out early on that that song drove me crazy. So he did everything he could to drive me nuts with it: he sang it when I walked by, he dropped it in to conversation, he wrote that he has moves like Jagger on his whiteboard. Maybe it should have infuriated me! But in good-natured fun, it was Dan's way of welcoming me in to the new unit. It was his way of telling me that he liked me, that I was a person he wanted in his unit. As I got more and more comfortable, our conversations branched out from work to family (he had several nieces and nephews) to trains to sports, to politics and philosophy. Dan was the coworker who had bottles of water, advil, and snacks at his desk; he kept the conversation going during unit meetings; he belonged to us. Of course he had his flaws, as we all do, but he was effervescent and passionate and kind. Dan died very suddenly at the end of May. I miss him more than I thought I would, and since the initial shock wore off and that lining of sadness settled around our desks at work, I have been searching for a way to honor Dan's memory. His desk is directly across from mine and each day is a vaguely slightly less abrasive reminder that we have lost a good one. 

It has come to me in the last few days that, although he never would have done it himself, Dan both understood and respected my need and drive to run marathons and ultra-marathons. As in most conversations with him, there was always some gentle teasing and back-and-forth, but he always seemed to get it. Dan was an example of the ability to understand a person's passion without necessarily sharing that passion. Dan never would have done it himself; nonetheless I believe that we must run for those who no longer have the chance to do so. So in Dan's honor, I am going to mark my miles and days to the Autumn Leaves 50k with him in mind. Here's to my friend Dan, a guy who didn't know the meaning of the phrase 'giving up', a guy who helped endless young men play football fairly and honestly, a guy who made kids in foster care forget they were there, and a guy who always went the extra mile to look out for our parents. I guess it's my turn to go the extra mile! I know I can do it on foot; I only hope that I can do it in my work as well.

Day 1: 1.5 miles (slow but steady!)
Day 2: 1.5 miles

Dear Bean

I'm not running right now, so instead I'm writing. To you.

Dear Bean:

       I’m more and more convinced that that is my nickname for you. Your papa calls you Paws, your mama calls you Chicken. I’ve been looking but none have quite fit: Rawr, Potpie. But Bean, something almost fits. One evening I whispered it to you and it feels right. Still I will whisper to you how much I love you.

       There is a shift in the world since you arrived. It’s been 3 months to the day today, and I know it’s been felt by many people. For me, the day-to-day has evolved to see you each afternoon—time that I would not trade for anything. Your mama and I spend a lot of time passing you back and forth. The other night you were on her lap and I leaned in to kiss you. You bobbed your head and then smiled at me—the greatest smile I’ve ever seen. Your mama grinned: that’s quite a special smile there, Chicken. You’re quite a special girl.

       Tonight we had a surprise party for your dad. He turned 30 yesterday (I turned 27) and your mom and Gretchen slung together a sweet little party for him, with the people here who love him the most. You got a little over-stimulated and your mama passed you to me while she got the ergo on to walk you around. I slung you on my forearm, superman-sloth style, and started bouncing deep and slow, patting your back. You calmed almost immediately and I could feel your little head, so like your papa’s, bobbing on my arm. This is a new trick I’ve learned with you, the bouncing, and it was thrilling to have you respond so quickly. Your mama grinned a huge smile and said to our friends, see, this is why we keep her around. Truth is, they couldn’t get rid of me if they tried, and they know it. In my birthday card this year, your dad said we’re an old-fashioned family and we love it that way. It’s true. I am grateful for them, and you; they are grateful for me—not just in the larger sense but in the everyday. On good days and bad we are each other’s lifelines and little graces, the hugs and smiles and long conversations where we remember what family is for.

       You know, I’ve been a surrogate aunt since Miss Mae was 2. That’s 8 years of hugs and babysitting, driving the Boy and Muffin to and from school, spending the night on Christmas Eve. They taught me quite a lot about loving, and I figured that with you, it wouldn’t be that much different. I was wrong. When you smile at me, when you fall asleep in my arms, I look at you and see your dad’s noggin and your mom’s face. In the way you snuggle with her and how you smile at my brother, the look on my dad’s face when he holds you, in all of those I see nothing short of promise. More than that, I see possibilities, hope, grace that stretches to fill the sky and eclipse the sun. You will be more than I could ever imagine. 

       I don’t aim to put any pressure on you. You be whoever you want to be, let that big personality and sharp brain spill out and shine. As your Mimo and your mama like to say, you is kind, you is smart, you is important. It’s true. I thought I knew the feel of unconditional love. Again, I was wrong. Or maybe not so much wrong. I can sincerely say that I would give a kidney to anyone of my family, drop everything if they needed me, stand behind and beside them. That’s what family does. With you, though—well, you are the only person who can throw up on me or poop on me, drool on me, gum my arm, cry at me until I think my ears might bleed just a little (you’ve never actually done that last one). You’re the only one who can do that and find me happy when you do. Happy might not be the right word…you can do all those things and still find me patient and loving and even laughing. When I told you I’d love you without question or agenda, I meant it. But before I met you, I didn’t know exactly how much I meant it. Your mama said to you the other day I would run into traffic for you, Chicken. She would. You have so many people who love you so unbelievably much, you are lucky but you are also light and grace and hope. And we are lucky. And if you needed it, I too would run into traffic for you. You know I am your aunt. You know I love you. And when you settle on my arm, droop your legs and chubby arms over mine, let your head sink heavy to rest and close your eyes, I am grateful. More than that I am home.

       We moved a lot, in the last few years. And those times I found again and again that it’s the people you love who are your home. A house can soak that up, that ease of being, that comfort that comes from the people in it sticking together no matter what. Foundations and fences and walls and windows, they’re built from family. It’s funny, Bean. You are not mine. You have two parents who love you and you belong to them. As it should be, as is right. But as they are yours, so too am I. Take that as you will, peanut. When you need a hand mine will be outstretched. And if you choose to take it, the privilege is mine.

       I never thought I’d end up here. At 27 I am healthy. I have run marathons and weathered change and helped other families. I have a job that I love. I have two cats who snuggle up when I am sad and play with me when I am happy. On days when it rains, my soul settles. And when it is sunny, I can soar. You’ll learn how to fly, Bean. You’ll cruise and then when it’s right you’ll walk, finding your legs beneath you. You’ll stretch out your arms and find the stars waiting to settle in your palms.

       You know I love you. But I’ll tell you anyway, every time I see you. Goodnight sweet girl. I hope you get some rest and let your parents get some snoozes in too.

Kisses,

 Auntie Ames 

Perhaps more than anything...

Since Ramona arrived, I have more than ever been grateful for my close ties to my family. To be honest there wasn't much more room to be grateful--they are such a huge part of my life and, if I am to be successful, it is with them at my side. And while I love each of them for so many reasons in turn, tonight I have to focus on my dad. He is now Papa Robert and loving it. He was in town and we grabbed a quick bite with each other. I told him about Pac-Rim and work and this phenomenal, brutal training I did last week; he told me about his consulting jobs and the memorial service he'd attended for a friend today. Finally he looked me in the eye and said 'Ames, before you started supervising visits, we talked about the PSU-DHS grad school program. I know you were hesitant because you were, well, miserable in your position at that point and due to the agreement between PSU and DHS, you would have to commit three years of service to DHS after you graduated to pay off the tuition break'. I agreed, knowing where he was headed. Then he leaned back and said 'I've never seen you this happy in a job. Sure, there are days that suck. That's the reality of every job. But you grin and you glow and I can hear the passion you have every time we talk. So because of that, have you thought about the program again?' I have. And while I readily admit that it's entirely possible I will need to get my MSW at some point, that point is not here yet. I don't want to be in school right now. The thought of going back kind of makes me want to throw up a little bit...which is just never a strong beginning! More than that, I thought I wanted to be a caseworker. Now I'm not so sure.

This past week I've been in SSA core training. Among the amazing lessons I've learned include the fact that we have the right to be on the parent's side as well as the child's. That we can--and should--be that first person who believes in them at DHS, a person who tells them repeatedly that they are doing a good job, trying their hardest, loving their kids. We have the power to empower them, to include them in the decisions, have a free and open line of communication, and respect them as parents and people. It's been incredible. Brutal, heartbreaking, and incredible. We had a parent panel of women who were involved in the system and are now parent mentors. Above all else, they told us, remember that we are parents who love their children. They are parents who have made mistakes on a grand level, but they love their children. I forgot that along the way. I've learned it again, I think, and I am less inclined to be a caseworker than ever. This is where I get to do the work I love, the face to face, the human connection. This is where I might be, may be, even a tiny bit on one day or two, able to help someone else feel confident and hopeful. Instead of writing court reports, going to hearings, dealing with lawyers, getting parents into treatment, and fighting with family members, I'm working with the parents and kids. Every day. I get to see them, talk to them, and help them. That's what this is about for me, and I don't know that I want to change that.

I told my dad all this. A tiny part of me was afraid that he would say: 'yeah, that's great. But you'll always be limited without an MSW. I want you to be in a job where you have a little more financial security and one that pushes you a little harder.' I didn't think he would. After all, this is a guy who told me he didn't care how long it took me to get a bachelor's degree. All he cared about was that I was happy and successful when I chose to get one. He didn't disappoint today. He said, 'you know, Ames, that makes perfect sense. You're happy. You're helping. You're getting to do exactly what you want to do. And it's ok if you don't want to be a caseworker right now. It's ok if you never want to be a caseworker.' My father looked at me and I could see in his face that he was proud of who I was right now, and that he wouldn't ask me to change ever.

So tonight I'm grateful for my dad. For the compassion he shows me and the patience. Today I sat there and realized again that my father is a loving, smart, honorable man. I hope some of that rubs off on me, and that I can show my clients the compassion he has shown me. That I can offer to them the understanding and tell them in so many ways that I am proud of them, just like he has done for me. This has been quite a week, to be honest. It's not quite over so I'm gonna sign off. But between Pac-Rim and SSA training and time with Anna and Ramona and dinner with Dad, I am realizing that perhaps more than anything, it's the people who are on the race course with you who matter the most.

P-P-P-PacRim!!

Usually I write up my races faster than this. Usually I am more proud than humbled, confident than unsure, empowered than weakened. That is not the case this time. Like everyone has kindly reminded me, I am completely aware that walking for 14 hours and pulling close to 34 miles out is not small feat. It took all of my courage and a lot more help from the people around me than ever before. And I’ve been working for days now to name this pit in my stomach, the reason why I don’t feel the way I want to or the way that my running peers say that I should. I’ve finally been able to get close: disappointment. A little regret. A little shame.

I was both pumped and terrified in the week leading up to PacRim. I knew I was going in less trained than I wanted, but my plan was to ‘go as far as I could’, following the advice of Anna. And on the advice of Rose, I set three goals: 1) do a 100k. 2) Do 50 miles. 3) Do a 50k and then a little farther so that I’d go farther than I’d gone before. It’s taken some doing but I’ve rid myself of any unease about walking during a race. Learning that the race is against myself and no one else has made that possible. So I figured I’d start walking, turn it into a trot if I could, and go until my legs fell off. It started out well. Pretty day—some serious downpours at first but the loop is gorgeous, around a section of the river going through Longview. I did the first loop with Rose and her friends. Then I separated, partly because of the shin splints that hit and partly because I knew that this was somewhat of a solo exercise. Mentally I was rocking it. At one point I texted Anna, ‘oh yeah, I can totally go 47 more miles!’ Even as I thought it I realized that in that moment I was realizing a new--albeit totally crazy!!--level of mental strength, and that made me proud.

Then we hit hour 3. I ignored the hot spots starting to flare up, ignored the pain on the bottom of my feet. ‘I can push through’, I thought. ‘Hell, I stared down a furious client on Wednesday and owned the 32 miles of Autumn Leaves’. So I pushed through. I slowed to walking; I slid up gravel pockets and picked my way down small gravel hills. And the more I pushed through, the worse I blistered. My legs were good. My abs were good. My chest and arms and mind were good. But my feet? My feet were falling apart. Hour 6 I gave in and sat down to take my shoes off. The damage was impressive. My right foot had a blister on the sole that covered about half of it. Blisters around my ankles, on my toes, on my heels, on my ankles. It was actually ridiculous. I remember looking at them and finally laughing. A couple of seasoned runners came over to help me patch them up. Putting my shoes back on made me cry just a little, it hurt so bad. But I did it, and got back out there. The two guys who had helped me continued to encourage me, smile, pat me on the back.

Around hour 7 (I think, although I'm not totally sure, it well could have been longer), Rose succumbed to her raging virus and ended up going home (although how she made it through 7 hours with a fever and aches and all the rest is beyond me—that woman is made of some kind of steel like I’ve never seen). Before she left, Andleeb arrived to get her and did a lap with me too. It was the most I laughed on the whole run! I don’t think I realized just how much Rose having to leave affected me, but around hour 10, Anna texted me to say ‘how you doing?’ and I burst into tears. Never ever have I cried in a race like that. And pretty much all the other times I’ve cried have been from pride and joy and exhaustion—but never desperation and discouragement. I desperately missed Anna, Liz, and Rose—my trifecta of awesome. Each time I came up the hill towards the start/finish and aid station, I thought to myself ‘ok, this is it’. But each time, I didn’t stop. I don’t know why. By that point there was no way I would make 100k, limping along at a blistering 25 mph pace; I also eventually abandoned the 50 miles thanks to stiff knees and cramping calves, due to slowing down, getting cold, and not keeping my salt up like I should’ve. But that 50k and then a little farther…I guess I just couldn’t abandon that. Plus…I really wanted the race pants! Had to do a 50k to get them…a little carrot for me.

Mile 25 started brutal. I was heading over the first bridge, right before the 1/4 mile mark, and a guy caught up with me. I’d seen him going at a steady, fast clip, so I was a little surprised. He asked me if I was ok and through the hysterical tears that had started, I said ‘yeah, I’m ok’. He laughed and said ‘are you sure?’ I laughed, he laughed, and with him by my side I made it through mile 25. After we came through the start/finish, I thanked him and encouraged him to go on ahead. I’ll never forget this. He looked me in the eye and said ‘I’m sticking with you as far as you want to go. If you want that 50k, I’ll be beside you every step from here on out’. The next 8 hurt so badly. I kept cramping up and wondering if everyone who was out there was looking at me thinking ‘Geez, she sure doesn’t belong here. What a rookie.’ That’s what I was thinking. But then there was Tim, keeping me smiling, reciting poems and spouting Jack Handy quotes, telling stories, reminding me that I could, in fact, do this. About mile 29 when we were at the aid station, he put his arms around me and gave me a great big hug. And there were the random runners patting me on the back, commiserating, checking in. There were the lap counting volunteer heroes who were full of cheers, the delightfully crotchety race director who offered me new feet, my friends afar who kept up the text messages, and there were Karen and Sarah, doing my last lap with me and Tim. They stayed a step ahead of us that whole loop, keeping me going. By the end I was walking slower than I’ve ever gone in a race. Every part of me hurt, and to my great chagrin I could still feel my feet but not my fingers. I crossed the start/finish line, and Tim, Sarah, and Karen stopped to let me go the last .2 on my own.

The packing up, changing in the car, long drive home are a blur. Mostly what I remember is getting home and sinking into bed with Max and Ruby draped around me. Oh, and the pants. The race pants are the shiz-nit. Even as I write they are keeping me toasty...and serving as a reminder to sign up for my next two races, not letting this one go to waste, so to speak.

But the more I write, the more I feel the disappointment, the shame, the wistfulness fade just a little. It was hard. And while I’m not thrilled with—or even proud of—how my body handled it, I’m pretty damn satisfied with how I rallied. But this one isn’t about me. It’s about the ultra-running community. When I needed them most, in the middle of the dark and cold night, they were there for me. I don’t know most of their names (although I’m betting I will see many of them at other timed races that I plan on entering), I don’t know where they live or what they do for work or what else they are passionate about. I don’t know how fast their miles are—but I do know that mine are slower—and they don’t seem to care. I find myself coming away from this race a little more solemn than before. I have, until now, been lucky enough to come away from my races feeling like I’ve reached and most times exceeded my goal, which as all of you know is a heady and powerful feeling. It has left me convinced that I can do anything, which in my line of work is an important confidence to have. PacRim reminded me of the necessity of reaching out to the people around me, asking for help and not being too proud or stupid to accept it. Once in a while I’ve been likened to a pony: ‘you’re strong and brave and smart, but sometimes you just have to say eat the damn carrot, pony!!’ This was a good reminder of the reality of setting high and hard goals for yourself: sometimes you need help.

More and more I see the need for strong communities in the world I inhabit. From the kids in foster care who need whole legions of support just to get to doctors’ appointments and graduate from middle school to new parents who need a hand with the laundry and someone to walk the baby for half an hour to grandparents who really need the neighbor to check in and bring groceries…the examples are endless. A term that pops up at work is ‘vicarious trauma’. There is so much that we are hurt by, even without us knowing it, and having strong sweet caring people around us lessens that trauma. I just hadn’t realized how much that need would carry over into my running, and how grateful I would be to find a community even stronger and more supportive than the one I had previously encountered. Tonight I am a little scraped up, a lot blistered, a little sore. I would do it again if had the chance. Hell, I will do it again! But getting back on that horse is going to take more work than I expected. Oh well…we all know I love a challenge!!