Two years ago, I was in Washington DC to run the Marine Corps Marathon. It was my second time running this particular race and my first attempt at a Boston Qualifying time. Everyone in the running world, and most people outside of it, know of the Boston Marathon and posting a qualifying time to receive entry is somewhat of a rite of passage- a point where something magical happens. At least I think...... unfortunately, I wouldn't know. You see, I was back at the Marine Corps Marathon because I had a bit of a point to prove. This had been my first marathon and it had been nothing less than a death March. What better way to prove myself as a runner than to return to the battlefield and not only conquer the beast but do well enough to qualify for the most renowned marathon?

This may be obvious, but 26.2 miles is a looooooong way. A lot of stuff happens in that distance. You experience so many emotions, see so many sights, watch people loving life and other people truly knocking on Hell's door. You see people in costume, people juggling (yes, juggling), watch mom's hug their husbands and children, see proud parents with signs. At a marathon, a LOT goes on over the course of 26.2 miles.

I had trained splendidly for this marathon. My mind was in the right place and success was a sure thing. I started out with a friend to keep each other in check on the pace and the miles were flying under our feet effortlessly. It started as a "wrinkle in my sock" about mile 9 and by mile 15 there was no putting weight on it. I started crying; I knew what was happening and it was over. I kissed Brian and pulled off at the med tent. My sock was bloodied and the sight was not pretty.

I sat there and cried while the Marine taped my poor foot. I felt like such a failure. This stupid foot! Surgery had removed the crippled joints when I was 16 and nothing had worked right since then. The frustration was pouring from me and the defeat was infecting my every thought. As I sat there, a blonde chick pulled off the course and sat next to me.

"I am so tired of running," she said.

I looked at her incredulously. "Um, what?!?!"

"I'm just tired of running. I want breakfast. I'm gonna let this bus take me back."

I should probably ask for forgiveness for the thoughts that went through my head at that moment. She was tired?!?!?!? She didn't feel like running anymore?!?!?

I looked at her and snapped, "Might think about that next time you DECIDE TO RUN 26.2 MILES!!"

I got up from the chair and started running. Not just running, like seriously running. I had lost 17 minutes sitting at that medical tent feeling sory for myself. What a waste. I stopped feeling the foot and just set my sights on the finish. I did not stop running until I crossed the line and the Marine kissed my cheek. Then, I sat and I cried.

Those last 11.2 miles are so representative of life, at least of my life. I think they are valid for anyone's life. You can make a choice. You can choose to be the chick who just gets tired and quits or you can set your sight on the prize, focus on what you can do and just do it. Everybody has bumps and setbacks. Everybody has failures and shortcomings. But I can tell you this, if you make it to the finish line knowing you did the best you could possibly do and if you did it right, that prize is so much more glorious.

My chip time for that marathon was 4:15:xx- a forgetable time. I will never forget that race, though. I think about it often, especially lately. Life is really a lot like a marathon. There are some miles that are harder than others. There are twists and turns and uphills that make every inch of you ache. Some miles fly by effortlessly and others seem to drag on to eternity. There are moments you wonder what the hell you are doing here and moments when you wouldn't ever want to be anywhere else. And inevitably, the thought crosses your mind to quit, to just stop trying. You think how easy it would be to take three steps off the course and blend in with the spectators. I can honestly say in life there are moments when I think about how easy those three steps off the course would be. How easy to just sit down and quit. But then, I remember how sweet it was to cross that finish line. When I get to the finish line in life, I want to look back and know that I lived what I believed. I want to know that I gave everything I possibly could.

My pacer in the Race of Life

In the spring of 1998, I went to the pound and picked out a dog. Well, in reality, I suppose she picked me out. I didn't like her at first with her multi-color eyes and big curly tail. But she loved me and my Memaw said that "a good dog picks you, you don't pick them." Dogs have a better intuition, afterall. They don't base their decision on all the silly things that we consider. I was picking out a dog for reasons different than most people. Sure, it was fun to get a puppy, but Roxy was destined to serve a much bigger purpose. She had a big job and my life and my future rested on her shoulders. I think she knew that.



When I was 14, my battle with anorexia began. I don't know exactly how it started or why it started. I am sure a psychologist could have fun blaming this or that and analyzing the various events leading up to it. But however it came to pass, it sucked me in and consumed my every thought. Looking back, it's a hard thing to explain. I wonder how I ever did it- how I played sports year round (and even excelled at them), how I covered it up, how people didn't shake me and scream and yell, how I could stand missing out on so many things. My memories of those years are very sparse and there are even periods of months that I cannot recall at all. I do remember the day I asked for help. I do remember that that day was actually just the beginning.

A year after I asked for help, my situation was worsening and my parents were at a complete loss. They covered for me when people asked and I suppose in a lot of ways it was pretty embarassing for them. Mostly, though, I think they felt like I was sliding through their fingers like the fine, soft sand on the beach. Pieces of me- my personality, my organs, my body parts- were being caught in the winds of time and carried away, never to be seen again. Desperation is what got me to the pound. Desperation is what made my dad agree to the nutritionist's suggestion of a puppy, a therapy dog. The hope was that I would feel the unconditional love of a puppy and regain a sense of purpose, a motherly instinct to survive and thrive to protect my baby. Even better, I would hopefully learn to gauge how much she needed to eat or not eat or exercise or not exercise and begin to apply those principles to my own life. It was a long shot, a very long shot.

The recovery rate for anorexia is not good. A very small percentage of those who enter the murky waters come away from them and never dip their feet back in. The day I picked Roxy up from the pound, the hard work began. We were inseperable, Roxy and I. She rode all over town with me. We went for walks and jogs and spent countless hours sleeping all curled up together. When I went to college, every bare wall was covered with pictures of her and I- reminders of my sweet angel dog.

I wish I could say I quickly gained back the weight and life was good. But I can't. I did gain back some; I had to because I was playing soccer at Florida Southern that year. My liver was not doing well and the doctor had serious concerns about other side effects of anorexia. I played that season, but I did not do well. No longer could shear will-power carry me through the tough workouts and long days. My body was tired and I was exhausted. After just one season, I moved back home. It was a huge loss for me. Soccer had been my sport. I loved the game and reveled in the physical execution. My body was failing me now and I couldn't pretend anymore.

Roxy was at home to greet me. She knew she was needed and stood by me every step of the way. She loved me and gave me purpose, even after I had lost my hopeful ambitions. The summer after I graduated from college, my weight had stabilized within a healthy range and I was considered "cured." I have never gone back. I've never stood on the banks of the murky waters and considered the temperature. I have never dipped a toe in or considered diving in to retrieve the lost memories. Not once. And Roxy has been there all along. She has walked by my side the whole way, a constant reminder that I am loved.

It's been eight years or so since I was officially "better." Roxy is laying beside me right now, snoring softly. She had a tumor removed from her face yesterday. The veterinarian couldn't get all of it and is not confident of any hopefulness for her. Her little face is swollen and bloodied and I can feel that she is in pain. I am afraid to lose her. I am afraid of procedures I cannot possibly afford. I can't even remember my life before her; she is eleven. I wonder to myself how can I look at her and tell her I can't save her? She came into a darkness that no one else could enter. She saw me, my heart, in a blackness where people saw loss and hopelessness. She never got mad or frustrated, she never gave up. She was my brave little puppy. She took my sickness.

UPDATE 3/30
The pathology came back and the tumor is indeed malignant. The cancer is s pretty horific one and the next weeks and months will be very tough for Roxy. :(

Run for joy!

People run for a lot of reasons. I suppose they are all good reasons, but I feel like sometimes we just don't really "get it." I am sure that based on the little bit that people know of me, they must think I hop right out of bed when the alarm goes off between 4:00 and 4:30am. I bet they think I sleep in my running shoes and cannot think for one second of something I would rather do than run. I can assure you, at 4 o' clock in the morning there are LOTS of things I would rather do...... Sleep being quite high on that list. What's interesting about running is that you don't really love it until you've already done it for the day. At 4 am, I hate running.

Sometimes- not at 4 am, mind you- I think that it is such a shame that I have to have a reason to run. I think it's sad that only once in a blue moon do I actually pause and reflect on the "gift" that is running. I was reading today about men and women who have served in Iraq, people who will most likely never run again. I read about people who lost body parts, lost their vision, experienced horrible, unimaginable things, suffer from diminished mental capacity, and perhaps worst of all, people who have lost a joy for life. We live in a weird time right now, a scary time. Many people have experienced great loss and despair. We do not, however, live in a hopeless time. We don't live in a time when joy should be far from our hearts. That time does not exist.

Yesterday, my nephew (2 yrs old) picked out a Giant dump truck for his birthday present. As we left the store, he bent over to push the dump truck and ran with all his heart across the parking lot, Baby Bear safely tucked into the cab. When we reached the car, he stood up, smiled and said simply, "Play truck, Aunt Bec!"

It's just that simple, isn't it? The world is going to spin, the seasons are going to change, we will experience sorrow and loss, we'll grow old. But when we look back, I think it is the greatest loss if we look back and see anything less than joy. If we look back and see that we set our sights on silly, tangible things and missed the forest for the trees. Joy in life is right there, waiting for us to grab the moments and store them in our hearts for tough times. I ran with joy this morning. I felt the power in my legs, the camraderie of my friends. The breeze was just perfect and I was free to let my mind wonder. I could feel the rhythm of the pavement pounding under me and us breathing, making our own special music. The dog looked at me and I swear she winked at me. She knew. Dogs get it.... little kids do too. Running is freedom, it's escape, it's proof that you can do anything you put your mind to.

I hope and pray you run with true JOY in your heart. That you cherish the "gift" that is running and you face each day knowing that promise and possbility lie before you. Focus your mind on the sweet things in life and glory in moments that make you smile.

This is the blog of my Journey to the center of SELF. My company, SELF Concepts, has been in development for a year and has finally launched! As I developed the company, I had to look into my heart and decide exactly who I was and what I wanted to bring to other people. Seems easy right? Nope. Life has been an interesting and curvy road for me with lots of lessons that were both hard and humbling. These tough lessons have shaped my life and really brought into perspective exactly what I want my life to be about and who I want to be for others.
This past January I had a miscarriage at 11 weeks-- an experience that ripped through my very core and changed my direction in a matter of moments. Suddenly, everything about my life seemed silly. Just motions, without direction or feeling. The one constant that carried me through was my running. Most mornings, my I wake up by 4:30 am to slog through the streets of Lakeland, FL; Sometimes I go with friends, sometimes just me. The dog is almost always attached to her pink, paw-print leash and I always giggle to myself when I catch myself talking to her. Running is my time. Running is my freedom, my safety, my constant. I run when I am angry or sad. I run when I am happy and I feel promise all around. I run to appointments, to visit friends. Running is one of God's greatest gifts and I embrace it for everything it has to offer.
So, my Journey to the Center of SELF has begun and I am off and, well, running. I intend to change my town. I intend to change people's lives.

http://www.selfconceptslakeland.com/