When I Didn’t Run a Half Marathon (and the reason why).

​​It is 6am and Cambridge is covered in shadows. People are sleeping, but I’ve been awake for hours. I glance at my Apple watch -- 2.14 miles.

A long way to go.

Over the Harvard Bridge and towards the Head of the Charles.

I feel a buzz on my wrist -- 4 miles.

On my left are more runners. We nod our heads in solidarity. “Hey, I see you,” we say, “and I’m here, too.”

The sun rises on mile 5.

In Allston, I run by gas stations and convenience stores. There is a bus coming quickly to the right of me, but I cross the street anyway. It honks, and I keep running.

Mile 6, and I catch my second wind.

“Common now!” I shout.

I find myself back on the Charles River bike path.

Mile 8, my hips are stiff.

Mile 9, my knees ache.

Mile 10, I cross the imaginary finish line.

Done.

I hobble upstairs to my apartment and throw myself onto the bed. My body screams at me. This was the first time I ran 10 miles and every part of it was hard.

For the next two days, I am sore and tired. There is a pain in my right knee that won’t go away, but with only five days until the half-marathon, I ignore it.

Press on, I say.

A few days later, I go for another run, the last one before the race.

Mile 2, I break.
My knee won’t let me go any further.
It is time to give myself a pep talk:

This is what we do, isn’t it? We press on. We honor our commitments. We overcome pain to pursue our goals and ambitions. I told myself I was going to run a half-marathon, and I’m going to run a half marathon.

On Saturday, one day before the race, it hurts to stand. I worry that if it hurts to stand, it will be excruciating to run 13 miles.

I need some encouragement, anything that will get me through tomorrow.

So, I begin to think of the women whose strength I've been most inspired by.

My best friend, Crystal, a survivor of physical and sexual assault who grew up in foster care and created a new life for herself here in Boston. She broke the generational pattern.

My mother who has endured chronic pain from two back surgeries, a life-altering car accident, and stage 4 breast cancer. She never gave up.

And my mother’s mother: my nana. A woman who survived tremendous physical and emotional pain. We lost her too early, but her love has marked my life forever. She pressed on.

The strength of a woman.

If they can preserve, so can I.

“Can you tell me about Nana?” I ask my mom, knowing it would’ve been her birthday tomorrow.

“Well, everyone talked about how strong she was. She was short; under five feet tall. She had had more surgeries than I can count, yet she was always positive. She didn’t whine. She didn’t focus on her difficulties or her pain or her limitations, but she also overdid it. She pressed on, but almost to her detriment. The doctors told her to rest, to be careful and thoughtful. She didn’t listen to them. She continued to do the things she wanted, and that’s ultimately what took her life.”

“Wow,” I said. "That wasn’t the response I was hoping for."

I was looking for a sign to press on. But instead, there I was: sitting with an ice pack on my knee, tears running down my cheeks, thinking of my Nana, missing her, and asking myself the question, “What is this all for, anyway?”

Maybe it's that I want to prove my strength. I want people to see that I am willing to do whatever it takes, to undergo hardship for the satisfaction of following through and achieving my goals.

But is this really strength if I end up hurting myself? Is strength pushing forward, not heeding the warning signs, and overriding my body to prove something to myself?

In this case, I don't think so.

As I realize this, it makes me cry. It feels like I am taking my armor off, putting my weapons down, and surrendering a war that isn’t worth the fight.

In this moment, strength doesn’t roar, it whispers.

“I’m going to call the race,” I tell my mom.

“I think that’s wise,” she says.

In the past, maybe I would’ve run. I would’ve crossed the finish line with an injured knee, and I would have been proud of myself for it. But today, strength looks different. It is choosing to listen, to respond, and to make the hard choice to back down, back off, or back out.

I didn’t run a half-marathon on Sunday. Although, someday, I will. And when that day comes, I’ll be ready.

Have you ever experienced a setback that prevented you from pressing onward?How did you handle it? Leave a comment below and tell me.

In love,
Anna Vatuone