When to let go.

When I first started running, I would marvel sheerly at its ability to produce euphoria. I lucidly remember running my first road race with my best friend, and feeling overwhelmingly happy for her as she sprinted the final stretch faster than me. I was struck with awe at the way I would feel invincible and unbreakable when I was running alone or with the people I loved. There was something so exhilarating about improvement and the idea of limitless potential. The 10 year old me lived for the next road race, the next chance to be tough and tumble, and the next chance to make unsurpassable memories. For the next few years, I kept the same heart and same shine in my eyes. I craved an impossible track workout, a wicked hard course, or a fierce rainstorm to run in. I was never the fastest on the team, or had talent that everyone respected, but I was utterly content with that. Gradually though, as the seasons progressed I began to feel pressure from within myself to set unrealistic expectations. Of course I never reached these nearly unthinkable goals, and it soon became obvious to me that I would always be average. That terrified me. Deep down, I knew that the perfectionism I struggled with would ultimately be my downfall.
 
One summer, I trained harder than ever before, and my years of dedication were starting to vividly emerge. Each run was like adding another word to the most inspiring story I have ever written. I felt that I was on the brink of physical and mental imperfection. Yes, imperfection.

Perfectly imperfect. I wasn’t always happy, but I knew how to embrace emotion. I would wake up with wide eyes and spend my sunny days entangled in laughter and memories, most of which had little to do with running. It was a calming balance, of being at peace mentally, and in the best shape of my life at the same time. Physically, I wasn’t as strong as I wanted to be, but I couldn’t help but admire how my legs slowly began to feel harder and my arms a little stronger. Little things made me happy: seeing a breathtaking sunrise, laughing with my friends, eating a delicious slice of watermelon, or even doing one more pull up than I did the day before. The jealousy I once felt towards others faded like old jeans and the expectations I set for myself didn’t seem so up in the clouds anymore. Life was good, because I made it good Until it wasn’t.
 
I became sick and stayed sick for 9 months straight. There’s not much more to say about it but that it was debilitating, humiliating, and consuming. My immune system was weak and the way I ran through my aches and stress literally destroyed me. And by the end of it I couldn’t help but wonder if my body had betrayed me, or if I betrayed my body. I found myself saying words I never dared to say before: “I hate running.” It seemed so scandalous to say it. I was supposed to be the girl that thrived off competition and a challenge. It seemed edgy to go against the profile I was supposed to fit. I was transforming into a girl that was almost unrecognizable, and I didn’t like her.
 
I genuinely could not fathom why I felt such hostility towards running until one day in precalculus class. I was sitting slumped in my chair, head lowered per usual, scribbling some numbers to make it look like I cared. Until I heard the words. “The higher you rise the harder you fall.” I looked up. My teacher was talking about something on a polynomial graph. I still don’t know to this day how it applied to math, but I know how it applied to me. I fell, and I fell hard. How was I supposed to make a comeback as I was still scraping the concrete off of myself?
 
I began to see every race as a threat rather than an opportunity. I gritted and gripped on to my place in the top 5 as if my life depended on it. I would never run a second shorter, a meter shorter, than I was supposed to. I chased the best girls hoping that if I chased long enough, I would catch them. I became jealous and heartbroken if I couldn’t keep up. Running was poison and I was breathless.
 
I ran cross country, because I’m one of those people that hangs on to the thread of hope, and ignores the blanket of inevitable impending failure. I ran through flashbacks of sickness and doctors offices and pain. As soon as I crossed the line of each race, I immediately dreaded the next. I saw the looks of disappointment and shame from my parents, and the unforgettable looks of half hidden happiness from other girls as they realized I was no longer competition. I felt everything and nothing at the same time.
 
During indoor track, I decided to not care. I put in the minimum effort to protect myself from the vicious cycle of failure. Race after race I would clock a slow time, shrug, go home, and pretend nothing had happened. I went from wanting to do the impossible to not wanting to do anything at all. I disconnected myself from the label “runner.” I wasn’t a runner, I was a girl that was hanging on to nothing. As I stood on the starting line at the state championship meet, I looked around me. I saw a girl profusely sweating and pacing, as if the race were her lifeline. I saw another girl stretching her calves so intently that she did not hear her teammate wish her good luck. I saw girls doing the sign of the cross, furiously going over splits with their coaches, and setting their watches. And then there was me. I wanted to feel something. Anything. I wanted my heart to pound with excitement, nervousness, or even fear. I just wanted stop being lifeless. But all I did was stoically look at the clock that was about to define my worth. When the gun went off, I hesitated a moment. I thought it was because I have slow reactions, but looking back on it I think it was because I did not want to budge. I ran the race like I ran all the others that season, in a fog. I sleepwalked through every second of it, as if I were the spectator, watching the other girls thrive. I spent the 16 excruciating laps longing for it to be over so I could go home and forget about it. There was no use to hanging on to the drive inside me that was no longer there.
 
Reflecting on the way my own story is unfolding, I realize that in the fall when I go to college, I do not want to run on a team. I do not want to face the unrealistic expectations people will set for me. I do not want to destroy my body with stress. Stress silently but violently kills you. Throughout my highs and lows with running, I fell in love with the subject of psychology. It is fascinating to me and I plan on studying it because of the pressing curiosity it kindles inside me. How does stress impact relationships, compromise the immune system, and create disease? What makes people feel worthless? Why does someone’s body ache of sadness so much that they struggle to get out of bed? What makes someone feel no desire to fuel their body? Most importantly, why doesn’t anyone seem to care about any of this? The way I see it, running can be your most empowering friend, or your most dangerous enemy. When people think of runners they think of happy, healthy, living-to-the-fullest kind of people. They see the flawless Instagrams full of perfectly filtered race pictures. That’s just the surface. Throughout the years I have seen it all through a unique lens, whether evaluating myself, or observing the strong women I toe the starting line next to. I can’t speak for anyone other than myself, but I believe the nature of competitive running can be extremely toxic.
 
I have seen girls hysterically crying because they think the number on the clock will make or break them.

 I have seen girls refuse to get out of bed the morning after a bad race, being ashamed to look into the sunlight. 

I have seen girls become jealous monsters, wishing their teammates would fail, to make their pedestal appear higher. 

I have seen girls refuse to eat, refuse to talk, refuse to be honest with themselves. All because of a race.

I can say this with confidence: If competitive running isn’t for you, there is something else out there that can widen your courage and strengthen your heart. There is excitement in stimulating the mind. Bury your head in a good book, scribble words onto a page that will touch the heart of someone else, create a work of art so breathtaking, it’ll put running to shame. It amazes me that there are psychologists that run with their clients and there are psychologists that ban their patients from running, knowing that it mentally destroys them. The difference between going for a run to feel the sunshine of your skin, and going for a run to feel a stitch of worth is astonishing. There is no shame in stepping back. There is no shame in running for stress relief, for pure joy, or for fitness. If you are meant to be a runner, your heart will find its way back. There will never be humiliation in putting mental health above everything else. Sometimes letting go is the bravest thing you can do. 

I want to find where the thin line of obsession and passion meet, and guide every runner, and every person, to the side of passion. Know what is right for you and your body. The idea of living a balanced life is highly underrated. Having a state title or a fast mile time does not make you any more of a runner than someone who laces up to clear their mind and feel like a stronger version of them self. A medal or a time on a clock will never define me or you. And the day you let go and start counting your blessing instead your medals is the day you will heal yourself. 

- Nicole Rizzo ( @_nicolerizzo )