My Body and Other Adventures: Too Much of a Good Thing
Although I sometimes don’t look it, I have always been a pretty active person. And things really took off when I joined the crew team at my high school: I started weight-lifting and, for the first time in my life, I was celebrated for my strength. It was an amazing feeling.
There was, however, another part of crew team culture that I didn’t second guess for many years: an attitude that mental toughness could overcome virtually any physical limitation. We weren’t just encouraged to give everything during our workouts; it was a badge of honor if you vomited after an intense session on the rowing machines. Clouded with this thinking, I once raced on a badly sprained ankle that causes me problems to this day.
Then I went away to college, which was difficult for me. I felt lost, directionless and profoundly depressed. It was also the first time in my life that I wasn’t involved in some kind of athletic endeavor. So, my therapist recommended exercise. It was a part of my life that I had let slide, and so, following orders, I picked it up again.
Things started off well enough. I went to the gym three days a week, usually some weight-lifting and a couple miles on the treadmill. Before long, I started lifting more weight, doing more exercises, and going more often — soon, every single day of the week. My runs got longer. Eventually, I was lifting weights five days a week in the mornings and running five days a week, usually in the evenings. I couldn’t function without that high.
My entire life began to revolve around that moment of peace I felt right after pushing my body. Could I squeeze in a quick yoga session or maybe a little ab circuit in the afternoon? If I don’t go out with friends, could I go for a run instead?
This obsession came to a head one afternoon when I got to the gym and noticed my gym bag felt… wrong. I looked inside: no running shoes. I panicked. I sat there in my car and started to sob. I couldn’t think of how I would make it through the day, the week, or the year. Exercise was no longer helping me improve my life; it had become the thing I did when I felt like I couldn’t cope. Instead of reaching out to my therapist, I went for a run. Instead of talking to my roommate, I went to the gym. I was using it as a way of avoiding my life, and I was hooked on the endorphin high.
That moment in the gym parking lot was the beginning of my journey toward finding balance. I have a natural tendency to overdo it — I commit totally to things and am not happy until I am perfect.
I realize that some of the problems are also external: I was only ever congratulated for my gym addiction, much like when I was vomiting all over my rowing machine. My weakness was seen as a sign of strength because it came in a culturally acceptable package.
We are constantly being inundated with messages about the importance of movement and exercise: People who move more are happier and healthier; they live longer and they are more attractive. We are in awe of the folks who wake up before the sun to get those miles in or who squeeze in that one extra workout on their lunch break. But we rarely ask how much is too much. We rarely tell people that they should take a break, that they should take care of themselves, that sometimes it is healthier to spend a day on the couch. We don’t talk about the fact that too much of a good thing is not only possible, but sometimes even bad.
After this realization, I took a long break from intense exercise as I knew it. I would hike, walk, bike, and I even did some non-competitive dressage, but I avoided things that had measurable results. I didn’t want to compete against myself anymore.
This last year, I rediscovered running and that oh-so-seductive runner’s high. Now, let me be perfectly honest — I look nothing like a runner. I am more round than lean (okay, I am quite rotund). Even if I were a lean person, I have the stubby little legs of an Oompa Loompa. I was more built to be a powerlifter. I still have that bad left ankle from high school that needs to be routinely iced and babied.
I tell you all this to make it clear that my renewed love of running has nothing to do with being an elite athlete. This is about once again attempting the exercise that my therapist recommended over a decade ago. Running gives me routine and structure; I get the occasional endorphin rush without needing it, and it makes me leave the house four days a week.
In May, I ran my first 10k (virtually — thanks social distancing!). It was slow. In fact, it was slower than my practice runs, and I am okay with that. My body wasn’t feeling a vigorous run that day, so I honored that. Then I spent the next two days cuddling my dogs, doing some light yoga, and binging TV before lacing up my shoes again. I am now training for a half marathon that I’ll be running in October (which, realistically, may end up being virtual too).
I'm still striving to find that balance, but would like to think I am getting closer. Yes, my first instinct is now to lace up those shoes when I have a bad day. Sometimes, I even give into that instinct, and while my legs pump away beneath me, I feel a sense of peace wash over me. But other days, I look at my shoes and say, “Tomorrow. I need to rest today," because I am learning to use running to help me work through my feelings, not run away from them.
Published Jul 1, 2020
Updated Jan 5, 2023
Published in Issue VII: Sports
