Category Archives: Uncategorized

Autoimmunity, Reflection, Uncategorized

Mind the Gap

A few weeks ago I was waiting in the checkout lane at the grocery. Wearing one of my Boston Marathon shirts, the person ahead of me struck up a conversation. Asked me if I was a runner, if I’ve run the race. Yes I’m a runner, yes I’ve run the race, no I’m not running it next year. They asked what I was training for now and my response was nothing. I explained that I just run to run these days, without mentioning that four years of health issues have completely derailed any hope of significant racing for the foreseeable future. I guarantee that is not the conversation the stranger wanted to have when they decided to kill time waiting in line by talking to me. But I could tell they were flummoxed by the running-without-a-goal thing, which suggested that they have a very goal-oriented runner in their life (this fella told me he wasn’t a runner himself). It got me thinking once again about how different of a space it is to do something just for the sake of doing the thing, as opposed to as a means to an end.

Then last week, I had lunch with a former colleague. A delightful young woman who is going through a bit of a rough patch. Throughout the course of our conversation, it became clear to me that this path that I’m on was always going to be my path. The circumstances at my former employer are such that I wouldn’t have been there long-term, even if my health hadn’t taken another shit. When I left that job, I felt quite strongly that I was just holding the seat until this young woman was ready. It felt like the universe had a plan, but until last week I felt like that plan was for her not necessarily for me. That I was mostly a character in her story. Not considering that my time there was meant to be short because of my own plan, because of what was meant for me. Throughout our long conversation I became acutely aware of how we (society) think of everything backwards. If we do it “right”, we go through school, graduate, get a job, climb the career ladder, work for 30-40 years, retire (if we’re lucky), die. We’re also supposed to get married and have a family in there somewhere. Success = college degree(s), job, house, family, retirement. We get a little flexibility on the order, but there are boxes to check.

When my autoimmune condition first went off the rails, my husband, healthcare provider, and others encouraged me to take time away from work. Not just a week or two, but a real break. After all, it was work stress that started all of it so the suggestion wasn’t unreasonable. We still lived in Colorado at the time, and having a bunch of free time in what was still a fairly new community, with a hubs who’s gone a lot, didn’t sound that exciting. And I’ve always enjoyed working and gotten considerable satisfaction from it. I’ve been extremely fortunate to do work that matters greatly to me and in some way contributes to the common good. I wasn’t ready to let that go. Besides, we don’t have kids. If I’m not home raising a family, then I need to be at work “doing something” with myself. I took in all of the messages from society, internalizing them, believing that if I didn’t have business cards with some title after my name, that I had little to contribute. That I was of little value. Even though I envied people whose lives weren’t confined by the standard 9-5. People who through a combination of sacrifice, planning, and a bit of luck, had the nerve to craft lives that authentically reflected their own interests and priorities. People who said f-u to the status quo and had the chutzpah to create something different.

So when things finally got bad enough a few years later, in late spring 2017, I had a bit of an existential crisis when it became clear that time away from work was necessary. I really, really didn’t want to answer the questions of who I was without work. What I would become without the structure and focus a career provides. A big part of me thought I’d take the time to get my health squared and pick up where I left off. A tiny, unspoken corner of my brain dared me to use the time to redirect, to take the opportunity to create something that more fully mirrors my values and priorities. Not to mention that I needed to accept the reality that my body wasn’t likely to endure the levels of stress that it used to…going back to the status quo probably wouldn’t be an option. The longer I was away from work, the more I deprogrammed and re-examined what I believed about myself and what it meant to live a good, meaningful life.

Going back to school became the vehicle for the redirect. My compromise in wanting to continue my career, but realizing that I wanted more options. I spent much of the last 14 months away from work thinking and planning for what’s next. Even with running, I still had one eye towards getting back to racing, even though I do love training just for the sake of training. Even while I worked hard to be present and not worry about the future, I was still planning for the future, wondering when I could get on with it.

It was at lunch with my former colleague last week that it hit me. This is “it”. There is nothing to “get on with”. Even though I have worked hard to be present this last year, my mind still naturally goes to what’s next. It’s not simply the messages society sends, some of us are hardwired to be goal-oriented. I am one of those people. So even while I’m trying to be fully here, fully present, part of me is still peeking around the corner wondering what’s next. When can I get back to “real” training? When am I healthy enough to go back to work? If I don’t stop wondering about what’s next, am I missing the magic of today? The magic of this gap that I’m in? What if in my urgency to “get on with life”, I don’t sit still long enough to marinate in this experience, in this moment? What opportunities or idea will present themselves if I patiently sit still, because I patiently sit still?

I missed a race this weekend. Most every year, I meet up with some of my Boston Marathon friends to run the Reach the Beach relay in New Hampshire. I had to back out this year due to digestive issues interrupting my training. (Yes, these digestive issues are related to everything else.) As disappointed as I was, it was just one more disappointment in a long line of disappointments, so whatever. But it did motivate me to finally tackle fixing my diet once-and-for-all, as food has been a contributing factor to all of my woes these last few years. (There’s a considerable body of research that discusses the connection between gut health and autoimmunity, this is a good primer.) I’m working with a new dietitian and I might write more about that later, but this is not about that. I thought that finally resolving my diet issues was to be the “win” from missing the race. But then my little sister, who was due to deliver her baby boy on Mon. Sept. 17, had him a few days early, on Wed. Sept. 12. The same day I would’ve flown to Boston to meet my friends. Because I missed the race, I was home to meet my new little nephew on Thursday. I was home to spend a few hours with them on Saturday, the day they came home from the hospital.

The last 14 months have essentially been one big gap for me, one big pause. While I have been able to continue running, the volume is much, much lower than normal for me, and racing has not been a priority. There is no point to it beyond general fitness. My career is on indefinite hold. While it’s taken me most of that time to settle into the pause, to lean in to the uncertainty, I’m happy it’s finally happening. I’m grateful that I didn’t stumble upon something else that rushed the conclusion to this time. It seems a bit ridiculous that it took over a year for me to relax into it, but considering that I’m mildly anxious by nature and am far more comfortable in motion, it makes sense. So I’m going to spend the next few months working on holding still. Rather than minding the gap, I’m going to stand in it, marinate in it. I’m going to resist the urge to metaphorically move just for the sake of movement. I’m going to do the hard work of navigating the last remaining lifestyle changes to fully reclaim my health and well-being. And I’m going to continue asking myself what is valuable and worthwhile, challenging my own beliefs and asking myself difficult “whys”. Whatever comes next, whatever I reach for or say “yes” to, needs to be a loud, whole-hearted yes. Not just a “maybe”, not just a “should”.  Looking back, I think “should” ruled my 20s and 30s. YES – a yes in all caps – is going to be my 40s. YES to work that matters and speaks to my soul…and doesn’t vampire my health in the process. And YES to training, races, and activities – hiking, skiing, snowshoeing – that invigorate and motivate me. And this gap, this pause is the path to YES.  It’s not the path I would have chosen or selected, but here we are. I’d best make the most of it.

Messenger
by Mary Oliver

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.

Uncategorized

Taking Up Space, Quietly

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Yesterday Oiselle, a brand that I adore, relaunched with a blog post and video. Both were aspirational, inspirational and reminded me why I love this brand so much. Not only do they make kick-ass running gear, their mission and values align with my own. A brand by women, for women, seems as important today as it’s ever been.

After watching the two-minute video a few times, a few phrases jumped out at me…”take up space”, “being told to stay quiet and small”. We hear in a lot of different places how women in our culture are conditioned to be quiet, to minimize ourselves to take up as little space as possible. This quietness and shrinking of our presence is often for the comfort of others. Our society frowns upon women who speak loudly, who demand to be seen and heard. It shames us for bodies that are “too big”, even if we ourselves feel those same bodies are just right. We are told to temper our anger, to moderate the emotion in our voices, to shrink our physical selves. The silencing of women happens at every level of society. It happens at work, where women are talked over in meetings and whose ideas are ignored until put forth by a male colleague. It happens on the internet, where women are harassed daily, simply for having an opinion and the audacity to share it. It happens in publications, where men’s stories are told far more often. A recent issue of one of my favorite running magazines featured only stories about men and by men. (White men, to make it even less inclusive. Yes, I wrote to them about it.) Another only does gear reviews written by and for men. In 2018. The silencing of women is systemic, woven so tightly into the fabric of our being that many will argue that it no longer happens. Even though there’s ample evidence to prove that it does.

As an female-identifying introvert, reconciling where I personally fit into the conversation has been difficult. I spent most of my 30s working to understand my introvertedness, and learning to harness its power. I’ve argued with a number of people, most often men, that my quietness is an inherent quality, one not shamed into me by society. There is ample evidence that I was a highly-sensitive child, going back to when I was an infant. I’ve always been quiet and somewhat shy, and no longer feel the need to apologize for it. Rather than view my sensitivity and introvertedness as qualities to overcome, I embrace them. I know they make me an exceptionally good listener and incredibly perceptive. I often pick up on things other people don’t. I’m sensitive to the energy of people and places. I don’t speak to make noise, I speak when I have something to say. At work, our society values male, extroverted leadership. Understanding my own power allowed me to be successful “despite” my female quietness.

When I read/hear pieces that encourage women to take up space, or that frame quiet and small as something to push against, my immediate reaction is defensiveness. I’ve had the opposite problem, working hard to honor my quietness, to ground in my sensitivity. (Sensory Processing Sensitivity has nothing to do with feelings. If you are unfamiliar with the term, go here to learn more. Also, I wrote a blog post about my experience with it last year. ) Living in a highly extroverted world, I’ve worked hard to harness the value of my inherent quietness, and to appreciate that I don’t take up as much space as most people. I quite honestly do not want to be louder, to have a bigger presence. I used to feel like there wasn’t a place for me in these sorts of conversations.

But as I’ve spent the last few days ruminating on the Oiselle video, I realized I’ve been thinking about this all wrong. When the collective we creates space for my sisters – literal and figurative – to be their bold, bright selves, we all are lifted up. My quietness will be fully honored when their loud, bright lights are fully honored. It’s as though we all are being made to wear the same jacket, and it doesn’t fit any of us. Because as I’m being told to talk more, they are being told to talk less. As I’m told I’m too quiet, they are told they are too loud. How all of us use our voices is being controlled. As the great civil rights leader Fannie Lou Hamer put it “nobody’s free until everybody’s free”. So these ~800 words are me taking up space. Adding my voice to theirs as they demand to be heard, shouting in the best way I know how. (Because I’m certainly not going to be actually shouting. #nope)

In a gentle way, you can shake the world. ~ Mahatma Gandhi

Reflection, Uncategorized

An Unexpected Detour

I wasn’t going to write about this. I really, really wasn’t. I still don’t want to write about this, but the words are vibrating inside me, retaining all of their power while they knock around inside my head. Putting them here somehow renders them powerless, a process I won’t pretend to understand. In an attempt to avoid writing this, I did some drawing this afternoon. I don’t draw. It didn’t help. So seeing as how I want nothing more than to be released from the grasp of these words, I will put them here.

As I wrote about a few weeks ago, I was to start grad school at the end of August. Going back for a second masters degree 18 years after completing my first. I was nervous but excited. After 14 months of sitting on the sidelines while getting my health issues straightened out, I felt ready to get back out in the world. I relished the opportunity to learn some new stuff and take my career in a different direction. I expected to feel uncomfortable and out-of-sorts the first week, as the “how” of learning has changed dramatically since I last took classes, and there’s no getting around the age difference between me and most of my fellow students. I knew I’d feel itchy and uncomfortable, my task would be to ensure it didn’t snowball. I felt prepared to keep my brain on task, and to not think too much.

Orientation went fine. I met a few incoming students, learned how navigate the library’s website. Observed a few of the students freaking out, listened to several of the faculty tell us how to be good scholars. First day of class arrives and I’m nervous. Nervous is fine, nervous is normal. It felt weird to be on campus, but after thinking about it for months, it was good to finally be “doing the thing”. I took each day as it came, careful not to think too far down the road, or to worry about things I didn’t need to worry about yet. At 42, I’m intimately aware of my own landmines, and felt I’d done a solid job of covering the bases. I thoroughly enjoyed being “Erin’s sister”, as being the oldest I didn’t get to be someone’s sister going through school. As each day wore on though, I found myself ignoring a growing sense of dread. I told myself it was nothing, it was simply insecurity and fear. My professors were kind, engaging academics. My classmates curious and inquisitive. WHY AM I UNCOMFORTABLE?

On Friday afternoon of the first week of classes, I sat down at my computer to get started on assignments for the second week. Already assigned a crap-ton of reading, I also had two papers to write. I opened my computer to see an email from one of my professors with an update for Tuesday’s class. For some reason, it cracks me wide open. With a rush, all that I’d been hiding from throughout the week came to the surface. I spent a good ninety minutes feeling like I was losing my mind. For someone who is rather even-keeled and not prone to dramatic displays of emotion, it felt like someone else had taken over my body. I was angry, sad, frustrated and embarrassed. I realized that I was so focused on getting through the week, that I’d missed some pretty big signals my head was trying to send me. In all of my efforts to “be present”, I never once glanced up and asked myself how it was going. If I had, Friday afternoon likely wouldn’t have happened. I was so invested in making this happen, that I never once considered the possibility that it might not be a good fit. So when the whisper that I ignored all week long finally became a roar on Friday afternoon, it knocked me on my ass. I have a horrible habit of overthinking everything, but the advantage of it is that I’m rarely surprised. Not much happens that I haven’t already thought about, already considered. But I didn’t do that this time. I didn’t let myself consider the hundred directions this could go. So when confronted with thoughts that I don’t want, thoughts that don’t fit in with how I constructed this, I’m paralyzed.

I spent most of that weekend zoned out on the couch watching terrible TV. (Side note – I recently read a book that broke my habit of watching tasteless reality shows on Bravo, but seeing as how I still don’t enjoy getting sucked into a scripted series, I moved on to some paranormal stuff on the Travel Channel. So now rather than chuckling at rich people being ridiculous, I go to bed each night hoping my house isn’t infested with demons. Whether or not this is progress is debatable.) The main goal being to quiet the noise in my head enough to get to the root of what going. Seeing as how I’m not yet fit enough to go out for a 15-20 mile run, which used to be the best way of silencing the noise, for now I settle for terrible TV. Many wasted hours later, I realize that the graduate program isn’t a good fit for me. In all of my efforts to “be present and not think too much”, I missed some red flags. I accidentally severed the connection between my intuition and my thinking brain. Left with no other way to get my attention, my intuition screamed loud enough it caused a physical reaction.

So on the Monday of the second week of classes, I withdrew. I felt terrible about it, realizing I took a spot from someone else, and realizing that something I’d been REALLY looking forward to wasn’t going to happen. I knew that withdrawing was without a doubt the right decision, but I still felt a loss. I liked my fellow students, I liked my professors. I would’ve enjoyed getting to know these people better. And even though I only attended one week of classes, I had quite a bit of reading to do that first week. I enjoyed what I was learning. After the dust settled, I realized that I was on the right path, I just had the wrong program. In earnest, I began researching online programs. I never considered that I might be better off in an online program, as I’ve always been someone who really enjoyed being in the classroom. And with my sister having recently completed this same program, it seemed natural that with this being a shared interest, that I would enjoy it too.

I’m grateful for my intuition screaming loud enough to get my attention, as uncomfortable as it was. Even though I’m in my 40s, this experience taught me that I need to trust myself more. That when I’m really uncomfortable, something is up. I think for someone like me, who’s just generally uncomfortable in new situations, even when they are wonderful situations, it can be hard to distinguish between the two. What’s good uncomfortable and what’s bad uncomfortable? But this little episode taught me the dangers of disconnecting from one’s self. Fortunately, the remedy in this situation was pretty simple. Withdrawing from the program this early in the semester comes with no penalties, financial or otherwise. Had I waited longer, that certainly wouldn’t have been the case. Not to mention, the consequences to my mental and physical health would have likely been significant. And I can still go back to school, get a second masters. Only the “how” will be different than I envisioned.

Oh, and I’m going back to making numerous contingency plans. I will gleefully plan for every possibility, the hundred different ways it could go. I’m already in the process of applying to one program, with two others on the back-burner. I’ve even got my eye open for interesting work. I’m reminded that happiness in life doesn’t come from walking away from who we are, it comes when we most embody our truest selves.

It is not worth the while to let our imperfections disturb us always. ~Henry David Thoreau

Autoimmunity, Reflection, Running, Uncategorized

Being Present: Or what happens when the future becomes a big, fat question mark

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It’s summer 2014. We’re living in Fort Collins, Colorado and time is passing at lightning speed. My team and I are writing  a huge grant, a long-shot proposal that would buy our coalition some time in the face of a dramatically-changed local healthcare landscape. Personally, I’m training for a few fall races, each week guiding me towards the fitness I’ll need to accomplish my goals several months from now. Both of these spaces are really comfortable for me…focusing on big work projects that will bear fruit months or even a year down the road and chipping away at personal goals that will be accomplished a training cycle or two into the future. Essentially my entire life is built around doing work that will pay off in what is oftentimes some vague, future timeline.

And for the most part, I love it. I possess the patience and perseverance required to embrace big, complicated projects. I’m comfortable with uncertain returns, putting in the work with no guarantee of an outcome. I love that my sport requires dedication beyond a month or two, that there is no shortcut when training to race a marathon. At work, I embrace complex projects with lots of moving parts. The messier, the better. If the problem has a simple solution, it’s likely not a problem I want to solve.

The downside to this type of work, to this particular sport is that it can be easy to get caught up in the moving target that is the “future”. The work of today is entirely focused on tomorrow. Without conscious effort, it is easy to come unmoored from the present. Today is simply a vehicle taking one to tomorrow.

Flash-forward to fall of 2015. We’ve moved back to Normal, IL and I’m in a different job. A job that turns out to be even more stressful than the last and I’m sick. My autoimmune condition, usually not something that’s even on my radar, has turned into a full-blown forest fire. It’s out of control, consuming everything in it’s path. And my dad is not well. Diagnosed in late summer with a terrible cancer that comes with even worse statistics. I’m panicked about all of it, terrified of where it is going. My dad being sick is obviously the worst, but I’m also scared about what will happen to my career if I can’t wait out the flare. And what will happen to me if I have to take a break from training and running marathons? Who am I if I’m not the title on my business cards? Who am I if I’m not “the runner”?

By early summer 2017, the forest fire of autoimmunity has burned everything to the ground. I’m barely running, definitely not racing, and I’m leaving my job, one that I really enjoy. The break from my career will be however long it takes to get my health back on track, an undetermined amount of time that stretches in front of me like a dark, desolate road. And my dad is still here. He’s been one of the “lucky ones” whose tumors respond to treatment. He’ll never be cured, but his docs have bought him more time than any of us thought possible. A few months has become a few years. We’ve taken a few more of our annual beach vacations, had a few more Christmases, a few more Father’s Days, and eaten a ton of cheeseburgers. The very things that used to drive my push towards the future – work and running – are on the back burner. All I have is today. The future becomes some blurry picture that I can’t quite make out. I decide that’s ok.

It ends up taking until early spring 2018 for my health to begin to recover. For the first time 20+ years, my days aren’t structured around work. I’m without grants to submit, reports to write, budgets to craft, annual reviews to execute. It’s been three years and counting since I last ran a marathon. I’m running a bit more, but still a long way from developing training plans or picking goal races. The weeks I feel good, I run more. The weeks I don’t, I run less. But suddenly, I realize I am more present in my life than I have been for most of my adult life. While the volunteer work I’m doing for my girlfriend’s political campaign does come with dates and deadlines, the work is at a different pace than my career of the last 15 years. If my brain isn’t working on a given day, I can usually wait until I’m feeling better to do my tasks. And I’m not working on big projects with a lot of moving parts, as is the norm for me. The running I’m doing is intuitive, not driven by a training plan or pointed towards a goal race. I decide my workout upon waking each morning, taking rest days when my body tells me it needs them. My dad is still sick, but he’s holding his own. Worrying about what the future holds for him only distracts from today and takes away from savoring this time that we do have. What I’ve really come to understand through his illness is the reality that we’re all on borrowed time. Every single one of us. His diagnosis might bring his life into sharper focus, but car accidents happen, heart attacks happen. It can be hard not to take the days for granted, but the colors are richer with a deeper appreciation for the fleeting nature of literally everything.

This present-focus, this grounding in today, is completely foreign to me, but exactly what I need. And I’m enjoying how much more rooted I feel because of it. I’m not chasing some future outcome. I know this will shift as my health continues to recover and I reenter the “real world”. I plan to start a second Masters in the fall, and taking classes will automatically shift my attention as I focus on due dates, exams, holiday breaks, and graduation. And I go back-and-forth on my desire to return to racing. I’m a little gun shy after two horrendous attempts this spring, and have come to realize it might not matter as much as I thought. It is possible that I might like the idea of racing again way more than actually racing again…time will tell. But I will continue putting in the miles in the meantime, as that in-and-of-itself makes me happy. I don’t need a race for motivation or to give structure to my training. I’m really comfortable just doing the work because I enjoy it.

As the months pass and my recovery continues, I hope I can straddle some artificial line, allowing myself to stay grounded in today even as I begin looking more towards the future. I don’t want to go back to a place where everything is pointed towards some unknown point-in-time. I want to set goals, work on big projects again, but while staying gently tethered to today. The future is uncertain. Out of all of the lessons wrapped up in my dad’s illness, that has been the biggest – even when we think we know what will happen, we really don’t. And by not being present today, we miss everything it has to offer. Whether that’s a sweaty morning run with friends, taking photos of a spectacular storm, dinner with the hubs, watching the fireflies at sunset, or watching my dog nap for the thousandth time, it’s all perfect. And while the last few years have been particularly horrible, they’ve been really amazing too. I’ll never again take for granted the simple activities that when strung together create the semblance of a life. Every bit of it is magic.

Running, Uncategorized, Wilder

Back on the Horse – Tenacious Ten Recap

As any runner knows, it’s hard to get back to racing after a long layoff, especially if the time away was due to illness or injury. Even as you rebuild fitness, it can be hard to know when is the right time to jump back in and put a bib on it. Do you wait until you’ve regained some speed? Or do you use racing as a tool in the rebuild? Racing has never been the focus for me, for as  for as much as I enjoy running a good marathon, the process of training for one – or training for any distance for that matter – provides far more joy and satisfaction than could be provided by any one race. But I still like racing and chasing PRs, and knew that would be a goal if I could get my health back on the right track.

Sometime in the end of February, I started noticing some changes in my health..positive ones for once. My energy was up, brain sharper, desire to run increased. I’ve had blips like this numerous times over the past three years, so didn’t think much of it at first. But as March turned to April and the upswing continued, it was hard to deny that a change was taking place. I cautiously increased my training and paid close attention to how my body responded.

Last summer, some of my Wilder sisters planned a reunion in Seattle to coincide with Oiselle’s Tenacious Ten. I decided early on to go on the trip, but didn’t decide until late 2017 to register for the race. I still felt like shit, but was optimistic that things would improve by April (optimistic for no other reason than at some point it had to start getting better). The race had two distances, a 10k and 10-mile, and out of habit I registered for the longer race. When I was sick for three weeks in January, I wondered if I’d even make it to the start line. I’d done nothing but lose fitness since 2015 and I began to wonder if this was the new normal. Maybe it’d been unreasonable to think things would get better. It occurred to me that I might need to find a new hobby.

But then the miraculous turnaround began and I went through April feeling healthy and more fit than I have in a few years. The last race I ran on my own was in 2016. I raced once in 2017, in a relay with friends in September but we DNFd due to injury. I haven’t raced healthy since 2014. Even though I still have a long way to go, I thought that the Tenacious Ten might be a good first race back. I’d already decided that I wasn’t going to wait until I achieved some magical level of fitness to race, as I don’t have any idea how much speed I’ll be able to get back. I feared spending oodles of time trying to reach some unattainable level fitness, while missing opportunities to run with friends and to enjoy the process of training for a race. I thought that the longer I waited, the harder it was going to be to get to get back in the game. So I committed to myself to race in Seattle. I would be in the company of supportive, compassionate humans and was mostly just looking forward to catching up with them. It seemed like the ideal environment.

Travel to Seattle was uneventful by my standards. I have horrible luck traveling, but the drive to Chicago and flight to Seattle were easy-peasy. I met up with Elizabeth at the airport in Seattle, and we shared a cab to the Airbnb. We caught up while waiting for the other women to arrive, and quickly enough the house was full of chatter. Sarah made us a lovely dinner while we picked up our packets, and we stayed up late talking. I’d slept well all week, so wasn’t too concerned about a short night’s sleep. Especially since my only goals for Saturday’s race were to pace myself well and to get an idea of my fitness.

I’m usually not very nervous before races, but I found myself a bit anxious when I woke up on Saturday. With the two-hour time difference, I was up before 5a without my alarm. Even though I’ve run hundreds of races, this was the longest I’d gone without toeing a start line since I began running as a kid. On occasion, I still have to talk myself out of being embarrassed or ashamed of how much fitness I’ve lost, which was rattling around as I got ready that morning. I knew I’d be confronting that head on in the race, as no matter how well I ran, I’m still a long way from my old paces. But the race would be one more step in sorting through those thoughts and I was eager to continue wrestling them to the ground. I’ve worked hard to reframe my perspective and to have pride in coming back from such a big setback.

I was grateful for the company that morning, as the girls were a wonderful distraction as we got ready to go. A few were chasing PRs, and two others not racing. The atmosphere at the start was casual and cheery. The sun was shining and the park looked so green after the endless Midwestern winter. Most of the runners were female, which created a notable change in the energy at the start. (More of this please!) Much of the nervousness was gone by the time I checked my gear and I was just really looking forward to seeing what I could do. A few visits to the restroom and it was time to line up (the time away did not cure my nervous bladder, unfortunately). I bumped into Elizabeth on my way to the start. We lined up together even though I knew she’d get ahead of me pretty quickly. I was very focused on not getting out too fast, something I’m very aware of even when I’m fit and healthy.

With that we were off. I settled in pretty quickly and was happy to be running in the upper 9s. I kept an eye on the Garmin to ensure I wasn’t getting out too fast, but was running mostly by feel. The first five miles went by quickly. I chatted with some of the other runners, took in the sights. Mile six came and somewhere around 6.5, I started to feel lightheaded and nauseous. At that point, I was still running quite conservatively, so I had no idea what was going on. I ate breakfast before the race, and while I wasn’t taking any gels, I typically run 10+ miles without calorie replacement with no trouble. I took two cups of Nuun at the next water stop and hoped the electrolytes would turn things around.

Rather than improving, it quickly got worse. The dizziness and nausea was overwhelming by 7.5, and I became obsessed with the idea of laying down in the middle of the bike path. I just wanted it to be over. I was devastated that my first race back was turning into a disaster and frustrated that I felt so terrible. I forced myself to stay present, to stay in my body. I focused on moving forward, one step at a time. I stopped telling myself stories and concentrated on getting to the finish line. No matter what it took, I was going to finish. My first race back was not going to be a DNF. Even if I had to crawl the last two miles. I walked when I needed to and ran as much as I could. By 8.5 I started to feel a bit better and by 9 no longer needed walk breaks. I managed to get myself to the finish line. I saw Amy out for her cool down and Lauren as I came into the finish. As bad as my race had been, I was very eager to hear how it went for my friends.

And just like that it was over. Time (by my watch) – 1:41:17, average pace 10:08. Not at all what I hoped for, which had nothing to do with the time on my watch. I didn’t feel strong, I didn’t feel like I’d made progress over the last few months. Fortunately, my friends were there to keep me from thinking too much and we could celebrate Lauren and Amy’s PRs and Elizabeth’s good race. I drank more Nuun, drank more water. I tried to eat a donut, but couldn’t stomach it until we were on our way home. My mind was running, trying to sort out what had gone wrong. I never ran hard enough to feel fatigue in my legs, and I was pretty certain that the issues had nothing to do with running. After we got back to the house, I started to feel worse again, and was having flashbacks to my first marathon, when I was hyponatremic post-race. It wasn’t nearly as bad this go-around and at least I knew how to fix it. Regular soda and potato chips to the rescue! I felt better as the afternoon went on and kept coming back to what might have caused the issues during the race.

My best guess is dehydration and fatigue related to travel on Friday. I had a good run Sunday morning, the day after the race, further confirming that Saturday was a one-off. Thankfully, I have two months of workouts that demonstrate the progress I’ve made, and I don’t need one race to verify that. I think the danger that comes with the health issues I’ve experienced is that a run-of-the-mill bad day becomes an “oh-my-god-it-is-happening-again” mental loop. It will be a while before I can trust the recovery and that I’m not sliding back into the hole I was in before. I think that’s just part of the process. It’s reasonable that I would carry baggage from the last few years, the trick will be to give myself a bit of grace when I feel my mind starting to spin. Being able to talk through it with my girlfriends helped considerably, as did looking back through Strava where I could see the undeniable progress I’ve made.

I’ve already signed up for my next race, a 12k this Saturday here at home. Without travel on Friday, I’m hopeful that if nothing else I’ll at least feel good during this one. My goals are the same – to pace myself well and get a sense of my fitness. Not having been able to race in quite a while, I’m out of practice leaning into the discomfort that is typical late in the race. If all goes well, I’ll get to practice that a bit too.

All-in-all, I’m really happy I raced last weekend, even though the result wasn’t what I hoped. Spending the weekend with my Wilder sisters refilled my cup and inspired me to plugging away. Seeing Lauren, Amy and Elizabeth run so well, witnessing Casey and Sarah navigate their own challenges with grace and compassion, catching up with Jules, Ali and Lauren F., and simply spending time in the company of strong, supportive women was like taking a deep breath of the freshest mountain air. I’ll trade all of that for one sketchy race any day of the week and twice on Sunday.

Uncategorized

2018: Return to Racing

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Sometimes when I think about the runner I used to be, she seems like another person. Even though it’s only been four years since my autoimmune disease first went off the rails, enough has changed since then that it feels like someone else’s life. And not just because we lived in Colorado when all of this started.

When this all began, I was on quite a hot streak. I’d had several outstanding years of training and racing…I dropped my marathon PR by 31 minutes, qualified for (and ran) Boston five times, ran several ultramarathons, and decreased my PR in most every other distance at some point along the way. I was getting in 60-70 miles per week on the regular and having more fun than I’d had in the previous 25 years of running.

Team Chocolate Mile – Fun Size, 2013 Hampton Beach, NH

In early 2014, I started to notice a decrease in my training tolerance. Recovery was slower, race times were increasing, weekly mileage slowly declined, and my body weight increased. My job was incredibly stressful and I assumed the falloff in performance was simply a stress hangover, and the weight gain a result of decreased training. And at first it probably was. But the stress was chronic and getting worse. I still raced as usual, but results were crap. The exception being Boston, which I ran with several girlfriends. It was the best way to heal from the bombing of 2013, which I experienced first-hand on the street as I walked back to my hotel after finishing the race. I’ll never forget the sounds of the bombs, the smell in the air, the panic on the streets, but running with my friends helped provide perspective on a scary, unforgettable day.

Boston 2014

But by fall, I knew something more was going on. My endocrinologist in Colorado thought everything was fine, so I found a naturopath who specialized in working with athletes. He discovered some nutritional deficiencies that we were able to correct with diet tweaks and supplements, but he also noticed that my autoimmunity was increasing. Because he was a naturopath and not a MD, he couldn’t adjust my medication, but we talked extensively about my stress level as he thought this was the root cause of the change in my autoimmune condition, which until this point had been fairly stable for ~15 years. Running performance continued to drop off. I ran a relay with friends and a crappy marathon to close out the season.

Early 2015 brought a move back home, one that I thought would solve the chronic stress situation (not why we moved back to Illinois, but definitely a checkmark in the positive column). I couldn’t have been more wrong. My new job was a nightmare and my dad was diagnosed with a serious illness. I raced a few times in the first half of the year, including an awesomely fun trail race in Moab in February and an incredibly miserable Boston in April (notably my last marathon and this is the longest break between marathons since running my first one in 2000). But by the second half of the year, my exercise tolerance took another big nose dive and my weight continued to creep up. My endocrinologist at home, who I’d seen since my diagnosis at age 25, was unconcerned by the weight gain and exercise intolerance.

Red Hot 33k Moab, UT

So I found a new doc. In particular, I looked for a functional-medicine-trained M.D. I saw her for the first time in January 2016. By this time, I weighed the most I ever have, a full 25 lbs over my normal training weight. Beyond the weight gain, I had crippling brain fog-the best way I can describe it is it’s as if the circuits in the brain have been mis-wired, extreme fatigue, and my running tolerance fell off another cliff. I felt like a shell of my former self, at 40 years old.

Dr. Z turned out to be a tremendous blessing. She has Hashi’s as well, so I didn’t need to spend any time convincing her of what I’d experienced. She immediately changed my medication and put me on a mileage restriction, even though I was training very little at this point. Her goal was to get me healthy enough to qualify for Boston again. Because even running a marathon-let along qualifying for Boston-seemed so far outside the realm of possibility, my goal was just to go through a week without wanting to sleep all of the time. And maybe to fit into my old pants.

Things slowly got better. By this time, I’d left the horrible job and was working part time which I really enjoyed. The part-time schedule suited the situation much better and I felt myself recovering. I started to run a bit more even though I really didn’t race much that year beyond two half marathons for fun-both 20-25 minutes slower than normal, a summer 5k hosted by my work, and the relay in the fall. In late fall 2016, I got a bit ahead of myself and took a new full-time job with the local health department. The work was exactly what I wanted to do and I thought I had recovered enough to handle the full-time schedule and responsibility of a leadership position. I really enjoyed my new colleagues and staff.

Team Chocolate Mile – Fun Size, 2016 Hampton Beach, NH

I was wrong again. Within a month I started getting sick frequently and was having issues with my asthma that were unlike anything I’d previously experienced. I was sick so often that I made a calendar to share with my doc. Fatigue became a central issue again and I went weeks at a time without running. I felt myself sliding backwards, wiping clean all of the progress I’d made in 2016. By late spring 2017, my weight had crept back up and I was back at square one. M had encouraged me to take some time away from work when this all started several years before, and now I felt that to be my only shot at getting well again. And meeting a few women at WILDER who were on the cusp of taking sabbaticals themselves made it seem not so weird. So at the end of June I left the health department, even though it was the last thing I wanted to do.

The remainder of 2017 passed by uneventfully. In the fall I started volunteering with my girlfriend’s political campaign and I trained enough to run the relay with my friends again in September-although we had to drop mid-race due to injury, but never really felt that I made much progress with running. By this point, I can’t even run a mile at my old marathon pace and my body still feels as though it belongs to somebody else. I start to wonder if this is it, if this is as good as it’s going to get.

The new year comes and I’m excited for the clean slate the turn of the calendar provides. I just know this year is going to be better…I’ve made big sacrifices to get healthy, and surely that will pay off. Two weeks into the year I come down with a bad head cold that lasts a week. On the heels of the cold I get a sinus infection. All told I’m down for three weeks. This ends up being the last straw. In mid December-early January, I’d been able to string together several decent weeks of training and built some momentum. Getting so sick for so long smothered the progress. Again. I spent most of February thinking that maybe I needed a break from running. Like a real break. As in not being a runner anymore. I’ve been running since I was 11 and the only long breaks I’ve taken have been due to injury. Some years I raced more than others, ran more miles than others, but I was always running, always training. I wondered if I needed to set it aside for a while. For four years it’s been all downhill. Losing fitness, getting slower. Weight fluctuating, but always 15-25 lbs over my usual training weight. I didn’t know if I was up for much more disappointment.

Over the last few years, I went from thinking of racing marathons again, to thinking of just running them, to hoping I might be able to race halfs again, to wondering if I’ll just be able to run one again, to hoping I could just run a 5k at my old marathon pace, to wanting to simply run a mile at that pace. It’s been a constant adjustment, modifying and reducing expectations.

The last time I saw marathon pace – a 5k in July 2016

But after thinking about it rather obsessively for a month, I’m not ready to let it go. I still have things I want to accomplish, races I want to run. My marathon PR is 3:31, sooooo close to that sub-3:30. Before I got sick, I felt like it was *right there*. I want to run Boston again.  I want to run the Quad Rock 50-mile in Fort Collins, which is on many of the trails I frequented when we lived there. I want to run trail races in places I’ve never been. I want my soft 5k PR to be not so soft, which is what happens when you only run them as part of a marathon training cycle. I don’t know if any of these things are possible. In fact there’s probably a good chance they aren’t, but I still get excited when I think about them. Triathlons, CrossFit, swimming, etc., none of that stuff excites me, or even interests me remotely. I don’t want to do something else.

Lory State Park, Fort Collins, CO

So I will train. And I will force myself to race again, even though my eyes bleed at the times on my watch. For the last 18 months or so, I thought I would start racing again “when I regained some fitness”, whatever that means. But it’s becoming clearer to me that perhaps I regain fitness by racing. I’ve considered tracking new PRs, without forgetting my old ones, to reduce the comparisons with where I used to be as I crawl out of a massive hole. Call them post-flare PRs, if you will. I want to look forward, not back. I think the bridge from here to there is littered with bibs and start lines. I don’t have an official schedule determined, but I’m registered for Seattle’s Tenacious Ten in April with some of my WILDER sisters, plan to run the Steamboat 4-mile in June and several local 5ks throughout the spring and summer. And of course the relay again in September. While shorter races usually aren’t my jam, I think it’s the quickest and healthiest way to get an idea of how much speed I can get back and to learn what might be possible at some of the longer distances. I love, love, love racing marathons and am crossing all of my fingers and toes that I can race them again. But for now, considering how little fitness I have and how much speed I’ve lost, shorter is better. I’ll get reacquainted with suffering and see what happens.

And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll at least know I tried. Running slow is so much better than not running at all. At the end of the day, I’m grateful that I can still put in some miles considering everything that’s happened in the last few years. Even if the speed doesn’t come back, there are trail races to run, adventures to be had. As long as running continues to be fun, something I look forward to, I’m going to stick with it. 30 years isn’t enough.

Said the river: imagine everything you can imagine, then keep on going. ~Mary Oliver

Politics, Uncategorized

Taking the “Care” Out of Healthcare

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I can’t stop thinking about this week’s news  that the Trump Administration created a new division within the Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) to be focused on “conscience and religious freedom”. Even more ironically, the work of the division will fall under the Office of Civil Rights. This new division is thought to pave the way for healthcare workers to refuse to perform certain types of care such as prescribing/dispensing birth control or performing/assisting with abortions. Also, it’s thought to create space for healthcare workers to refuse to treat certain groups of people based on their religious or conscience objections, which while not saying it outright, is a direct threat to individuals who are LGBTQI.

As someone who spent a considerable portion of my career working in healthcare, both in patient care and as an administrator, I can’t process that our government is providing legal protections for healthcare workers to discriminate against their patients. Understandably, when considering the impact of this new division in HHS, many people focus on the “procedures” component, worried how this might impact a woman’s right to access abortion services. But for all of the job opportunities in healthcare, for providers at every level, I feel confident that most people who have moral objections to abortion have already sought out positions where they are not confronted with the procedure. Those RNs already work somewhere other than the local Planned Parenthood clinic.

I’m more concerned about the providers who won’t treat certain groups of people and pharmacists that won’t fill certain prescriptions. For individuals living in rural areas, there may only be one hospital in the region, one pharmacy. What are your options when the local physician decides they will not treat gay people? When your local pharmacy won’t fill your transition-related prescriptions because the pharmacist refuses to treat patients who are transgender? When your local OBGYN won’t prescribe birth control?

Who’s rights are most important? For me this is quite simple. When I went into exercise physiology because I wanted to work in cardiac rehabilitation, where I would be taking care of heart patients, it never occurred to me that I might choose which patients for which I would care. I would work with the “good” patients, who made every lifestyle change I recommended, and the “bad” ones…even the one who tried-and sometimes succeeded-to sexually assault the staff every time he came to class. I can’t comprehend a situation where I would have denied care to a patient. I went into that profession because I cared deeply about people and wanted to make a difference. I think that same motivation drives many nurses, doctors, and other allied health professionals. But they don’t teach us to only take care of the patients we “agree” with, our job isn’t to pass judgement on who is worthy of care. But that is the new world we are living in, as the oaths that healthcare professionals take now come with a government-sanctioned caveat. As one friend eloquently pointed out (shout-out to Mary!), are you really a healthcare provider if you don’t provide healthcare for all?

And what does it say about us as a society when our government is in the business of sanctioning discrimination? That some of our congresspeople view “freedom” as discrimination against others? (House Majority Leader Kevin McCarthy, R-California, stated regarding the Obama administration’s Office of Civil Rights: “In the past this office sent the message, now is not the time for freedom, it is time for you to conform. What a different one year makes.”) If “conforming” means that all people are treated equally, then I’m all for it.

Every single human should be able to show up to an emergency room and know they’ll be treated with care and dignity. Every single human should be able to get their scrips filled at their local pharmacy, no questions asked. Every single human should have a relationship with their provider that is free from judgement and discrimination. If this is not freedom, then I think we need to reconsider our definition of the term. If a nurse doesn’t want to care for patients, she should not work in a hospital. If a pharmacist does not want to fill scripts, they shouldn’t work in a pharmacy.

And while I haven’t attended church in quite a long time, I regularly attended services while growing up. None of this aligns with the lessons of our little Protestant church.  We were taught not to judge one another, to love each other, and to treat others as we wished to be treated. We learned to care for people who were different from us, to help those in need. Nowhere in our Sunday School lessons did we talk about only certain types of people being worthy of our care. There wasn’t one sermon about discriminating against our fellow humans. While I am deeply suspicious of any religion that denies any human their humanity, I respect an individual’s right to worship what they choose. But to consider that our government is providing such religions power over our access to healthcare is terrifying. A government that stands for the rights of ALL citizens would be ensuring and protecting that very access, not compromising it.

Individuals who are LGBTQI already suffer known health disparities.    For example, youth who are lesbian, gay or bisexual seriously contemplate suicide at three times the rate of heterosexual youth. Also, in a national study 40% of transgendered adults reported having attempted suicide, with 92% of those attempts having been before the age of 25. Transgender women are at an unusually high risk of contracting HIV, and transgender individuals receive an HIV diagnosis at three times the national average. (Sources: The Trevor Project and CDC) The health care system is already failing these individuals. The new policies will only exacerbate these disparities.

While there aren’t any quick or easy solutions, it is one more reminder that our democracy is not a spectator sport. It is incumbent upon all of us to vote and engage with our congresspeople. Our elected officials are a reflection of us, and every election matters deeply. And when someone says to you that politics don’t matter, respectfully engage with them about how it does. Because of this administration, a large number of Americans now wonder if they can go to their local emergency department and be treated. Not treated with dignity, or treated with care, but treated period. It says a lot about who we are.

“Nothing is so essential as dignity…Time will reveal who has it and who has it not.” ― Elizabeth Gilbert 

 

Uncategorized

The Thing About Streaking

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I admire streakers. People who can do something every. single. day. without taking a break. I know several runners, one of whom is my sister, who are in the midst of multi-year running streaks. The longest I’ve gone is 35 days and it felt like an eternity. Beyond eating and sleeping (my two favorite things in the world), there’s nothing I really want to do everyday. I run six days per week not seven, eat well most of the time but not all of the time.

I’ve read extensively about the benefits of doing something every day, whether it’s running or following a diet such the Whole30, which requires complete adherence to a set of rules for 30 days in order to “complete” the program. I’ve tried (and failed) the Whole30 no less than ten times. My one-and-only run streak spanned the holidays and lasted just over a month. I understand the benefits to streaking – the problem solving that’s cultivated, the commitment that’s developed – but those benefits don’t seem to apply to me. Instead, I end up with what can only be described as anxiety and feel nothing but relief when it’s over.

I’ve wondered if my aversion to streaking is somehow related to a tendency to get overly fixated on numbers. Knowing this about myself, I don’t weigh often or track food intake regularly. Somehow, I’m able to track running-related data without adverse consequences. I think that because I started running when I was so young (11 years old) and ran for over ten years before I kept a training log and tracked mileage, I have a strong connection to running itself that exists independent of the data I keep. I’ve gone without collecting any running-related information for multiple several month stretches over the last few years as I’ve struggled with my health, after logging data very consistently for the previous ten years, and only picked it back up when I regained interest in the information. Running data is just data, and in that it is unique.

So in that context, it’s interesting that my only New Year’s Resolution involves a streak of sorts. After losing track of my meditation practice early last year, I decided to take advantage of the fresh start the turn of the calendar provides and get back to it. As someone who is easily distracted and often stuck in my head, meditation really helps quiet the noise. Also, I want to create some space between the things that happen and my reactions to those things. Whether it’s as innocuous as an annoying social media post (Trump’s daily Twitter barrage) or something more “legitimate”, I want to be more intentional and measured in regards to what thoughts wander through my head. Maybe more eye rolls and fewer f*cks? I’m not sure what form the shift will take, but I’m curious to find out.

When I’m meditating regularly, my focus is improved, mental restlessness reduced, and my head just seems quieter. But because my inner dialogue is so active, meditating is HARD. It takes me a good while to get into a groove, to get to a place where I can really settle in and be in a place of quiet. Like with anything that’s difficult, it can be hard to push through the first few weeks when it feels like more of a battle than a practice. Which is where the streak comes in. I want to force myself to lean into the discomfort and the difficulty, not put it off until tomorrow, which can be easy to do when you aren’t doing it every day. I’m only shooting for a few months, as once I get to a place where it feels less of a fight I’ll probably go to 5-6 days per week, just like with running. But first I want to cultivate the practice. Hopefully the meditation itself will alleviate any of the anxiety from a streak, allowing them in a sense to cancel each other out (seriously).

So far, my streak is six days long. I’ve meditated at least ten minutes each day, twice right before going to sleep because I forgot earlier in the day. I’m working to develop a routine so that it fits more naturally into the fabric of my day, but at this point I’m just happy that is happens, even if it’s right before bed. My goal is to work up to 30 consecutive minutes. I’ll drop the streak if it becomes counterproductive, but I have a good feeling about it. I’m usually not one to make “resolutions”, preferring instead to greet the new year with intentions or priorities as I like to leave room for things to evolve. But this is one time where I don’t want it to evolve. I want to make this happen, so I’ve named it. And now I’ve put it here. So here’s to 2018…the year of the quiet mind and more intentional swearing.

“Sitting still is a pain in the ass.” ~ Noah Levine

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When Movies Attack and Other Oddities

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The first time I was attacked by a movie was in late 2006. We’d gone to see The Departed, and less than halfway through the show I had to leave the theater. I felt as though I was being physically assaulted by all of the violence on the screen (this is not an exaggeration) and found it impossible to watch the rest of the movie. Thankfully, my husband was unbothered by this and was content to watch the rest of the movie by himself. I went shopping to kill time and picked him up when it was over.

The next time it happened was in late 2008. This time we were watching The Dark Knight. Despite a deep loathing for superhero movies, I loved Batman Begins (especially the score) and was excited to see the next installment. About halfway through, I again felt like I was being assaulted by the movie and had to leave the theater. This time instead of going shopping, I went back in after 10 minutes and watched the rest of the movie standing near the exit, plugging my ears/closing my eyes during the very loud and violent parts. This struck me as incredibly odd, and I didn’t understand how so many people could love the very same movies that left me feeling beaten. I shrugged it off by deciding to be very selective in what movies I would go see from there on out (which was rather easy, as we usually only see two-to-three movies per year in the theater to begin with),  not realizing that this was actually a characteristic of a innate trait that has a significant role in shaping who I am.

In early 2012, Susan Cain’s book Quiet was released. As someone who’s long known to be an introvert, I devoured it as soon as it came out. It was packed full of research and provided me a better understanding of my own quietness. Living and working in a society that celebrates extroversion often left me feeling like I needed to be someone else…someone who talks more, who calls more attention to herself. Even the way I led my team was different (I was a dean at a community college at the time), as I relished lifting up others and highlighting their successes but had extreme difficulty in calling attention to my own work.

Within the book, Cain briefly touched on something called “high sensitivity“, a trait separate from introversion, but one that is more often present in introverts (about 70% of “highly sensitive people” or HSPs are introverts). The term itself is misleading, as most people read it to mean that a HSP is someone who’s feelings are easily hurt. In reality, its scientific term is Sensory Processing Sensitivity (SPS), and is used to describe someone who has a sensitive nervous system, is aware of subtleties in his/her surroundings, and is more easily overwhelmed when in a highly stimulating environment. Dr. Elaine Aron is a researcher who’s work has focused on high-sensitivity since 1991, and through that work she developed a number of characteristics that are common in HSPs, one of which is an aversion to loud or violent movies/TV shows. The more I dug into her research, the more I realized that many of the things I thought of as “weird” about myself tracked back to SPS:

  • I need to check out on busy days. When I was dean, it was common for me to have six or seven meetings per day. While most people would be fatigued by all of the meetings, I found that my brain was completely non-functioning at the end of those days. Many times I’d get back to my office and just stare at my inbox full of email, completely unable to do anything about it. It usually took time to myself, either in my office or at home, before I would regain the ability to concentrate. If I had a few days like that in a row, it might take me an entire weekend to get back to full capacity.
  • I am easily overwhelmed by bright lights, loud noises, strong smells and irritating fabrics. Last week we attended two concerts. On the second night, the couple in front of us smoked weed for most of the 2-1/2 hour show and I became so distracted by the smoke and the smell that I was unable to focus on the concert for the last hour (which is saying a lot considering how loud a Foo Fighters concert is). Not only did it physically aggravate my asthma, but the strong smell was a huge distraction in-and-of itself. Ignoring it was impossible, no matter how hard I tried.
  • I pay close attention to delicate/fine tastes and sounds. Whether it’s the buttery flakiness of my mom’s pie crust, the crispy outside/smooshy inside of the perfect french fry, or the harmoniously blended flavors of day-old chili, eating for me is a sensory experience. And when at a concert or listening to music, I can practically feel it when an instrument is out of tune, or when a musician gets off beat. But concerts are the one place where loud noises are usually a good experience. They are never a surprise (the noises) and I typically only go to concerts of bands I love, meaning that I generally know what to expect.
  • I have a rich and complex inner life. I’ve been known to bump into walls and the kitchen island in my own house because I’m deep in thought and not paying attention.

So I’m a HSP. A HSP who is very grateful to be 42 and not a young person in today’s world. The school environment we’ve created over the last decade or two is overwhelmingly to the favor of extroverted students. I think back to when I was in grade school, and I’m incredibly grateful to have been in a time where we still sat in rows and most of our work was done individually. I see images of classrooms set-up in pods and I cringe for the seven-year-old I once was, and for all of the quiet, HSP kids today who are no different from me. Most of my projects in high school were individual assignments and most classes taught in a traditional lecture style, a style in which this quiet, easily overwhelmed student thrived. I don’t envy the work of teachers, who are managing class sizes that are too large, and having to meet the needs of kiddos who are increasingly challenged by mental health issues and uncertain circumstances at home. Kids with diverse needs and even more diverse personalities. But I do hope the pendulum will eventually swing back towards the middle, and I think we’re seeing it somewhat, as I’ve also recently seen images of classrooms where kiddos can choose where they sit, whether it’s in a pod with their friends or at a seat by themselves.

Today’s office environment isn’t much better, with many companies taking down walls and creating wide-open spaces full of cubicles, despite research showing that productivity increases when people have their own space, and not only for introverts. Everybody experiences distractions (noise from their neighbors, people constantly walking by) that are detrimental to their work when people are crammed in without efforts to maintain a modicum of privacy.

While none of this might resonate with you, it might remind you of someone in your life…your spouse, your kid, a good friend. Many of us HSPs have a hard time articulating what we’re thinking, what we need. The best advice I have is to encourage you to give them space when they need it. Even if they can’t tell you they need space. If they’re overwhelmed, they need space. When we lived in Fort Collins, my job was incredibly stressful. Many evenings I’d come home from work completely overwhelmed by the events of the day. My husband is home only every-other-week, so on the weeks where he was working, I’d have all of the space I needed to recharge for the next day. But on the weeks he was home, it wasn’t uncommon for him to wait an hour, hour-and-a-half for me to “surface” after getting home from work. Fortunately, we’ve been married quite a long time and he’s intuitively figured out how to co-exist with his HSP/introverted wife. He’d just watch TV or mess around on his computer until I was ready to engage with humans. If you want to talk to your HSP or quiet spouse/friend/kid about their experiences, be sure to wait until they’re not in an overwhelmed place to start the dialogue. If you have a quiet and/or HSP kid, Susan Cain has an entire section of her website devoted to these kids, including a podcast.

If you are a HSP or think you might be, Dr. Aron’s website (linked above) has a wealth of information-including a self-test, as do her books. According to Aron, many HSPs gain a “great deal” by learning more about it, and I certainly fall into that category. Not only am I better at picking movies for myself-I did have to walk out of Wonder Woman for a bit, but I anticipated it this time and better understood why I needed the break, but I consciously carve out down time when I know I’m over-scheduled. I no longer apologize for “hermiting” as I call it, now that I understand it’s what I need to recharge my batteries. I anticipate that my brain will shut down when I’m in an overwhelming situation (such as meeting a large group of new people all at once, like when I was at WILDER), which doesn’t make it any easier, but at least it’s not a surprise when it happens. This knowledge has also helped me better understand how to use these traits to my advantage. I became a better leader and a better colleague with the increased understanding of myself. I felt grounded in my instinct to only speak up in meetings when I had something to contribute, to block out my schedule if needed, to compose an email if a message needed to be crafted carefully. I’m a better friend and spouse, because I can communicate to others about these seemingly weird quirks that can be difficult to understand for the more extroverted/non-HSPs among us. Being an introverted HSP in a loud, extroverted world will always be a bit of work, but knowing how to navigate the land mines is an invaluable, sanity-saving skill.

Solitude matters, and for some people, it’s the air they breathe. ~ Susan Cain

Politics, Uncategorized

Narrative Gatekeepers, Storytelling, and Truth

sto·ry·tell·ing
/ˈstôrē teliNG/
noun
1. 
the activity of telling or writing stories.
     “the power of cinematic storytelling”
adjective
1. 
relating to the telling or writing of stories.
     “the oral storytelling tradition”

You’d have to be living under a rock to miss the news of several high-profile men being accused of workplace sexual harassment and sexual assault over the past 4-6 weeks. Between the “me too” stories that likely flooded your social media feeds and the noise surrounding high-profile men accused of criminal behavior, the focus has rightly been on the pervasive sexual misconduct in our culture. Women have endured mistreatment at the proverbial hands of men since the beginning of time and I hope we can look back at this period as when the tide finally began to turn. But this isn’t about that.

In the event you have been living under a rock (lucky you, can I visit?), here’s a quick rundown, but not an exhaustive list, of powerful media/entertainment industry figures who’ve been accused of sexual misconduct in the workplace fairly recently:

  • Harvey Weinstein – film producer
  • Micheal Oreskes – senior vice president of news, NPR
  • Leon Wieseltier – former editor at The New Republic
  • Mark Halperin – journalist, formerly of ABC News and NBC News/MSNBC
  • Roy Price – Amazon Studios executive
  • Chris Savino – Nickelodeon producer
  • Lockhart Steele – Vox Media editorial director
  • James Toback – filmmaker
  • Terry Richardson – photographer
  • Andy Signore – Defy Media senior vice president of content
  • Bill O’Reilly – former Fox News anchor
  • Knight Landesman – Artform co-publisher
  • Kevin Spacey – actor
  • Roger Ailes (deceased) – former Fox News chairman and CEO

In many cases, these men were in positions of power, they were the gatekeepers regarding what stories got told and how. These are the people who’ve been in charge of telling our political and cultural stories, the people whose lens through which we’ve viewed the world, in some cases for decades. They determined which projects got funded, what pieces were seen, which voices were heard.

Storytelling is an incredibly powerful tool. It can be used to entertain, to educate, to connect, to make money (as in business). Great storytelling is grounded in truth, and relies on the integrity of the storyteller. Effective storytellers must also be vulnerable, creating space for their audience to feel genuine emotion and to connect with them authentically, so that all-storyteller and audience-can arrive at a place of understanding together.

For decades upon decades, the voices that have been the loudest, the tellers of the stories, and the people who are responsible for the tellers of stories, have been in many cases white men. A fair number of these men have demonstrated an extreme lack of respect for women, such that harassment and assault became “regular” workplace behavior. I struggle to pull apart the way these men lived their lives and the lens through which they view the world. Does the way they view women, particularly women with less power, influence the stories they tell and how they tell them? I think emphatically yes.

What do Hillary Clinton and Elizabeth Warren look like through the lens of these narrative gatekeepers? How do they tell the stories of these women? What do the issues of reproductive rights for women and access to healthcare look like through the lenses of these men? How does their tremendously amplified voice influence what the rest of us think about these people, these issues? And how does the bullying behavior of these particular men influence the how the stories are told by the people that work for them? How does that behavior influence WHO works for them?

This is not to say that men can’t tell effective stories, or that they can’t cover female political candidates fairly. That’s not at all what I’m saying. But when the amplified voices are white men, and in a number of cases unethical white men, how does that influence our collective truth?

I wonder about the damage done by a network like Fox News. Setting aside the network’s inclination towards being a propaganda machine, how effectively can a network run by a man who treats women as Roger Ailes did tell the stories of women? How can they connect authentically with people, and how vulnerable can their female employees be in doing their job, considering theirs is a profession that requires a certain level of authenticity? When the most powerful lens at a network is that of a misogynistic predator, how does that influence what the rest of us see?

I don’t know what the answers are. So much damage has been done that it seems like burning down these power structures and rebuilding them would be the most effective path to true change. But that will never happen. We’re left with trying to influence broken systems, but hopefully by developing a deeper understanding into how the systems are broken, we can take back some of the power and have greater influence on our collective truth. Pay attention to who is behind the stories you read, see, hear. Who writes the music, takes the photos? Seek out stories told by diverse groups of people. Hear their truth, listen to their perspective. Who tells the stories matters deeply. Lastly, we can use our own voices, as so many women have been doing of late. Whether that’s speaking our own truth, amplifying the stories of others, or creating space where previously there wasn’t any, we all have a role in shaping the future. One story at a time.

“I will tell you something about stories . . . They aren’t just entertainment. Don’t be fooled. They are all we have, you see, all we have to fight off illness and death.”  ― Leslie Marmon Silko