Enjoying the Race

Inspiration from the Track on Parenting Neurodiverse Teens

What was I thinking when I said yes? I asked myself.

On Tuesday morning, just after sunrise, I jogged around the track, regretting the day that I agreed to run a race with my friend Isabelle. Especially when she followed up with, “Want to do the 10k instead of the 5k? Let’s register today before it closes.”

Without thinking twice about the fact that I’d never run for longer than half an hour, I signed up. Because what could be better than a challenge? Even though Isabelle and I talk almost every day, the fact that we live about an hour apart prevents us from hanging out in person regularly.  So, my brain registered a fun event with Isabelle, rather than the reality that this commitment would translate into hours of training, sore knees, and the pressure to keep up with my friend, who runs faster than me.

Why did I say yes to this? We’re ten days out and I don’t feel ready.

I stared at the blue track, carved with neat white lines, and ignored a group of men playing ultimate frisbee nearby. I counted my laps and kept my breathing steady.

Photo by Alex McCarthy on Unsplash

Usually, I run on a bike path through the woods with my dog. We have our route; I’ve continued to extend it farther over the past few weeks, which leaves my dog confused. Our new route takes us over a tall bridge that crosses a highway and into a canopy of trees that block out everything except our little shaded path of asphalt. Henry and I can cover five miles in just under an hour.

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My Story: Running with an Eating Disorder

I learned to run through the high school cross-country team. At my private school, sports were required alongside math and science. While I have many talents, an athletic body is not one of them. I’ve never been fast or coordinated; when I try to throw a ball, it usually goes in the wrong direction. As a kid, I avoided team sports and hated gym class. At this school, the cross-country team seemed like the least competitive option. Let’s be honest: I also had a crush on the coach, who had a wide grin. So, I joined the team, and I came in last in every race. If I finished at all.

That year was also my lowest point with bulimia. After five years of binging, dieting, and purging, my body lacked strength. I was miserable and full of self-hatred. But I kept on running, even though I felt ashamed by my slow pace.

Soon afterwards, I began a recovery journey, with the support of a therapist and a Twelve-Step program. I had just found God as well. Within six months, I found the grace to give up purging and binging. What a gift! When I rejoined the cross-country team for my second season, I had a new determination to gallop up a hill, to finish a race without walking, to push myself to my limits. My coach used me as an example to the freshman, saying, “Look, Serena couldn’t even finish a race last year, and now, she’s in the game!” Little did he know that it was due to my recovery, more than just experience.

Little did any of us know that I would eventually become too thin, that anorexia would show up in ways I didn’t recognize. I would need to face that I hadn’t beaten my eating disorder after all, that there was more healing to embrace. After graduation, a therapist would prohibit me from running (which had become an unhealthy obsession) until I gained weight and established healthier patterns around exercise.

Running came back into my life eventually. Today, after living in recovery for three decades, I know what is healthy for me with exercise. I stay honest when my thoughts become toxic, when the eating disorder voice gets too chatty. Honesty has brought freedom and recovery.

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Lessons from Race Training

I found this track at an off-site work trip, where I was co-directing a multi-day conference. I felt overwhelmed by my conference duties, which doubled when two of my team members became ill enough to bow out entirely. The only reason I was spending an hour running before breakfast was because the shadow of that 10k race loomed over me.

Suddenly, as I plodded along on the track, I had a few helpful realizations.

God’s Presence

As I rounded the track for the umpteenth time, I had an eerie sense that Jesus was running in the lane beside me. I know that might sound strange. But even as the image came and then evaporated, that sense of God’s presence sustained me.

God’s presence is with me in every daunting task, whether I’m emceeing a conference, walking with Ellie in mental or physical health challenges, or trying to run a race where I’m outmatched. I’m never alone. Every time I’m struggling, I can envision God right next to me, offering presence, peace, and comfort. I just need to reach out and ask for help.

Enjoy the Journey

I ran around the track counting. Counting laps, miles, even my place on the track. I’m halfway around the second lap of the fourth mile.  I was wholly focused on the externals of measuring time and space, to get to the moment when I’d be done. In my most tired moments, I felt the same way about the conference: I just need to get through the next few days until I can sleep again. With Ellie’s challenges, I’ve often focused on the final destination: when will she be healthy again?

But this type of counting takes me out of my body and out of the present moment. The pleasure isn’t in crossing the finish line; it’s in pumping my arms and striding my legs in mile four. I sensed the invitation to enjoy my run, to notice that my body felt just fine, even if my mind felt anxious.  

In the same way, I want to enjoy my daughter, whether she is sick or healthy, even when the road to healing feels confusing and circular.  There is still beauty in our connection and in walking with her, even when she’s moody or argumentative or too sick to function, because we are together. 

Stay in Your Lane

I wasn’t alone on the track.  Nearby, a woman ran twice as fast as me, and I felt insecure. The team’s frisbee landed in a lane next to me. I wondered if I should stop running and throw it back to them.

But the thought came to me: stay in your lane. I don’t need to compare myself to others or take care of others’ responsibilities. It’s enough for me to focus on my race.

I’m often tempted to get into others’ lanes, especially Ellie’s. I’m trying to recover from my tendency to rescue others. When Ellie was the sickest with her eating disorder, she needed me to run right beside her, often holding her up, so that she could learn to walk again. But that didn’t mean that I was her therapist or her savior. As they say in Al-Anon, your daughter has a higher power and it’s not you. At Ellie’s current stage recovery, she has to run in her own lane to find healing. My job is to run nearby and cheer her on, rather than direct her path. 

Being at the conference this week provided another challenge: letting go of supporting Ellie daily and trusting my husband to walk with her instead. Even though I felt nervous, I remembered that this was his lane to run with Ellie. Perhaps the hectic pace of the conference provided an unexpected gift: I was too busy, constantly surrounded by people, to do anything for Ellie besides transfer money to her debit card. It reminded me that Ellie has her own lane, too, and she is more capable of running than I give her credit for.

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I’ve decided to enjoy that 10k race alongside thousands of other women. Maybe my goal will be to smile as I run, especially when other women pass me, especially when I feel insecure. Maybe I’ll think of that cross-country coach who knows what a big accomplishment it is for me to run a 10k. And I’ll envision the races Ellie will run someday that will surprise the rest of us.