Back in the day––eighth grade to be exact––I had this span of a couple months, maybe a year, when I couldn’t do exactly what I wanted to, physically, whenever I wanted to. It was weird. I had some type of knee problem, diagnosed as osteochondritis dissecans (how many times I said those words over and over in my head, trying to make sense of it). Eighth grade was my first year as a “serious” runner, in track instead of softball, and it infuriated me that I wasn’t supposed to run because of some knee pain and little detached cartilage pieces in my knees that could get worse if I didn’t rest.
I had already missed my chance for cross-country and track in seventh grade and cross-country again in eighth (the school I went to in the fall didn’t have it), so I was pretty determined to run track in the spring in eighth. I’d seen some of the high-schoolers run and was sure I was much faster.
So this all led me to waking up really early and sneaking out of the house to run. Which led to me sometimes barely being able to walk during the school day from the knee pain. But it seemed worth it somehow. I can’t remember the track season from eighth grade at all, really, but in ninth grade, I set some school records for the mile and two-mile. It was worth the bad track meets when the pain flared up and I fell during the race and couldn’t finish to persevere during the better days and get my name up on the record board in the school gym.
And then for a bunch of years I scoffed at people who can’t do things, or worse, won’t do things out of fear. How many friends I goaded into climbing Sugarloaf, this big rock near where I went to college, or into learning to rollerblade or jumping off high things or climbing trees.
But now it’s kind of backfired: I have this lingering joint pain from pregnancy, and every day, my mind is like, Gah, what’s your problem? Get out there! Do something! It’s not that bad. But the rational side is like, Hey, wait it out. You’ll be fine. Don’t rush it, and you’ll be back to normal even sooner. I constantly scoff at myself. And then try to show myself that kind of empathy that’s really disguised condescension I’ve always had for people who won’t push themselves to the limit.
So now I’m running half a mile when I’d rather run two, skating half a practice instead of the whole thing, jumping on the trampoline for a few minutes instead of a few hours. I guess it’s true that with age comes wisdom. Or the memory of not always being able to walk all day has motivated me to be patient. (Eh, patience. Overrated.)
I had already missed my chance for cross-country and track in seventh grade and cross-country again in eighth (the school I went to in the fall didn’t have it), so I was pretty determined to run track in the spring in eighth. I’d seen some of the high-schoolers run and was sure I was much faster.
So this all led me to waking up really early and sneaking out of the house to run. Which led to me sometimes barely being able to walk during the school day from the knee pain. But it seemed worth it somehow. I can’t remember the track season from eighth grade at all, really, but in ninth grade, I set some school records for the mile and two-mile. It was worth the bad track meets when the pain flared up and I fell during the race and couldn’t finish to persevere during the better days and get my name up on the record board in the school gym.
And then for a bunch of years I scoffed at people who can’t do things, or worse, won’t do things out of fear. How many friends I goaded into climbing Sugarloaf, this big rock near where I went to college, or into learning to rollerblade or jumping off high things or climbing trees.
But now it’s kind of backfired: I have this lingering joint pain from pregnancy, and every day, my mind is like, Gah, what’s your problem? Get out there! Do something! It’s not that bad. But the rational side is like, Hey, wait it out. You’ll be fine. Don’t rush it, and you’ll be back to normal even sooner. I constantly scoff at myself. And then try to show myself that kind of empathy that’s really disguised condescension I’ve always had for people who won’t push themselves to the limit.
So now I’m running half a mile when I’d rather run two, skating half a practice instead of the whole thing, jumping on the trampoline for a few minutes instead of a few hours. I guess it’s true that with age comes wisdom. Or the memory of not always being able to walk all day has motivated me to be patient. (Eh, patience. Overrated.)
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