Cumulative Effect

In marathon training, the process of training to and through fatigue is known as the cumulative effective. This process prepares the body over an extended period of time to withstand the physical (and mental) demands of the race itself. Growth does not happen on the easy days, the real training starts when the body wants to give up. Learning to push through the pain is part of learning to run the distance.

The cumulative effective feels like the perfect metaphor for the past four years of my life. I’ve been training and testing my strength and resiliency in the midst of fatigue, questioning if I have what it takes to go the distance. Running has been my steady companion through so much of my grieving process, literally and figuratively helping me move forward past the day that brought my entire world to it’s knees.

Similar to making the decision to tackle a marathon, my decision to pursue a career in counseling was a bit impulsive and naive, though well-intentioned. And perhaps I jumped a little faster off the start line than was wise... I’ve never been good at pacing myself. However, in the swirling shit storm of early grief, I do believe I saw a glimpse of the potential Chris saw in me when I choose this path. He believed in my ability to help others long before I considered my own strength. I realize, in hindsight, how clearly he saw my potential when I could not. (He was also the one to cheer on a BQ time before I ever crossed my first marathon finish line.)

Having a goal helped me get through the first stretch. In the first year, I expected things to be difficult. As life goes, there were ups and downs. I questioned myself and isolated, believing I could piece myself back together without anyone noticing the mess. But I gave myself permission to be a "beginner." Like starting a new training plan, every day was struggle. I learned to live with the pain a little more each day until it wasn’t so sharp.

I believed hitting milestones would change how I felt. Hitting the first year marker. Getting through that first set of anniversaries and holidays. Getting an internship, graduating. These were all signs of moving forward. Progress… if only for progress’s sake. Until I plateaued. 

In running, endurance and strength are two elements that make up the training process. Running the miles builds endurance. Tackling hills, repetition, resistance help build strength. In grieving, I had to learn to tackle the resistance, not just tolerate the mileage. The last year has been a period of resistance in my life, the place where I “hit the wall” and struggled to regain my stride.

What has been most difficult during this period has been internalizing the struggle as a flaw within me. I’ve taken the steep climbs and pitfalls as evidence that I am not strong enough or resilient enough. I’ve compared myself to other people, feeling that both my process and progress have fallen short far too often. I’ve blamed myself for being tired, for just wanting to coast for a change instead of fighting.

When the narrative in my head has become more than I can handle, I’ve complained on Facebook. Probably not the best way to ask for support, but I’ve been grateful for the cheering section nonetheless. I’ve needed that external voice to remind me that I’ve come farther than I can see in the moment.

In one of my most recent periods of frustration and anxiety over not moving fast enough, my counselor asked me to take a look behind me-- to see all the miles I have covered over time, not just how far I have to go. The distance was humbling. It stopped me with greater force than Schrodie when he has to pee mid-run.

As much as I cannot run from grief, I’ve come a long way. Milestones or not, I have been in the process of constructing a new life from scratch. New state, new home, new degree, new friends, new career- navigating new hoops and terrain, trying to date again. At altitude no less. And I’m still moving, some days better than others.

One of my many flaws is a tendency to push other people away when I am in pain. I am afraid of letting others experience the messy version of me, the one who is limping along. I am, with sad honesty, likely to internalize well intentioned cheers as pity. Running solo only gets me so far-- I am growing into the place where I feel I can bring less than my best to a community of supporters. I have struggled with knowing how to ask for help, and yet I’ve had the best cheering section along the way. To a woman who lost her number one fan, the support has meant so much. More than I have words to express.

All the encouragement has seen me through a particularly difficult stretch in this journey. After four years, I can finally say I am fully licensed counselor! I’ve thought about quitting more than once in this process. I’ve questioned myself constantly, but I’ve had people pushing me along the way to stay on track and I am ever so grateful.

As much as this accomplishment is meaningful to me, I am realizing how little it defines me. When I started this process, I thought becoming a counselor was part of a meaning making experience for me. Helping others gives me purpose in a way that matters, but I am growing into the realization that it does not define who I am. 

The last four years have been about building a sense of identity in the face of loss, when the plans and dreams I held were stripped away. I am slowly building that future, and learning more about what it takes to have strength in the process. I am learning to lean into the hills and attack them when I feel like walking away. I am learning that I’d rather go hard and fall flat than never risk going for it at all.

I’ve also learned that I am not the person who settles for “at leasts.” In that sense, I carry so much of Chris in my heart-- I loved his fearlessness and willingness to try. I am finally starting to see that perhaps I carry those traits with me too.

All of this insight has come with challenges, setbacks, uphill climbs, face plants, and finding a way to get back up again. However painful, awkward, or comical it may be. A marathon is not a race, it is the accumulation of training and time to overcome the distance.

As far as I’ve come, there are still miles and miles left on the journey. I wish I could say the days of comparison and self-pity were behind me. The struggle is still there, I am simply adjusting to the reality that I am not the hills and harsh climbs. I am the force of nature that breezes over them.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, for all the love, grace, and support that have fueled me in the process.