Apparently, the blogs of the month of March are my Brene Brown inspired ones. Last year, after what I thought was a super terrible March, I pulled out my copy of Rising Strong and reminded myself that I was brave and strong enough to bounce back from the things that that went on during that month. Last night, I went back to the shelf and pulled out Rising Strong once more. After an intense weekend, that ended badly for me both physically and emotionally, followed by the continuation of an unrelenting stomach super villain, a heartbreaking email in which someone reflected to me that they actually thought the things that are my very worst fears that people think of me, and then my car getting towed, I knew it was time. In fact, it was laughable clear. As we stood outside the car tow place, waiting for my car, I joked, "I better not stand outside too long or a bird will probably fly along and poop on my head". Let's just say, if the message hadn't already been clear after months of struggling intensely with some things, it was definitely clear now: I'm face down in the arena.
But this year feels different. I am not struggling against it, resisting the space I am occupying currently. While I often feel despair, I am not despairing. Because for once, I actually and genuinely believe in my own ability to survive, to return to thriving. There was a moment on Sunday where things had devolved for me to the point that I was sitting on the floor of a shitty casino trying to charge my phone so that I might be able to find a ride back to Vegas back from Parump, Nevada where I had spent the previous evening in the ER. I was wearing the previous days clothes which were covered in the stench of the results of my food poisoning, blind because I had to take my contacts out and had none of my belongings with me. I was sitting there, feeling physically terrible, emotionally wrecked that I had let my team down and then casino security walked up and yelled at me to move on and that there was no sitting on the floor of the casino. In that moment, feeling raw, hurt, and full of shame, I just started laughing. Laughing hard, thinking, "this is some shit isn't it". The situation made me feel sad and angry, but it did not make me feel defeated.
I didn't come into this past weekend's adventure with the Speed Project and Oiselle's Bird Strike team as my best self. I was already worn thin by the past few months of personal struggles. I worried that I would have the emotional bandwidth to stay strong for my team, I was unsure of what weight I would be able to bear. I knew that things would get hard and ugly at some point, I just hoped that, perhaps I would not be nominated as tribute. I also knew that teams are my jam and I love being a part of a team, I am motivated by it, I want to do everything I can to lift my team up. Unfortunately for me, my name was called in the reaping. First, my foot and ankle both decide in implode in a way I had not yet seen in my months of injury and then, I was struck down by food poisoning, severe dehydration, and eventually a trip to the ER. I was able to run through the first half of the race, knocking out 24 miles. I was 6th runner in our rotation, which meant, given our strategy, my miles were backloaded towards the end of the race. I had to tap out and burden my teammates with more miles. I felt terrible emotionally for that, gutted actually and I still do. Initially was going to go whole hog into crewing and motivating, but was reduced to not being able to even sit up. I was fully unable to be present in the experience in any way and that really makes me sad. Its not just about putting more miles on other people, for me it was about not being able to support them at all while they were doing something so incredible and so tough.
Fast forward to yesterday, standing in the car town lot, face down in the arena. I could feel sorry for myself, have a pity party about life's suckage levels, wallow, resist, refuse to continue. But instead, my mind wandered back to the weekend and to my BirdStrike team. The second half of the race was a brutal crawl across Death Valley and into Vegas. It was hot, it was flat, the miles were adding up, everyone was tired and there were like a billion miles left no matter how many turns the runners took. It would have been easy to feel like it was all too much. But that is not what they did. Instead, each of them, Sarah B, Sarah O, Cathleen, Collier and Nora, with the crew by their side, got out there and did as much as they could when they could. Time after time, they got off the RV and did another mile, another two miles. They did, whatever they could, little by little, to continue to advance towards the finish line. It was inspiring to see, even if I couldn't even raise my head (without barfing) to tell them so or cheer them through it. And I return to that idea now, to help remind me, that even though I feel an impossible distance from where I want to be, I simply have to keep moving forward even if it is just a few steps. They were unrelenting and so can I be. They did not give up, nor will I. They were not alone, and neither am I.
In my own life, I am out there like my team was in Death Valley. Out there, somewhere in the middle, where it is too far in to turn around and not yet close enough to the end to see the light. This is a messy space. An in progress space. A ripped raw and exposed space. A vulnerable, often times ugly space. It is also a space, despite not knowing how to fix some things, despite having no idea what things can be saved and what things will be lost, that I know I have the endurance to survive. I am grateful for my teammates for their display of grit, unrelenting perseverance and steadfast refusal to give in. I take that now with me as I rumble and as I hopefully rise.