One foot in front of the other

CW: Mentions of eating disorders, anxiety, abuse - if you need support, you can find it here and here.

—

I just ran my first half-marathon.

I placed in the top 100 overall, top 15 women, and top 3 in my age category.

Trust me, I am just as shocked as you are.

Especially because I wasn’t always a runner.

—

When I was a kid, everyone at my elementary school had a sport. It was their defining characteristic, the thing that made them cool and interesting. I did not have a sport, and I grew up feeling like an outcast for it.

For four years of my childhood, it was just me, nimomma (my mother), and my younger sibling in the old house we rented from my father’s parents. We didn’t have much (materially, at least) then; some years, nimomma didn’t know how we would pay for rent, food and Christmas gifts on her single-parent income.

Nimomma never let me go without. I was always well fed and well dressed because of her ability to stretch a dollar. But that dollar never stretched far enough for me to take up hockey, or soccer, or dance, or gymnastics like the rest of the kids at my school. My free time was mostly spent at home reading, watching TV, or getting lost in worlds I would write or make art about. I don’t regret those days now; some of my most cherished childhood memories are of little me, cuddled up to nimomma on the couch, watching one of her favourite shows. But at that time, when social survival entailed fitting in, I hated myself for not being sporty like everyone else.

I also grew up in the era of 2000s media culture, which sent deplorable messages to women and girls about their bodies (read: ultra-thin as the only acceptable body type). In addition to feeling like I was an outcast for being the only one of my peers without a sport, I also felt out of shape: not strong enough, and certainly not skinny enough. At the age of twelve, in response to the all-consuming media garbage that surrounded me, I developed anorexia nervosa, an eating disorder that would torment me for the next decade.

I did not start running because it was healthy. I started running because I wanted to lose weight, and because I thought that having a sport be my “thing” would help me finally stop feeling out of place.

—

I joined the cross-country team in sixth grade, the track and field team in eighth. It did not make me immediately popular or skinny like I’d hoped. It did, however, give me a purpose outside of academics.

I went from being the kid so slow I would be hauled back from the Terry Fox run to placing second at a middle school provincial meet. Realizing that I could become good at this, I decided to join my high school team. Our first practice, led by our varsity girls captain, kicked my ass. I left thinking I don’t know how I can race if I can’t even keep up at practice.

But I kept with it, running at least three times a week, plus core work on Friday mornings. By the time my first high school indoor season ended, I made the podium at provincials. I also joined a soccer team on the side, which meant I was running almost every day - and when I wasn’t running, I was doing thousand calorie YouTube workouts in my room to lose weight.

My anorexic and orthorexic habits quickly caught up to me. Weeks before I was set to leave for a national Nike-sponsored meet in Toronto, I fractured both of my shins. Sitting in the sports clinic with nimomma, watching both my legs be fitted for ankle-to-knee casts, I sobbed.

I would miss my entire outdoor season, a major setback for the rest of my high school running career. Even after I got the casts off, I would have to take training slow, meaning I would miss nationals for that year. Without recruiters’ eyes on me at nationals, it would be that much harder to get drafted to a university team.

It wasn’t, but at the time, my injury felt like a death sentence to my sixteen year-old self.

—

Still, I showed up to practice like it was my duty. I went to Toronto as my team’s amateur photographer on the Nike trip. I won the junior varsity cross-country MVP award. I started running again that summer, with an adapted training plan made specially for me by my coach.

The road ahead would be tough, he told me, but he was certain that we could get me back on track for the following outdoor season.

The year that followed was a hard one. Once again, I secured the cross-country award and helped my school secure the varsity girls champion title. But battling an eating disorder and extreme performance anxiety compromised my races. I would place top ten but rarely top three. I would do well at the relays and botch my individual races. I would make the final heat, and then finish last in it.

After every less-than-perfect race, I would get sick, cry, and then berate myself for getting sick and crying. Mental health was not an open conversation back then, and when I did try to get help through my school, my guidance counsellor bullied me, telling me I would never be good enough. My coaches tried to refer to a sports psychologist, but after my first traumatic experience in therapy, I was too terrified to open up to anyone else.

Finally, in January of my senior year, I broke. I met with my coach in his office and told him I couldn’t take the pressure of performing anymore, and wanted to quit the team. I cried, and so did he.

“Take the season off if you need it,” he said, “but don’t give up on running for good. Maybe you don’t see it because of your race times, but you’re too talented to stop now.”

I nodded, only half believing him.

__

At the start of April, my coach pulled me into his office.

“There’s an envelope for you,” he said, handing me a crisp white letter.

“What’s this?” I asked him.

“Your reminder not to give up on running.” He said, and watched as I eagerly tore it open.

Inside was a letter from Lethbridge College, recruiting me to be a part of their track and field team. They’d heard about my most recent cross-country season, and were interested in giving me a scholarship to run for their school.

“No way,” I said, shocked that anyone, anywhere, had ever heard of me.

“My brother went there and loved it,” he said, “Think about it.”

I took the letter home and contemplated it for a long, long time. In the end, I turned the offer down because they didn’t have a human rights program, the thing I most wanted to study. But receiving that letter was an honour, one that brought me back to the track for a final season.

__

My last provincial meet was in Brandon, Manitoba, in sweltering June heat. At this point, I cared less about my own wins - there were no more nationals to make or schools to get into - and more about making sure my team stayed varsity champions. I entered as many races as I could, hoping one of them would stick.

During my 1500m, I had a panic attack so bad that I dropped out of the race. I veered to the side and sobbed through shallow breaths while my coach tried to make sense of what had gone wrong. I turned it around for the first leg of the medley relay (800-200-200-400), but nearly lost it again in the 4x400m.

As the first runner, my job was to come out in the lead so everyone could coast off of me. For the first 300 metres, I did exactly that. On the last hundred, my legs buckled and I tripped over myself, dragging my team down from first to fifth. I passed the baton to my teammate and stood frozen, watching as the rest of my team made up for my mistake. We made it back to first place on the final leg, exploding into cheers when my teammate secured us the provincial champion title.

Standing on the relay podium, and then the varsity girls one, was the culmination of everything I’d worked for since I’d started running six years prior. I was immensely proud of that moment - and deeply ashamed of all the times I’d failed along the way.

Leaving my school a varsity champion legacy almost made the pressure I put myself through worth it. But as soon as I graduated, I knew I never wanted to feel that way again.

__

I started university at Carleton that fall, and briefly looked at joining their track and field team. Without a scholarship, one season would cost me as much as my textbooks for the entire year. So I tucked my dream away, went for quiet runs on my own, and worked out at the campus gym instead. When I found out that one of the coaches on my high school team had made advances on some of my teammates for years, the memories of my running career became tainted, and I never wanted to go back.

Then, three years into university, naked in the bed of someone I was dating, I heard the words, “Do you work out? Because I can’t tell.”

It was one of the meanest things anyone’s ever said to me, and an anorexic’s worst nightmare. But because I didn’t have the self confidence to break up with him then, I went home and started googling gyms across Ottawa. I secured a front desk job in exchange for a membership that same week.

My anorexic and orthorexic habits came back with a vengeance. I worked out nearly every day, never nourishing myself with more than a protein ball from the fridge stock. I eventually got the body I wanted, though I can see now I never should have been body shamed or starved into it. Even when I returned home for Christmas break or reading week, I would buy gym memberships elsewhere so I didn’t have to skip a workout day (which, ironically, is how I started at the gym I go to now).

During the pandemic, I was forced to slow down and came to terms with my eating disorder. Alongside a therapist, and months of logging my food intake, I began to rebuild a healthy relationship with food. It’s been three and a half years in recovery, and I still have days where body dysmorphia tries to pull me back into the same traps it used to. Ten years of disordered conditioning did damage to my mind and body that I know will take the rest of my life to unravel.

And yet, every full nourished day - which is almost all of them now - feels like a win, more in alignment with the unconditional love I have for myself and my body.

__

Of course, health journeys are not linear.

There’s an adage out there that says people don’t get into distance running unless they have some serious demons to fight. Mine came to a head in 2023, during one of the darkest times of my life. In the span of nine months, I had been exploited and traumatized abroad, gone through a mental breakdown, lost (whom I then thought was) the love of my life, and moved back in with my parents. My anxiety was at an all-time high, and I relapsed hard into my anorexic (and occasionally bulimic) habits.

I was at rock bottom, when I picked up a book called Ten Simple Solutions to Panic. When I saw that it suggested running, I laughed.

Yeah right, I thought, running makes me anxious more than anything. But this book had a point - by controlling scenarios in which our hearts beat faster than usual (cardio), we are better able to remain in control of our minds when our bodies enter a fight or flight state. I decided to run a 5 kilometre loop around my neighborhood to test its theory.

My first 5k took me over 30 minutes to finish, and it was hard. But by the end, my mind was clearer and I felt better, so I kept running. It was the only thing that eased my devastating heartache - often, I would picture my ex waiting at the finish line for me, with a promise that we’d get back together if I made it there.

That never happened. But the more I ran, the more I wanted to race, to see if I still had it in me. Exposure therapy, I told myself, it’ll help with the anxiety too.

One month post-breakup, I signed up for my first 5k charity race and came in seventh overall. Excited about my progress, I texted a picture of myself to my ex beside my race time. When I look at that picture of me now, my heart aches. Hiding myself in a baggy hoodie, my smile is wide but there is little light behind my eyes. At the same time, that photo makes me feel proud, knowing it’s a representation of where I was when I started running, and just how far I’ve come.

These days, I practically bounce through the gyms of Winnipeg, overflowing with confidence, excitement and passion for my life and the people within it. I’ve won multiple races, and brought my 5k time down to a 20:30. I lead the pack at run clubs and work part-time as a cycle instructor, where I now get to inspire self-transformation in others through movement. My progress, in both running and my mental health, has been massive. And none of it would have happened, if the younger, anxious version of me hadn’t been brave enough to take those first few steps outside her house and try running again.

—

But it wasn’t just running that made me brave. Getting to the point where I could run a half-marathon took a certain kind of tenacity that only the most hellish of situations could pull out of me. While I was lucky enough to make it out of my teenage years without being abused by one of my running coaches. I cannot say the same about my twenties.

I joined the Winnipeg running community spring of 2024, after returning from a three-month stint in London. When a leader in the running community asked me to join their run club, I obliged, thinking it would be an opportunity to get better at my sport and meet new people along the way.

Those things did happen. But that leader had ulterior intentions behind their invite, using running as a channel to pursue a secret relationship with me, and as I would come to find out, other women. It started subtly - a free drink, a lower back graze, a loaned hoodie on cold nights - and later escalated to them using me for my body. I fell for it, thinking these moves were sweetly made for me. When I learned that they never were, that I was never the only one, I confronted them and was verbally abused, gaslit and harassed for it.

I won’t repeat here the awful things they said to my face and behind my back. What I will tell you is that overnight, my running community became a painful reminder of the person who traumatized me. For months afterward, I suffered from panic attacks, nightmares, and rolling waves of nausea about what had happened to me. I seriously considered quitting running, and Winnipeg, for good, especially when my story wasn’t taken seriously by some of the runners around me.

Still, I persevered, adamant that this person would not steal from me the very thing that kept me moving forward. When my friends Matt and Jenna invited me to run a race with them in Hilo, Hawai’i, I leapt at the opportunity to escape my hometown. I didn’t have the stamina to run the half-marathon with them, but I knew I could summon the strength for a 10k.

My race was disastrous; I took a left turn so bad, it ended in a full kilometre detour. Still, I ranked in the top ten, and proved to myself I could run longer distances. The second I returned home, I signed up for my first half-marathon. 21.1 kilometres was double the longest distance I had ever run, and I had twelve weeks to train for it, the cutoff for most training plans. But despite my nerves, I got to work, joining multiple run clubs and tracking my wins along the way.

Early on in my training, I read a saying that of my runs, I would be lucky if 1/3 felt great, 1/3 felt okay, and the other third felt awful. That adage absolutely felt true to me. Some weeks, my runs felt so awful, I wondered if I was cut out for the sport; yet every bad run would be followed by one that left me feeling on top of the world. I still remember the first time I ran an 8k paced under 5:00/kilometre, wondering if I’d ever repeat that again - something I now repeat every week. Or the time I ran 19 kilometres at a 4:38/kilometre pace to prove to my inner critic that I could maintain my speed well beyond the 5k races I’d once stuck to. Gaining mastery over the challenges that once intimidated me was an immensely rewarding process, and to this day, it remains part of what keeps me striving for progress.

Mostly though, what has stood out to me through the training process has been the running community. Since I was abused by a run leader, I have gone into fight or flight nearly every time I’ve seen them - that part has never gotten easier. But as soon as I get a few hundred metres ahead of them and catch my breath, I remind myself that they are an anomaly in the midst of hundreds of other good people.

People who have gifted me advice on training, nutrition and hydration.

People who have gotten excited to take photos or grab a post-run beverage together.

People who have shrieked seeing me at cross-training gym sessions.

People who have asked about my next race and assured me, time and time again, that I would crush it.

The person who said awful things to me and about me was wrong. But the people who have cheered on my athletic endeavours and believed in me every step of the way?

Those people have always been right.

—

Twelve weeks of training later, race day arrived.

I woke to the sound and light of my alarm - seagulls, set specifically to annoy me so I couldn’t sleep through it - at 4:30. I groaned. I could just miss this, right? I reminded myself that I didn’t invest $150 and three months of training not to run today.

I rolled out of bed and into my marathon clothes: baggy shorts, sports bra, synthetic socks, running vest stuffed with gels, headphones and my keys. I pinned my bib to my bra and tossed a sweatsuit over top. I pulled my hair tight into a ponytail and then braided it, my tried and true workout style. In everything I did, I made sure not to stray from anything familiar.

I ate fruit and honey for some quick release energy, and packed three liquids for the drive: water, cold brew, electrolytes. Gym bag loaded, I drove to Investors Group Stadium and blasted my race playlist along the way. Having added some techno songs the night prior, I checked to see how they meshed with everything else in my mix. I suppressed a giggle about my race playlist and demeanor not adding up.

I parked far enough away that the walk technically counted as a warmup. Even from my vantage point, there were cars everywhere. They weren’t kidding when they said 15,000 people. Still, Winnipeg being small Winnipeg, I immediately bumped into my friend Simon from run club. His mom was holding a sign that said 2:53. 

“For the full?” I asked. “That’s fast.”

“I know,” he replied, “I’m trying to make Boston.”

I assured him he would.

At the stadium, I ran into one of my closest friends, MacKinley, and enveloped him in a hug.

“Crazy to think that three months ago you convinced me to sign up in the gym lobby, and now here we are, actually doing it.” I told him.

He reminded me that no matter what, even a crawling finish would count. “But you’re speedy,” he commented, “So you’ll be fine.” I smiled, hoping his prediction would be right. He dashed off to greet other friends, and I joined the long bag drop line, making small talk with the girl beside me. When I dropped my bag, I told her I had to run - quite literally - to the start line, and we wished each other luck on our races.

I weaved through hundreds, if not thousands, of people, while the announcer yelled, “First wave of half-marathoners, to the start line.” Aside from my walk to the stadium, I had not warmed up, and knew I was out of time now. I found the 1:40 pacer and made myself known to him. “Stick with me for a bit, and then take off” he told me, and I nodded. He knew I was aiming for a 1:36. 

But ahead of me was my running counterpart, Jenna. I gasped and ran up to give her a hug with the little time we had left. “Hey girl!” she exclaimed, and fist bumped me. “You’ve got this.”

When the ten second countdown commenced, I started up my Strava and Spotify. The race began before I could press play.

Holy shit. We’re going. This is real.

I started slow, scared to burn out too early. I kept Jenna in my line of sight as long as I could, and passed a few other familiar run club faces in the first couple of kilometres. I’m used to leading the pack at run club; here, there were people everywhere. I couldn’t tell who was a half marathon runner, so I settled into a pace I thought I could hold the entire race. I reminded myself, You can’t control who passes you. You can only control how fast you go.

I ran past the first water station, where a band was set up playing music. I was blasting EDM so loud I couldn’t hear them, but flashed a smile and thumbs up their way anyways. I passed the second water station without stopping. When the marathon and half-marathon split and the crowd thinned out at kilometre eight, I breathed a sigh of relief. I know a lot of people like the buzz of a crowd, but I prefer leaving people in the dust.

I tried drinking one of my gels with some water, and almost threw up. So it’s that kind of run day, I sighed, and tucked my water bottle away. Thankfully, I had hydrated well in the days prior to the race, and knew that would carry me through; but it was admittedly frustrating to have my body refuse to cooperate with me less than halfway through the race.

In came a small, protesting voice that said, I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough. I took a deep breath and applied everything I had learned in therapy. In my time studying Internal Family Systems, I learned that there are many parts of me that coexist at once, and that living at peace with myself requires me to get to their root rather than push them away. I asked myself who was speaking, and the answer came instantly: the sixteen-year-old version of me, still suffering with performance anxiety. 

You’re safe with me, I told her. There’s no scholarship or provincial championship on the line anymore. You’re twenty-six now. All you have to do is put one foot in front of the other.

Okay, the little voice said. With that, I was back to running as my confident self on the home stretch of my longest race yet. Eleven kilometres down, ten to go.

The next stretch was so gorgeous I couldn’t help but capture it. We ran past the Bridge Drive-In (Winnipeg’s cutest ice cream parlour), and then wove into a neighbourhood so tree lined that if I wasn’t running on pavement, I would have mistaken it for a forest. There, I saw a waawaashkeshi (deer) cross the street, then another, then another. It was quieter here than anywhere else, and I thanked Gssemenido (Creator) for it. In came a few reflections. There is still nature all around us worth preserving. Mother Nature will be here, giving life, long after we are gone. I reminded myself that it was a privilege to be here, safe enough to be running toward something rather than away from danger, and to have this small moment to take it all in.

Shortly after that, I hit my wall. My glutes and hamstrings seized up, and the sneakers that had carried me through the first seventeen kilometres now felt like bricks strapped to my feet. I was angry, and tired, and just wanted to go home. Once again, I meditated to get through. One by one, I visualized each coach who had cross-trained me at my gyms over the past few years cheering me on. Picturing the nuances of each one - what they would say, the mannerisms of their applause, how loud they would yell - made me feel like they were on the course with me. And when my ex-coaches and ex-partners filtered through my mind, I let my anger at the way they treated my teammates and I push me through.

I turned a corner, and realized I did have a friend cheering me on in all this. Evan could not have been shouting at me with a megaphone at a more opportune time - seeing him made me pick up my pace in spite of my aching feet. Three kilometres to go until it’s done. You can pass out or throw up at the finish line, but you have to get there.

One step at a time, I kept moving forward. When the last sponge station appeared, I greedily doused myself. A man had brought his portable sprinkler, and I flagged him to splash me with that too. I was now cool enough to make it through the last stretch down Pembina in the blazing heat.

I smiled at all the cheesy signs I passed.

“You’re doing great, random stranger!”

“You chose this over therapy?” 

“Remember when he cheated on you?”

“Tap here for a power up!”

Watching the city come out in full force to support strangers almost made me cry. There are days I hate living in small Winnipeg, but this would not go down as one of them.

I passed the last kilometre sign and weaved through runners as the corral funneled us down to a single lane. I barrelled in so fast the volunteers pointed for me to move left. Finally, the stadium was in view, and my inner sprinter kicked in to finish at full speed.

I started crying the second I crossed the finish line. I did it. I finished a half marathon. The first thing I did was check my Strava. There it was. 1:34 for the 21.5 kilometre race, 1:32:15 for my official half-marathon time. I had cleared my goal by four minutes.

I had just enough time to take off the shoes that were killing me before running into a nightmarish figure from my past - the coach who had abused my high school teammates all those years ago. When he greeted me, I did not hug him. When he said, “I thought that was you!”, I asked if my other coaches were around. As quickly as I could, I broke away from him to find the people I actually wanted to celebrate this achievement with. At sixteen, he held immense power over me; at twenty-six, I knew I owed him nothing. 

I talked to a lot of people about their races, but the one that stood out for me was one of my my run club friends. When I hugged him and asked how it went, he told me he’d had a tough week, which had impacted his performance.

“That’s okay,” I said, “Of course the things we go through outside of here bleed into our runs. What’s going on?”

“Everything in my life, all the trauma I’ve ever been through, blew up this week,” he replied, and then whispered, “I almost took my life Wednesday.”

I got chills, and then I started crying. Because two years ago, struggling against the hellish depths of my own anxiety, I had nearly done the same thing.

“And you’re still here,” I smiled up at him, tears welling my eyes. “The fact that you finished in spite of the battles you’re facing right now, at all, is incredible. I’ve been there too, and I promise you life will get better on the other side. You just have to stick around to see it.”

I gave him a hug. “Thank you, for getting it,” he told me. “Of course,” I assured him. “Thank you for opening up to me. I would be devastated if you were gone. And know that I’m always here if you need to reach out and vent.”

I found Jenna so I could congratulate her on her own race. I was certain she had run under 1:30, and I was right. Simon had cleared his 2:53. All around me were friends who’d crushed the goals they had set. And the beautiful thing about it was, no one thought themselves better than anyone else. Everyone was proud of everyone, no matter their pace. To feel that, and celebrate in a massive football stadium together, made for an epic end to a comfort-zone breaking day.

—

On my first half-marathon, I placed 87th overall (out of 2808), 14th by gender (out of 1,144) and 3rd in my age category (25-29 years) - not to mention, I crushed my all-time longest run and beat my time goal along the way. I proved to myself that I could do hard things, and commit to the challenges I set for myself. In that way, distance running has become a metaphor for other areas of my life, one that shows me what I’m truly capable of.

On a deeper note though, I run because it keeps me moving forward.

According to research from the University of Texas, a brain protein called brain-derived neurotrophic factor (BDNF) is boosted when running - helping the brain to re-establish control and context after trauma, and therefore, a newfound sense of safety. I know this personally to be true.

For every post-run meal I have eaten on this journey, I have proven to my middle school self that she no longer has to starve herself to achieve perfection.

Every race I have entered has proven to my sixteen-year-old self that performance anxiety no longer holds power over her.

Every run club I’ve shown up to has proven to current me that no one, no matter how abusive, has the power to keep me from my sport, my community or my friends.

And for every half-marathon I have finished, one foot in front of the other, I have proven to myself that I’m not just moving forward - I’m in the process of leaving the past traumas that have weighed me down behind.

At sixteen, I thought my running career was over.

At twenty-six, and a hell of a lot more speed, I know it’s just getting started.