I ran today. First time in two months.
School's been so nuts, I didn't have the head space to think about running or activity of any kind. It's a bloody Catch 22 though, because what I need the most when things are busy is to move my body. To shake out the cobwebs and get my creativity flowing, and to loosen my stiff neck and achy low back.
I almost cried when I first pushed the button on the treadmill to get me to 6 miles per hour. Breaking into a run felt so good. It felt like a homecoming. And I often cry when I feel like I'm coming home.
When I've spent too much time in my head and I finally settle into my body...tears.
When I meditate before bed after months of falling asleep to a show...tears.
When I talk to a friend and share something that's been eating at me...tears.
When Brett tells me I'm his favourite person after I've been scolding myself for sucking at something...tears.
Tears are my sign that I'm coming home. That I'm stepping deeper into life.
And today running was like that.
It never used to be, though. I used running to punish myself for being too large or eating too many sweets. I used to give myself a 60 minute minimum on the treadmill. I used to force myself to train for half-marathons that I never enjoyed running. Running was punishment.
Then I realized that exercise shouldn't feel like punishment, and I started letting my body decide how and for how long it wanted to move. It took a few years, but now running actually feels good. It feels like ME time. It feels like a homecoming.