Athlete

A few years ago, my kids gave me a Mother’s Day card that had a bunch of descriptive words about me. There were many nice words but one stuck with me: “athletic.”

Ha. I just about fell over when I saw it.

And there was the moment when I was in my college class, carefully picked because it would include no running, that the professor told me I was athletic.

Me. Who can hardly play a game of catch.

Oh, and a couple years ago when I was starting with a new personal trainer, she asked me what sports I played in high school. The answer was none. And then, she said, “Really? Because you are really athletic.”

I loved to swim when I was a kid. I delighted in riding my ten speed bike around the neighborhood. I don't remember being particularly averse to hikes. I wanted to read more than anything else, but being outside all fuel for my vivid imagination.

I’m not sure when I stopped moving my body, but I think it happened in my pre-teen years when I became conscious of my body. While other girls lost their baby fat, mine didn’t seem to go away. A missionary girl visiting Sunday School described me as “plump” to the class. It maybe was a compliment in the culture in which she had grown up, but it was a moment of revelation for me. The secret was out and everyone agreed that I was fat. I couldn’t hide it anymore.

Didn’t stop me from trying. I would do everything I could to avoid physical games to avoid looking as awkward and out of shape as I felt. You can imagine how well this worked for me. A vicious cycle of inactivity kept me from trying anything. While my peers grew in their physical capacity, I lost strength and tone. And most importantly, confidence.

In my early thirties, I began to dream about running through a meadow, free and happy. The dream was far a physical run. I felt locked up emotionally and spiritually as well. As my mind and heart began to heal, I was ready to let my body join in the dance. With several friends a part of the marathoning community, finally, at 37, I decided to start running.

I remember the first time I took a 5 mile run. I got to mile 2.5 on the trail and started crying. I was afraid to go any further. I didn’t know if I could. I didn’t know who I’d be without the story that I wasn’t an athlete. I kept running.

I ran my first half marathon at 38 years old. It was a glorious day for a women’s half marathon. Women all around me pushed their bodies to new levels. My children watched me run and even ran with me for several yards. All of my Saturday morning runs paid off as I shaved a minute off my average mile.

Since then, I’ve done two more half marathons and power walked one full marathon. I’ve taken a few years off due to knee and hip issues and I’m not sure I’ll be able to return. In the meantime, however, I’ve taken up weight lifting and gotten more serious about yoga.

So, it makes sense that in my daughters’ eyes, I am an athlete. I’ve learned that athleticism has no measurements or milestones. It requires showing up and pushing your body just a little further than you think you can go.

My self-concept is still catching up and I still look at elite athletes with intimidation. I grieve for the younger years that I spent hiding and covering up my body. And yet, on most days, I would agree that yes, I’m an athlete. I’ve run through that field and I keep opening up to the wonder of what my body can do and the gifts that it has to give.