I feel guilty most of the time. Maybe I forgot the detergent or passed an opportunity to walk with a friend or worse I forgot a boy did not want school lunch. Likely and absolutely I let somebody down today, I might not know why but I am certain it happened. I heard a real writer discussing what it feels like in between books or projects. She admitted she feels a mess, completely human and has no idea how to navigate the world. But when she is writing things make sense, she feels more in control. Running does that for me and sometimes writing, but even as I begin this paragraph I am certain it will fall short, it won’t be what I envisioned. It won’t be worth your time or mine. It won’t mean anything.
Women are so cursed. We feel all the things and they are heavy. I spent the weekend with a band of badass females. So badass if I knew my grandmother could read this from heaven I would type badass a million more times and be proud not ashamed. I would not apologize to her for cursing. Because if you experienced even a sliver of our time together you would applaud my unabashed word choice—badass.
I felt guilty leaving for the weekend. Two nights, just two nights and I stocked the cupboards, made dog playdate plans and double checked every boy in my home had clean underwear. And even with all the preparation I had trouble letting go, feeling free. I assumed they would all fight and puddle, they would forget about my dog and she too would discover bitterness and resentment. Why did that lady think she could just leave us?
And the thing is I left to do a tough thing, an almost impossible thing. I wasn’t on a cruise or a wine touring weekend. I left to run a crazy trail marathon in some mountains. I left to overcome a fear. My inaugural trail race one year ago was painful in ways you imagine. Blood, cuts, wounds and incredible trepidation that every step would result in an open sore or worse yet a concussion when my head might finally land on a rock.
As I entered the woods for this second trip I had no idea how my body would react. I viscerally panicked for nearly the first 8 miles. My psyche remembered vividly the agony from pain, and fear while you wait for it to happen again. If you haven’t fallen skiing, biking or running I shall do my best to describe. The turbulence on an airplane times ten, throw in your body weight and crash into the ground in a split second with no idea if you will ever walk again much less run, bike or ski. It is absolutely terrifying. Will I land on that boulder next to me? Am I going to break bones or just skin my knees? In this second my body is likely never getting back up again. The thoughts before you crash while your body is trying to propel fast forward is nothing short of sheer terror.
Now you know why I panicked entering the trail for the second year. But you are asking me, why lady oh good lord why? I really hesitated signing up again. We had a full summer of kid baseball, camps, travel and much needed Minnesota pool time (rough life, no complaints truly). Like many of you, the kids schedules are nutty (we signed up for it, don’t apologize). So I knew training was going to lack, I knew I wouldn’t have time for two-a-days or hiking small peaks along the ski trails of Hennepin County. And then I pulled my hamstring showing off for my oldest, cartwheel after cartwheel in the basement some dumb Saturday night in June. I was wearing jeans people, I hadn’t stretched and I am 45 years old. This equation was not on my side. For nearly a month I sort of kind of could not run and yet I did. Because if you are a runner you know, if you are obsessed with anything you can relate. You simply cannot be stopped.
Yet something deep inside of me whispered you need to do this again. It needs to be on your terms. You need to conquer those mountains, you need to be the boss. Again the guilt. I’m not sure I could let it go. If I said no, if I didn’t sign up then I am weak and I lost. Oh the badass gals would empathize and truly understand. That’s the power of a girl band—no apologies please, we got you either way. But I am so dam stubborn. Thank you to all the Taylor genes, we are a stubborn lineage.
My last training run was back on the country roads of my family’s farm and the place I felt planted. I ran along Sugar Grove Road, the road I drove a thousand times as a teenager. I turned down the long lane passing my family cemetery. A giant stone simply engraved with Taylor stood before me in the morning sunlight and I cried. My grandparents, my beloved cousin and his sweet dog are remembered in this tiny corner amongst healthy trees and bountiful cornfields. This is when you come to understand oh alright it is not about the run, not about the cattle, not about the PR, not about the distance, not about the time you were hangry and told the carload to quiet—no not at all. It is all about the incredible gratitude you feel for having the gift, the purest present unveiled to you in delicious chili or a friend offering you her clean sweatshirt.
I am floored to know these women from my weekend. Some I just met, others I found a sister in almost a decade ago. It doesn’t really matter because we cemented this experience. They taught me in less than 48 hours more than a thousand therapy sessions could unveil. They taught and told me, don’t apologize, don’t fret. You are not for sale, no one can afford you and you deserve this. You are worth all these things, you can have these moments with us, to yourself, you can even keep it all to yourself. Hear the river, listen to the water, tell yourself over and over again—you matter and you do not have to feel guilty for wanting anything. Run on sweet girl, run your race and remember you too are truly badass.
running the dream living with boys 