Years ago, I was a chronically injured runner – stress fractures, torn tendons, you name it, I had it. This came to a blissful end about a year ago when I bid adieu to my most frustrating injury, a chronic hamstring tendinopathy that’s haunted me nearly my entire running career. Since then I’ve enjoyed remarkable growth as a runner, witnessing improvements in my strength, endurance and technique. I’ve returned to racing after a several-year hiatus and recently registered for what would be my eleventh marathon and first barefoot marathon!
My mirage of invincibility disintegrated suddenly just 10 days ago. Having completed a particularly hard week including a great 18-mile barefoot run just a few days prior, I was fatigued and sore. Just five miles into an “easy recovery run”, my hamstring seized up and left me limping home. My heart sank, recognizing that all-too-familiar pattern of pain that I’d battled since high school track and cross-country. I had re-strained my hamstring.
Over the years of incessant injuries I developed resilience and adaptability as I learned the invaluable benefits of a positive attitude for healing (and sanity!). This optimism has kept me on the fast track to healing, nurturing my health for optimal rehabilitation. During past injuries I would attack cross-training and strength work, diligently adhere to my physical therapy, and target my diet to heal as efficiently as possible. I have always been convinced that this is the best way – the right way – to approach recovery. The athletes I most admire would never let injury get them down, but attack it head-on with hard work and determination. The first few days after re-injuring my hamstring I was similarly optimistic. This is a minor bump in the road … just some fleeting soreness that a little massage, active release and acupuncture will nip in the bud, I convinced myself.
Yet 10 days of essentially no running (excepting a few very painful failed efforts) later, I can no longer feign positivity. I am in mourning and I am embracing it. This is a sadness that only a runner could understand. I am sad to have lost a defining piece of myself. A source of inspiration, energy, passion and power. My source of life. This admission comes with a heavy dose of embarrassment and guilt for such distress over what is truly a trivial matter. Rationally I’m deeply grateful for my remarkable fortune for my otherwise great health, a job I love, and the most wonderful friends and family. I have tried to deny this melancholy, to convince myself that this sadness is no match for my optimism. But that is a lie. Pretending that I don’t miss those hours alone on the road, that I don’t fear another long struggle with injury, is perhaps even more toxic than the negativity itself.
One day I will heal. One day I will run again. I know this. But for now, I am sad.