Our future selves

What running means for me now + inspiration from my driveway, 48th birthday edition

Running in downtown Traverse City, Mich. a few years ago. Moment captured by my friend and photographer Beth Price.

My first few strides beyond our mailbox and on the flat stretch of road leading to the trailhead feel effortless, invigorating. The winter air is chilly—not frigid, not so cold that it’s tough to breathe—and I welcome it all: the freshness of the morning, the quiet of the neighborhood street, the dusting of newly fallen snow brightening everything.

It’s been a few days—alright, more than a week—since my last run. It’s also my birthday. My body is itching for some movement, but even more, my mind craves the feeling of having run. I want that satisfaction that comes after going outside, moving in the cold, then returning home where it’s warm and a hot shower and great food are waiting. This is what makes the run all the sweeter, especially these days when I am trying to figure out what running looks like for me after years and years of knowing exactly the kind of relationship I wanted—and had—with this sport. The reality of the run itself may fall short of where I wish I was, endurance- and strength-wise, but at least I’ll feel good afterward about getting out the door and breaking a sweat.

On this day, though, I am feeling strong even as I begin running; it doesn’t feel like trudging. But of course I do know better than to think this entire run will feel seamless—never, ever trust the first mile (or those first steps past your driveway). This is true whether those first few minutes on your feet feel good, or they are an absolute slog-fest and feel downright terrible. Stick with it, keep going, I’ve learned over the years. And on those occasions when it actually feels amazing at the very start, as I’m experiencing at the moment, slow your roll and don’t become overly confident. You want that good, strong feeling to remain throughout the miles ahead.

I realize I need to reign in my enthusiasm soon enough as I round the second corner, close to a mile in, and I’m breathing hard. I’m also warming up more than I want; I didn’t need that second long-sleeve layer, after all. 

Cue the frustration and negative self-talk. Maybe you’re just not going to ever get back to that kind of runner you once were. You’re definitely slower, that’s for sure. Maybe you should just focus on being more of a cyclist, or a cross country skier. You’ve got your Pilates. Walking is good, too—just be a walker.

I’m tired of this mishmash of chatter in my brain that’s been showing up, messing with me, during my attempts at some semblance of a running groove these past few months. But this morning, maybe because it’s my birthday or maybe because I’ve just had enough of that already, I don’t let these thoughts creep in. At all. I choose a different story, and I’m actually believing it.

I slow to a walk, telling myself I’ll pick it back up at the stop sign maybe 20 yards ahead, and that’s totally OK. My breathing returns to normal. I hold my head up, focus on my strong legs. I pump my arms. 

I’m moving. I am going forward. I am strong and I am out here doing this. So what if I am walking for a bit? I’ll get going again in a few moments. All is well.

I reach the corner where I can either turn left or turn right. I choose left, pick up my pace, and keep going.

—

A day earlier, on Friday of this week, my dad picked me up late in the morning to get an early birthday brunch together. We go to one of his favorite spots, a diner about a 10-minute drive away, because I’m in the mood for a greasy-eggy breakfast. 

It’s just the two of us, and though we see my dad often, it’s been awhile since just the two of us have hung out together, without the pressure of Things To Do. Often I’m feeling pressed for time when I see him—he’ll stop by during the day to say hi and we’ll talk quickly before I need to head into my next Zoom meeting, or he comes by for a weekend breakfast with my family and I’m either busy cooking or, after we all eat, thinking about ticking off some to-do list items or walking dogs or remembering to throw in that load of laundry. 

At this moment, we’re sitting across from each other in a corner booth, catching up without the worry that I’ll need to hurry off to something else before long. As we wait for his omelet and my hash brown-egg scramble, we talk about the latest with my kids, his plans to travel north to see my older brother for Christmas, how he really likes this restaurant because it provides free meals every day to anyone who needs one, something that started during COVID and continues; more than 100,000 free meals for kids and their families have been served over the past few years, the chalkboard next to the kitchen reveals. We drink lots of coffee. I’m completely in the moment; I wouldn’t be able to tell you the time if you asked, and I don’t really care to know.

When we finally do get back to my house, we sit in the driveway for a bit, still laughing and talking about anything and everything, including the wonder that is having kids grow older—“That’s what makes me realize just how old I am,” my dad says, “that I have a son in his 50s, and now you are 48.” I know what he means—I don’t necessarily feel 48, however that is supposed to feel, but I do feel especially “old” when I think about my kids’ ages, now 22, 20, and 17. If my firstborn is 22–22!?—then I must be the age I am—I must be “old.” I’m somehow not only “in my 40s” but actually late 40s, and really we might as well say “about 50.” 50? 

We talk about what it would be like to know what we know now back when we were young, like our early 20s. Imagine having that life wisdom (my dad has more than me, that’s for sure). Except of course that’s impossible—we must live our lives to gain the perspective and knowledge we come to have at any age. Still, this does lead me to think about something I’ve been telling, or really asking, myself lately: What is my future self going to thank me for? This thought has cropped up more and more for me as I find myself gravitating toward articles and podcasts that feature women older than me talking about their lives and what they’ve learned (this interview with Jane Fonda was especially interesting). I can’t get enough of their stories of feeling so confident in their older age. They’re pursuing their passions, living their lives on their own terms. They sometimes admit they wished they would have adopted their attitude of caring less about what others thought of them years earlier than when they finally did.

I don’t yet have the hard-won wisdom of a 55- 65-, or 75-year-old, but could I be doing some things today that I imagine my older self couldn’t help but like and appreciate? What will my older self like that I, a freshly-turned 48-year-old woman, am doing these days? What would she stand up and clap about, and say she was really proud of?

I’d like to think these things would be on the list:

• Being less afraid about speaking my mind and owning who I am.

• Going for that run (or walk or hike or whatever form of movement I choose), even when it feels hard. Just go.

• Reimagining what a life of movement can really look like. Maybe it’s not marathons and half Ironmans anymore; maybe it is. Maybe it’s snowshoeing in the woods by your house, for now. Just keep moving.

• Truly not sweating the small stuff. Or even the bigger stuff. This too shall pass. I think I’m getting better at knowing this.

• Reading and learning as much as I can. Keeping my mind open to new ideas.

• Going to bed earlier more often, because sleep—good sleep—does make me feel better, every time.

• Showing myself grace for staying up late sometimes, because sometimes this is just what I need (time alone to read, to talk uninterrupted with one of my kids, to write because I am feeling inspired).

• Staying connected with good friends, even when it feels impossible to coordinate schedules and even when a friend isn’t as responsive as I’d like—sometimes I’m the one who needs to carry a bit more of the load, and that’s OK. Sometimes it will be the other way around.

• Remaining curious about who I am, what I want out of this big and beautiful life, and what I can give to my people and to the world.

• Writing the book I know is within me. And, always, keep writing.

• Knowing I’ve gone through a lot and have survived a lot—and drawing upon these experiences to keep pushing through harder moments. I’m still here and what a gift that is.

Embracing the cold, and each passing year.

—

My birthday run did involve a few more stops and starts. I walked up a big hill after climbing a short section of it. I paused to fiddle with my playlist and find another song. My lungs started burning toward the end of the last mile, when I pushed myself to run strong in the final stretch. I noticed it took me awhile—much longer than years past—to complete three miles. But I smiled as I approached my driveway, thinking about how many runs over the years have ended right there … how many times my strong legs and tired feet have kept going, on snowy mornings and sun-drenched summer days, and carried me through more miles that always brought me back home, to this driveway, and back to myself.

“How was your run?” Emma asked as I came back inside, my face flushed and nose dripping from the cold.

“So good,” I tell her.

And I meant it.

Happy 48th birthday to me.