The post It’s Brave to Collapse Next to the Trail appeared first on iRunFar.
[Editor’s note: This article was written by ultrarunner and adventure-lover, Krista Olson.]
One of the most powerful moments in trail running is when you can’t take another step. There is a visceral opportunity for a deep surrender when we’re collapsed next to the trail. But first, let’s start at the beginning.
We were all once a small child learning to walk and then run for the first time. Delighted with ourselves and our bodies, marveling at these new sensory experiences and backyard adventures. Watching a toddler freefall into a spirited downhill running moment is exalting. Full tumble forward, gliding, flying, magical, glee ahead. They move without abandon, fully embodied and fully trusting that all of the cells of their body know how to work together to propel them forward. Their tiny legs and big hearts open and step, reach and jump, trust and leap. They run for that moment. They run for joy and curiosity and play.
Fast forward to the life of adulting, where we often feel weighed down by responsibility and years of molding ourselves into who we think the world needs us to be. I think many people enjoy trail running because it brings us out of being who we should be, dissolving expectations and responsibility, and melting into just being. We’ve all been there deep in a long adventure where we’ve taken off all of the layers of masks and become raw, wild, true, beautiful. We are one with ourselves, one with nature, in the flow, floating above the trail and just knowing there’s nowhere else to go and just to be. But for many of us, this doesn’t appear in an instant like it might for a pure-spirited child. It takes miles of warm up and cultivating an intention of exploration and curiosity.
And so like a sweet, open-hearted small child running with glee, we run for joy and curiosity and play, for this moment. And then the next moment. We become the truest version of ourselves. And this expanded person who delights in adventure and stands in awe on the mountain top is authentic and true.
But also, we’ve all fallen, collapsed, gotten lost, injured, destroyed and flattened; maybe even sprawled out on a pee-stained mattress next to a trash pile at some point in our trail running journey. Let’s imagine for a moment that this might be like that small child running full glee ahead and then tumbling down a rocky patch, landing with a skinned knee. Shocked by having our legs taken out from under us and the sharp stinging of pain and trickling red hot blood.
As a parent who has viscerally experienced this moment many times with all my beautifully wild children, my heart beats a little faster and with a deep exhale, I scoop them up into my lap and hold them like we’re all held by mother earth. A deep redwood tree hug with expansive roots reaching around them with deep, deep calm, compassion, support and safety. I say, to my child and to myself, “That really hurt. I can see that you’re sad, angry and scared. It’s ok to feel a lot. It’s ok to be in pain. It’s ok not to be ok when things are not ok. Let’s take a moment just to be here together, knowing you’re held, knowing that your pain is held, your emotion is held and that all of you is held.” It is equally powerful to have this moment of falling pain be true on our adventure journey. It’s ok to be the adventurer who tripped and faltered, crying out in pain and defeat next to the trail.
During my one and only 100-mile race, I had quit before I had ever even taken a single step on that course. Looking back through video and photos, there was a haunting look of terror on my face. There was a pronounced uncertainty in my spirit and a lack of confidence in my body. I barely slept the night before.
I found myself going through the motions on race day but with a lack of reality, almost a dissociative quality. My family made a sweet home video of the adventure. I remember sharing my thoughts before the race, being scared to admit, even amongst my closest family members, that I want to run 100 miles to show the little girl inside of me that her body can accomplish amazing things. But I wasn’t actually sure if my body could indeed do amazing things, so I wasn’t bold enough to say it out loud.
The uncertainty and wavering trust in my body started on the morning of my fourth birthday when I woke up unable to walk. The distant memory of this moment isn’t so much a memory as a feeling of panic, terror, lack of agency. I didn’t understand why my body couldn’t do the most basic human function of movement and walking and running. After months of testing, I was diagnosed with Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis (JRA) in every joint of my body.
My body was attacking itself for no logical reason. My body was attacking its joints, the parts that hold all of our parts together and not allowing them to have movement. My childhood was filled with being told what my body could not do. I was told that I couldn’t play soccer, so I played soccer. I was told that most kids with JRA were in a wheelchair and that if they could stand, they couldn’t have the flexibility or mobility to touch their toes. So I created my own little life of modern medical miracle and performed my toe-touching act on command at my bi-annual appointments to Children’s Hospital.
This early childhood diagnosis and constantly having limits set for me, developed a personality of saying “yes” when others say “no,” full of passion, determination and belief that the impossible is possible. I am so grateful for this part of me and marvel at all that we’ve accomplished together. But the flip side is that when I stumble upon a challenge, my go-to is to push hard no matter what. This part of me excels at “doing,” problem solving and taking action. This part of me doesn’t want to see the little girl inside of me with a skinned knee. It struggles to give permission to cry next to the trail in a temporary defeat and pushes forward to get back up and charge forward. This part of me pushed along in my first 100-mile race with incredible veracity for 95 miles until it just couldn’t run on fumes anymore.
At mile 95, I sat down on the side of the dirt road and said, “I’m done. Done. 100% done.” There wasn’t a part of me that wanted to take one more step.
Expansion and Contraction
There’s this concept that is discussed in different extreme healing practices called “expansion” and “contraction.” We can reach for the stars and often make it all the way there, but oftentimes this is followed by a valley of similar depth. How often do we run an incredible race, or embark on an amazing adventure, only to crash hard afterwards. During my first 100-mile race, I had the challenging experience of reaching the completion of my expansion mid-race and beginning to contract and collapse along the journey at mile 95. And although I am so grateful I was able to find motivation to continue onward, I want to pause for a moment and bring curiosity to what the experience might have been if I had simply stopped.
One of my favorite parts of ultrarunning is that it is a sport that encompasses all of the capacity of being a human. I don’t imagine there is an ultrarunner alive who hasn’t come completely undone on the side of a trail — tears and snot streaming, utter defeat. We summit mountains and we collapse in valleys. We feel exalting joy and exalting despair.
If there was one wish that I could have for my children, it would be to give yourself permission to be your whole, beautiful human self. You are amazing when you accomplish your goals. You’re amazing when you come up short. It’s brave to say “yes” to climbing mountains, and it’s brave to say “no” when you’ve reached your end, even if it’s at mile 95 with only five more miles until the finish line. Sometimes it’s even more brave to say no or to stop.
We all could use a permission slip to listen to all of the parts of who we are: to have a heart-to-heart with ourselves and give space for the part that dreams big and accomplishes even grander, as well as the part that feels despair or fear, and who needs permission to contract, to rest in darkness and pain, to exist in the collapsed moment of a fallen body and a skinned knee. There is beauty in both experiences.
Giving Ourselves Permission
And so, I feel privileged to be in a community of adventurers, who choose to journey many miles of trail, to the fuller embodiment of all of the facets of their humanness. For a moment I will imagine giving myself permission to be brave and celebrate an imaginary world of ending my race at mile 95. I also give permission for how brave it was to keep going. You see there isn’t a specific route on our journey of adventure. My hope is that we can just keep giving permission to be both expanded at the mountain top and collapsed at the bottom.
To my children, I fully embrace all of the parts of adventure and all of the parts of you. I’ll be next to you along our trail journeys, holding space for it all. I will be there celebrating the beauty of who you are when you are brave enough to sit with a skinned knee, collapsed next to the trail. I will also be there celebrating the beauty of who you are when you joyfully leap over the finish line of your life’s adventures. Just keep being you, all of you.
Call for Comments
Did this piece resonate with you? Have you had a similar experience?
