Failing hurts.

The way things unfolded, I was convinced I was meant to be a pacer. Honestly, I'm not unconvinced even now that I've failed at it.
When I ran alongside Mark during the Rock N Roll marathon here in STL last October, the thought came to me that I would be really good at the task of pacing a group in a race.
This was a huge thing for me to think I would be good at anything, but I accepted the idea and even posted about it on Facebook. It was an idea I could really get behind even though I had no idea how I would even get a chance to try in a race.
Fast forward a few months, and on a whim one day I googled "how to be a pacer" then "race pacing". I found a website with one mans email plastered on it. Without a second thought, I emailed and asked boldly, "How can I do this?" He responded a few hours later and by then I had lost all nerve and was shocked when he suggested I fill out an application and then do a phone interview the next day.
The very next morning, as I ran with my friends, I had completely convinced myself that I was not good enough to actually BE a pacer.
I got to work and talked to my boss- who happens to be one of my best friends as well- and asked her if I should just forget this whole idea, because I didn't have a recent PR to put down on the application. She suggested that I put down a recent time from a winter race I had done and encouraged me to send it in.
I was so hesitant but I did it anyway.
Then, the phone interview came. When pacer Jim asked me why I wanted to do this, my response was "I was born to do this". I meant it.
He then told me it just so happened he had a spot available for the half marathon for the Go! Stl race coming up 4 weeks later. I could not believe it.
I literally was handed a dream.
As all of my friends know, it is all I have talked about for weeks. I couldn't help me. ME, I was going to pace a group to their goal! ME!
I wasn't even nervous leading up to the race. I was nothing but excited. Not afraid to fail at all! I know that I can run a steady pace- especially anything in the 11 range because as our mileage piled up for marathon training, it was the pace we'd been running 90% of the time.
I was very nervous about fitting in with the other pacers. I was meeting serious over-achievers, after all, and I was consumed by the "I-don't-fit-ins". I didn't let them win, though. I showed up for my allotted time to serve at the race expo booth, and met several pacers during that 2 and a half hour span. Yes, they were very lean. Yes, their stories were of the Ironman and super-speedy marathon time variety. But, I held my own. I knew I was meant to be a part of this.
The next day was the pasta dinner; and by this point I was past the initial jitters of meeting a group of amazing athletes.I hadn't met everyone yet, but so far, so good.
I do not do well in social situations. This is probably why my best friends are the most outgoing, friendly people ever. I get to be the quiet side-kick that stands there and smiles nicely while they do the talking (Hello Jessie, Leandra, and Mark! I'm talking about you here!) But, I decided this was my chance to step out of my comfort zone and do the best I could. We sat with whole table of brand-new friends and had great conversation (yes, more ironman stories ensued)
Race morning came early; I was up and out of bed by 4:20. I wasn't nervous at all, which is so different for me for a typical race morning. But, of course, this wasn't the typical race morning. I had work to do!
We made it to the meeting place for photos and were out the lobby doors before 6:30. We made our way to the corrals and assumed our positions.
I began meeting very nervous runners shortly after. People with questions. People with concerns. People wondering if they could stick by me for the race. People who shared this was their longest mileage, their first race. A tiny Asian woman approached me and said she was told by her husband to stay with me the whole time. She asked if that was okay. I said it was of course, my pleasure. I announced that we'd be walking through water stations. I told everyone to wait for the later tables to drink. I told them I'd hold my pace sign high so that they wouldn't lose me. I was thanked no less than a dozen times for pacing.
We climbed a hill at mile 3 and I said loudly "If it were easy, everyone would do it!" and people clapped. By this time I had two guys running on each side of me, and they were both running their first race. We chatted about the city, about the beautiful day, about marathons. I encouraged each of them to give one a try someday.
Around mile 4, some confusion begin to set in about exactly where I was on pace. I say this because I had some mental math to do in regard to my chronograph compared to the clocks. Soon after my brain began trying to figure where we were on pace, another pacer approached me and asked what my thoughts were about the clocks. I told him his guess was as good as mine, and shared the knowledge I had in regard to the clock time when we began and whatnot.
His conclusion was that we were ahead by a little bit and that we'd keep that going. I knew I had him until mile 9.5 when he would carry on with the full course and those of us running the half would be making a turn.
Around mile 7, we began climbing a hill. I told the guy next to me to pick a visual- the stoplight at the top of the hill- and focus on getting to it. Things were going well. I had the other pacer there with me as a visual reminder that we were at a good pace.
About mile 8, I began to get worried because I hadn't been able to make sense of the clock times and I knew it was important to check in with pacing. With a handful of miles to go, if we were behind, we could pick it up still,and if we were ahead as I imagined we were,it would afford us an easy climb on the last hill up ahead.
Then, I began doubting my ability. And I began wondering if I was in fact on pace at all. Then, mile 9 came and I knew I was on my own with my group. I looked at my watch and tried desperately to do the mental math to see what time I was hitting at that mile in regard to my pace band and watches. First thought, we're off by 2 minutes.Then, no, we're right on. Then, maybe that isn't right either. Then, panic. Then, prayer. Then more prayer. Then, I told the guy next to me to carry on, to go ahead. Then before I could think twice, I stepped off the course, I found a dumpster, I threw my sign in, took my race bib off, and sat down in an alley and cried my eyes out for 15 minutes.
I was a failure. I was hurting so badly. I was so ashamed. It happened that fast.
I walked back to where I knew Mark was,which was mile 10 of the half and mile 25 of the full. I passed by my friends along the way who were looking for me. I couldn't bear to let them see me. I made it to the car, sat and cried to Mark for a few, and then I shut down.
I went to bed when I got home and stayed there until this morning when I got up as quietly as I could and left the house by 6:15 to get to work early before anyone would see me or have to interact with me. I have never in my entire life felt so ashamed as I did today and yesterday. I literally could not face even my husband.
I had him cancel my counseling appt. and I told him I'd not be going to other things we had planned this week. My friends had been sending kind text messages for 2 days but I couldn't bring myself to answer any of them.
I received an email from pacer Jim asking what had happened, he couldn't find my finish time? I told him what had happened. I thanked him for the opportunity and apologized for failing my duty.
Soon after, I received a race recap email that had my name and a red DNF (did not finish) next to my pace duty finish time.
I went outside and cried. Failure confirmed, just in case I had forgotten.
Late in the day I found myself typing my story to my friend at work and within a few minutes she had reminded me that I was brave enough to try, and that she was proud of me.
I decided to try and get back in to my couseling appt. I'm glad I did.
I was still very ashamed, but I went and saw my counselor-who is also a runner- who knew I was pacing yesterday..and told her what happened.
I told her I couldn't see the lesson and I surely couldn't make any sense of this meltdown.I told her I was so tired of getting in my own way.
I cried,a lot. She told me that this incident was very similar in many ways to the topic we've been slowly approaching in my usual sessions- the rape. I didn't understand. She then walked me through the similar feelings I had going into each event- excited, happy...and how each took dramatic turns and suddenly I was confused and afraid- and how I had the feeling I had to stop and get away.
Who knew? I certainly didn't. I am glad to know this now. I asked how do I get past this? She said I am missing a critical internal voice. The nurturing mother voice. The one that says hey, you can trust yourself, you've got this. She says we will work on this. I told her I am ready to learn.
She told me a story about a team doing this obstacle course that involved building trust. How every person was instructed that day to give what they believed was 100% effort. She said as each person went forward, their 100% looked very different. She suggested that I try to see that yesterday, I gave my 100% effort the best that I could. I did have a meltdown. I did not cross the finish line. I did not get my group from start to finish. I am so, so sad about that. I can't convey how sad I feel about that. I feel sad for myself, too. I deserve to trust myself.
Do you know, I looked at my watch, which I stopped when I stopped, and I did the math today, and I was EXACTLY where we needed to be. 11:20 pace at mile 9. I was right on. I had it in me to run that pace and I knew it going in.
I do not see the lesson here yet except this- I must learn to trust myself.
I am not sure how I will learn, but this certainly has given me the drive to move past my fears and learn to do so.

My story

As part of my new pacing endeavor, I was asked to write my story so it can be shared with others to inspire them.


To tell my story, I have to talk about all the things that got me to 320 pounds by the age of 30.
It isn’t easy to do, because in the act of overcoming, a whole lot of effort goes into leaving behind the bad stuff; the stuff that got me to 320 pounds to begin with.
But, I know that I have been blessed to be a blessing to those of you out there that are just starting your journey, and I am so grateful to be in a place in my life that I have a story like this to tell, so that is what I will do.
I grew up in a family of serious dysfunction. My mom was an alcoholic, and the disease killed her by the time I was 23. The emotional, verbal, and mental abuse was intense growing up. Being the baby in the family meant that when my brothers grew old enough to move out and get away, they did just that. That left me the prime target for her outbursts and attacks.
I didn’t know what ‘normal’ was growing up. I knew that our family had secrets, and I knew that when I spoke to school counselors and my mom would find out about it, the ridicule would ensue. What was wrong with me that I needed to talk to anyone about my problems or about our family? How dare I do such a selfish thing!
It was during these years that I began to turn to food for comfort. It was the one thing I could always count on. It was the one thing I was always given, the one consistent thing provided to me by my mother.
I was taught food was love, and boy did I embrace it!
When I was 21 I married a different kind of addict; a gambling addict. We were young, foolish, and soon found ourselves with a honeymoon baby on the way. I found out I was pregnant the same weekend he had left to have an affair with a person I had once called my best friend.
I thought it was my responsibility to “fix” my mother and I also thought it was my job to “fix” my husband.
As a matter of fact, they agreed that it was my job.
I failed miserably, of course, and the shame piled on in the form of overeating.
After my mom died, I went through about a 4 or 5 year stretch of depression that included eating a full box of Little Debbie brownies in a day. It also included a whole lot of medication that numbed me from feeling much of anything. I was turning to anything I could find to take the pain away.
Food, of course, was still my number one drug of choice.
Right after my 30th birthday, I decided to go see the doctor because I was feeling terrible.
The doctor did not mix her words. She told me that I was obese, and that I was also pre-diabetic.
I knew I was uncomfortable, but I didn’t realize how out of control my life had gotten. Nor did I realize how much I was hurting inside.
That very day I decided that changes had to be made.
First, I stopped drinking soda. Then, I bought a calorie-counting book and began learning about nutrition. Then, I began walking the dog. The exercise videos came soon after.
As I began to take back my life, I began seeing my marriage fall apart as a result. Change is a very threatening thing to people and this situation showcased that.
I began to believe that I deserved to feel better; that my daughter and I deserved to have electricity ALL days of the year and not just when my husband decided to pay the bill. I began seeing that maybe life didn't have to be this way;  maybe I WAS worthy of a good life.
Maybe losing weight had a whole lot more to do with taking a stand for myself and taking control of my life than it just had to do with counting calories.
I was empowered. I was terrified.
After a few more years of trying to break free, the day came that I took a stand for my daughter and myself.
I had no plan in place, but I was determined to not ever have to hear another lie again.
By the grace of God, we found our way and got on our feet. I was 152 pounds lighter by this time.
We began healing and started moving forward in a new direction. One that was void of drama, deception, and addiction.
During that time, I would walk in circles around our apartment complex after putting Madi to bed for the night.
I had so much stress, worry, anger, and hurt inside that I still hadn’t dealt with that there were many nights that I would stay out there for an hour or more, working through whatever I was feeling.
As the anger came out, I began to run for very short distances- the car 10 parking spaces up, for instance. Or to the corner. Or to the half way point around the building. I began running through the pain of the past. It was awful and it was exhilarating at the same time.
And then I measured the distance one day. It was a half mile loop. Then I began seeing how many laps I could do. The night I made it 7 laps around I cried. It took me months to get there, but I did it.
Then one day, the manager at my gym suggested that I run a 5k race.
My response was “Oh no, I am not fast. I could never”
And he explained that races were not about running to beat others, that they were social and fun and that everyone was in it together.
I didn’t believe him. And, I still wasn’t good enough to run one.
But, I looked up the race he had suggested anyway.
 And then, I signed up for it.
Shaking, utterly terrified, worried that I looked fat, that I was one big giant faker that DID NOT BELONG and the world knew it and would see it on my face when I showed up.
But, I showed up.
I showed up and I ran. And I panted, and I walked part of it, and I thought I might be dying. And about half way through, a woman next to me said “Hey is this your first race?” (Uh, can you tell by my red face and fact that I’m gasping for air that it may be my first?!) When I confirmed that it was, she said “It is mine too, let’s finish this together”
I was floored.
It was true- we were in this together and I belonged.
That race changed my life.
I really did barely make it across the finish line alive that day. I couldn’t wait to do another. I began running races every single weekend after that. As I ran, I learned that I am capable. I am worthy. I am able. I am blessed. Along the way, I learned what love really is. I married my best friend and fellow runner this past fall. We wore running shoes with our attire.
I learned that I feel more joy when I am moving than at any other time. I learned that I am my highest functioning self when I am running. I learned that I have been given a gift, to share with others and to be a living example that you can overcome if you’re willing to hear the truth about who you are instead of listening to who you aren’t any longer; and if you’re willing to show up despite your fears.
When I ran my first marathon, I learned that I am so much stronger than I give myself credit for. I learned that I really can do all things through God. I learned that there are runners right alongside me in any given race that have more amazing stories than I will ever have- and we are all on our way to the same goal; to make it through and to be better off as a result.
It all starts with showing up for yourself.