Leaning into the Pain

I went for a run this weekend. I hated every minute of it.  I don’t always feel that way when I go running, but I passionately despised my weekend run. Yes, those are strong words; nonetheless, they accurately convey the strong feelings I had. Sweat pouring out from every part of my body. The sun’s scorching rays beating down on me. My inner thighs burning as I went up the hills. Cars passing me. Stop lights distracting me. Branches scratching my face. Potholes swallowing my feet. With each step on the road, my knees ached. I felt myself getting more tense with each stride. Every part of me hurt. Why I chose to run in the middle of the day with the sun at its highest point, I do not know. But there I was, pounding the pavement yet again. Why I have yet to buy new running shoes, I do not know. Any runner will tell you to invest well and invest often in shoes. “You won’t regret it!” they declare. Yet, I haven’t bought new shoes in at least three years. Who knows how many miles they have on them. No wonder my knees throb every time I go out. Miserable. Tense. Fighting. Losing. Frustrated. Hurting.

But then I remembered that text Jen sent me. “Lean into the pain” she wrote. She wasn’t talking about just running either. She was replying to my text: “Jen, when does the pain stop? When will it stop hurting so much?” But she didn’t tell me when the pain would stop; she just said to “lean into it.” What the heck does that mean?! How do I lean into the pain that my heart feels? Yet, in great Jen fashion, she didn’t come out and give me all the answers; instead she told me to go for a run. A brutal run. Then near the end of the run, find a hill. “A big hill.” One that my legs don’t know if they can make it up. “Get up that hill,” she said. Make it to the top. Run. Walk. Jog. Crawl. Take a break if you have to. But get up the hill she said. And as the pain builds, lean into it. Don’t ignore it. Don’t wish it away.

And so, I went for a run. When I got to that hill, I wanted to cry. It looked like too much to handle. I couldn't see the other side. Aching. Pounding. Hurting. But, turning back wasn't an option. So, I leaned into the pain the best I knew how. I relaxed my muscles. I allowed my arms to drop. I didn’t distract myself with music or random thoughts or the scenery around. I pushed. Sometimes my steps slowed. But I allowed myself to feel the pain. Hurting. Quitting. Feeling inadequate. Not enough. Weak. Exposed. Alone. Ugly. Messy. Dirty. Sweaty. Downright crappy. Heart beating out of my chest. Drivers on Rt. 1 watching all the while. But I kept running. I kept leaning, leaning into the pain. Allowing myself to feel it. Making space for it to wash over me, to envelop me. Suffocating. Hard. Doubting. Brutal.

And then, it ended. Not the pain. The pain persisted. The run ended. I made it to my destination, the top of the brutal hill. But, the pain refused to stop when my body did. Heart still pounding. Knees still aching. I could barely lift my arms. Every muscle screamed out at me. My throat begged for water. My feet continued to swell. My hands were still shaking. Then slowly, little by little, the pain lessened. The pounding diminished to a steady beat. The aching knees and legs gave way to soothing stretches. The heavy breathing returned to a normal pace. Water cooled my dry mouth and throat. My swollen feet basked in the fresh air as I quickly removed my socks and shoes. Stretching. Hydrating. Recuperating. Resting.

I turned around. I looked back down the hill. Had I really made it to the top? What if this isn’t the end? What if another hill awaits me? What if more pain lurks on the horizon? Is there a way to conquer the hills without experiencing the pain? Will I ever be able to face the hills and avoid the pain? Am I better off just avoiding the run altogether? Staying inside? Does anything good come from the pain? Is the freedom running brings worth more than the pain that accompanies it?

They say (whoever “they” are), “Pain is good. It lets you know you’re still alive.” I hate that saying, yet the pain of running reminds me that I can run. The pain of life tells me that I’m alive, that I can truly care, that I’m not a simple robot, that I’m more than just mechanical. And, the pain of running...the hurting, the heaving, the pounding...the pain of running somehow makes the other moments--the resting, the majestic skies, the vast fields, the steady breathing, the beauty--those moments become more special, more intimate, more cherished.