Thirteen years ago I stood on a scale and hated the number I saw for the first time.
I don’t remember what the digits were, but I knew they were higher than the number my friend saw. And suddenly these lines were no longer just empty numbers– they were empty vessels holding all my not enough-ness.
My 12-year-old body saw everything she was not reflected in these numbers: not skinny enough. Not pretty enough. Not smart enough, not responsible or mature enough. Not old enough. Not fast enough. Not funny enough, witty enough, nice enough.
Enough.
It’s been thirteen years. 13 years. And I’ve had enough. So I’m running 13.1 miles, one mile for each year, to prove it.
On Sunday, July 31st, I will run 13.1 miles through my new city, my new home, during the San Francisco Half Marathon.
I signed up almost five months ago while we were tipsy from the wine at one of my weekday dinner parties. Janine and Will were talking plans, about the marathon they signed up for. I decided I would join in and run the half, thinking, Oh, I have plenty of time to train! And in the midst of winter and still a few half-unpacked boxes, July seemed so far away. I signed up.
I’ve run one half marathon before, America’s Finest City in San Diego the summer after I graduated college. In the process I over-trained, pushing my body way past my limits until a stress fracture cut its way across my shin and left me limping for weeks. I never wanted to race again. But I did, busting out a quick ten-mile race down the San Diego coast last year before deciding I was done running indefinitely.
Well, never say never. I signed up.
As far away as July felt at the time, it swept in fast. I found myself feeling unprepared and undertrained, avoiding running for fear of injury and the knee pain and sciatica flaring back up. Sure, people do half marathons all the time. Running these races seems almost commonplace in many of my circles and the industry I used to work in. It had almost lost it’s significance for me.
I decided I needed to attach this race to something bigger, something more than just a number, to keep me motivated. To make me actually want to lace up my shoes and cross the starting line on a (most likely cold and foggy) July morning.
That’s when I noticed the number 13. 13 miles, 13 years. This year marks thirteen years of fight and recovery in my eating disorder journey. Thirteen years of mental battles and wins, of staring down my demons on plates and grocery shelves and in mirrors and bathrooms.
I have decided to tie each of these 13 miles to the milestones of my journey of health and healing, of self discovery and struggle.
Thirteen years of learning to accept myself and my body right where I am at. Thirteen years to develop confidence as I clothe myself in my identity as a child of God. Thirteen years of learning to manage stress, anxiety, the chase of perfection, and the striving in a healthy way. Thirteen years of working through a misunderstood mental illness and seasons of depression to find true, life-giving joy.
Thirteen years of acceptance to receive the grace and support and love poured over me from my strong inner circle, my family, my therapist, myself, and of course, the Big Man upstairs– the true giver of peace.
When I think about those dark moments cheetah-printed across my story, I want to cry. I want to hold my child self close, rocking her growing body and stroking her hair and letting my tears mingle with hers. I want to tell her I love her and that I am sorry. I also want to tell her how much stronger she is, stronger than she will ever know.
Because she finally knows. And because of that, I want to celebrate– and what better way than by crossing a finish line in my new city, my new home, a place that has brought so much growth and joy into my life?
Today I see how far that 12-year-old girl on the scale has come. I see how recovery is a daily decision full of ups and downs– but never steps backward, how it looks different for everyone. How it is not perfect. How it is part of my story. Part of it. How it is not all that I am, no, but how it has grown me stronger in ways I had never thought possible.
So on Sunday, I will run for that– thirteen miles, thirteen years. And I’ll carry that little 12-year-old girl with me the entire way.
Darling you are enough, you are enough, you are more than enough.
See you at the finish line.
The post Make It Mean More: Why I’m Running 13.1 Miles appeared first on The Weekender by Avery.