Reflections on Movement, Part 2
***This post is all about my history with running. I don't have photos of me running, so you get one of me playing tennis, another activity I've started again during the pandemic :)
During several of our episodes, we have talked about the role movement plays in an eating disorder and recovery and how our thoughts about movement evolve. In last week’s newsletter, Francis shared his experience with movement. This week, Catherine will share hers.
***Before sharing thoughts about movement, we both want to acknowledge the privilege afforded us to even have these experiences.
We are both cis white individuals without physical disability. This identity provides both of us the ability, space, and time to learn about movement as well as access to coaches and trainers. We were welcomed into gyms and then treatment centers without being questioned as to whether we would be able to pay.
Our identities also gave us easier paths to recovery because we were allowed to rest and take breaks to heal.
As we continue to talk about healing from relationships with movement, please consider how your identity gives you the ability to do so. Ask yourself what you’re willing to give up to provide space and access to others who otherwise don’t have that space and access because of systematic oppression. There are incredible resources online and otherwise for you to research and support - go do it.***
***This post is all about my history with running. I don't have photos of me running, so you get one of me playing tennis, another activity I've started again during the pandemic.
I have a complicated history with running. When I was in high school, I was terrible at it. I couldn’t get through the mile in gym class without stopping to walk (admittedly, I was opposed to the whole idea of gym class, so I probably didn’t try my best). I stayed active in other ways, with dance team practice and dance studio classes. I’ve always loved to move; I just didn’t like to run.
Fast forward a couple of years. I took a fitness class in college to fulfill a requirement, and one of our goals was to run an entire mile without stopping. I worked up to it and discovered that once I push past the initial discomfort of running, I actually enjoy it.
A year or so later, I used running to change habits that had become unsustainable. I was drinking more than I wanted at parties to manage my social anxiety and general self-hatred, and the effects of that behavior were starting to seep into my whole existence.
In many ways, running helped me regain focus and change behaviors that weren’t life-sustaining. I wasn’t dealing with the difficult feelings, though; I merely transferred them to another activity.
I soon became obsessed with running and burning calories and restricting my diet and lived in that space for many months.
Compulsive exercise and restriction did nothing to quell the social anxiety; I actually retreated further into my shell. But I gained a sense of achievement. For the first time since leaving high school, I felt good about myself.
And for the first time since puberty, I felt good about my body. The “problem” spots I had grown to hate were disappearing. For much of my life I had internalized messaging that I would be happier and have a better chance of being loved if I could control the number of fat cells in my body. The more I restricted, the louder that voice got.
Eventually, I could see that my obsessive exercising and restricting were not any more sustainable than the partying.
Once I started to find recovery, I kept running for a little while and toyed with the idea of training for a marathon. After a year or so, though, I decided I needed to stop. Running seemed more potentially addictive for me than other types of exercise, like dance and walking.
For the past twenty-some years, I haven’t run much at all. I've found joy in walking and taking Zumba or BodyFlow classes at my local gym.
Then the pandemic happened, and I could no longer go to the gym. I still needed to move most days, perhaps even more than ever. I needed to get outside of the house and have time to think and process, and I needed the endorphin boost movement can provide.
So, I started to run. And now, months later, most days I run. Running again for the first time in over twenty years makes me realize how far I’ve come in my journey to freedom from an eating disorder. My attitudes towards movement feel so different—and more sustainable—than they did before.
Now, I don’t run to burn off calories. My brain no longer makes those calculations, and I intentionally avoid apps that provide numeric data about my movement (distance run, calories burned, speed). Instead, I focus on nourishing my body with food so that I can enjoy movement and move in the ways that feel good.
I don’t run to change the way my body looks. I move because moving gives me energy and strength and enables me to be active with my kids.
I no longer feel like I need to be really good at running to be a runner. Yes, I’m humbled when someone passes me, but I feel okay about it. I don’t feel like I have to be the best in order to like myself.
These days, I pay attention to the messages my body sends. I do have to keep going through the initial discomfort because, for whatever reason, the first few minutes always feel really hard. Working through that minor discomfort feels encouraging and motivating for me, though. It’s a reminder that I can push through some of my discomfort with sharing my voice through writing and the podcast.
Unlike in the past, when my body tells me to slow down or stop or take a rest, I listen. I no longer push myself beyond my abilities in order to feel like I deserve a treat or am worthy of love.