The courage it takes to ask for support
Hello, my friends! I’m back, I’m back!
My break and time with my family was everything I hoped it would be and more. I’m feeling so refreshed and excited to be back, and wow, I’ve missed you and this blog! Thank you for the kind messages you sent about my time off—I read each and every one of them.
Let’s get back to it, shall we?!
There’s a story that’s been on my heart that I’ve been so excited to share. It’s about a moment I experienced a few weeks before I took my break. It’s a story of courage and what can happen when we ask for support.
The day is May 26th. Memorial Day.
I’m about to run my third race of the year, a 10K (6.2 miles), and I’m feeling pretty confident. I didn’t train for this race like I normally would: I’d been traveling a lot and also having some knee pain, so I took a little time off of running beforehand. But even with all of that, I’m thinking I’ll do pretty well. After all, 6.2 miles is a distance I’ve run many times.
The morning of the race, the weather is typical for summer in Houston: unbearably hot and humid. I’m sweating before I even get to the starting line. But I tell myself that I’ll be fine. I run in conditions like these all the time.
Then: 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . GO!
I start off strong. My pace is great—actually a little bit faster than usual. I’m jamming to an awesome playlist that I'm really feeling. The energy of the crowd is amazing: Everyone around me is pumped and smiling as they run. I’m thinking, I’ve got this. This race is going to be epic. It might be my best one yet.
One mile in, I’m still feeling great. Pace is still faster than I expected. Playlist is still bangin’, each song better than the last. I’ve got this.
At a mile and a half, things suddenly start to feel harder. The heat and humidity are certainly not helping, but what's different about this race compared to others I’ve run is that a lot of it is uphill. I’m not used to that, so I’m having to use a lot more energy to hit my stride. I’ve still got this, I think.
Two miles in, my pace is slowing a bit, and I realize it needs to if I want to keep running uphill. I’m disappointed in myself for slowing down, and I’m starting to wish I had trained more for this. But again, I tell myself, It’s okay. Just need to find a different pace.
I try running even slower. Each step feels harder than the last. Now, I’m concerned: I'm only two miles into a six-mile race. Not even halfway! Even on my toughest runs, I don't usually back down on my pace until I've crossed the halfway mark.
That’s when the doubt creeps in. Slowing down this much already? that little voice says. Should I have even signed up for this race? Can I even finish it?
At two and a half miles in, I see the people around me start to stop and walk. I can see on their faces that they, too, are feeling defeated by the hills and the heat. That's when it first crosses my mind that maybe I can just . . . stop. Maybe I don’t need to run this one. Maybe I really can’t do it. Maybe I can give myself permission to walk to the finish line.
I’ve never allowed that thought to cross my mind during a race. No matter what my pace is, I keep running and don’t stop until I cross the finish line. That has always been my race mindset.
But as more and more people around me start walking, it’s becoming more difficult to keep running. I’m working so hard. The air is thick and heavy. I’m absolutely drenched in sweat. I’m thirsty, out of breath, and miserable. All I can think about is how nice it would be to walk.
I get so frustrated with myself. I know that my body can run 6.2 miles. I know I can do it because I’ve done it so many times in conditions just like this. But my mindset is failing me. As any runner will tell you, running is a mental game, and my mindset just isn’t strong enough to keep me going in that moment.
So . . . I stop running. Utterly defeated, I start to walk instead.
I can't believe this, I tell myself. I can’t believe I’m giving up like this. Really? I just ran a 15K like a month ago! That was more than nine miles, and I ran the whole thing! And now, I can’t even run six?! What is wrong with me?
But then, right in the middle of my mental tirade, I hear a sweet voice next to me say, “Do you want to run together? I could really use the support.”
I turn and look, and there is Jamie, a woman I've never met before whose name I would soon learn.
Her question takes me completely by surprise. A stranger, asking me if we could run together.
She tells me that she feels so defeated by how hard this race is, and that when she saw me start to walk, she figured I might be struggling, too. She asks if I will run with her.
Without thinking twice, I say yes. I start running alongside her. And as we run, we talk (well, as much as you can talk while breathing heavily).
I ask her about herself. I learn that she’s 23—14 years younger than me.
She tells me this is her first race. She’s in tears as she says that she really wants to finish, but she’s so worried that she won’t achieve the goal she trained so hard for. I learn that her mom is an incredible runner and that Jamie grew up watching her race. At her mom’s last race, Jamie felt so inspired watching her, and that’s why she signed up for this one.
We keep running.
We talk about how we both feel disappointed in ourselves. About how we have both run this distance before in training and how it feels so discouraging that it’s not happening as easily as it has in the past.
We keep running.
I learn that Jamie has recently moved to Houston in an effort to build a better life for herself. She tells me that she is trying to find her way in the world and is searching for a career that will be meaningful to her. I tell her more about me and the work that I do.
We keep running.
Before I tell you how it all turned out, I want to pause for a moment and focus on what Jamie did for me in this moment.
Jamie had the courage to do something I’ve always wished I had the courage to do. There have been so many times when I've found myself struggling on a run, whether I’m training or racing, and I’ve noticed other people around me struggling, too. I’ve always wanted to approach someone who’s looking defeated and ask them, “Do you want to run together?”
But I’ve never had the courage to do it. And here’s Jamie, 23 years old, and she has the courage to ask.
Next thing we know, we’ve hit three miles. Then four. Then five.
We stop a couple of times to drink water. But we keep going.
Once, she stops to walk. I walk with her for a little bit, and then we keep running.
Once, I stop to walk. She walks with me for a little bit, and then we keep running.
We talk the whole time. We cheer each other on. We keep repeating, “We've got this! We can do this!” And we keep running.
At long last, the finish line is in sight . . . but my body is ready to give out. It is so hard to keep going. It’s only gotten hotter and more humid, and the hills are relentless and brutal.
I can tell that Jamie has hit her stride, and I don’t want to hold her back. I know how much she wants to finish this race and finish it strong, so I tell her that I feel like I need to walk for a minute but that she should run ahead and finish.
“Jamie, go for it,” I say. “Sprint! I'm going to walk for a second, but you’ve got this! Go!”
I slow down to walk, and I watch her sprint to that finish line. And I actually get emotional watching her cross it. After a few moments of walking, I draw on every last ounce of energy I have and sprint as best I can until the end.
Jamie is waiting for me on the other side. We stand there and hug each other. We jump up and down, yelling, “We did it! We did it!”
It was so amazing to watch Jamie go from feeling so discouraged to sprinting to the end, especially because I know she got there because we did it together. Watching her cross the finish line was more rewarding than crossing it myself.
I know for sure that I wouldn't have finished that race if it weren’t for Jamie. I probably would have walked the rest of the way and felt really bummed about it. But because of her courage to ask me to run with her, I ended up running a race I'm really proud of. Not only did I hit my goal pace of under 10 minutes a mile, but I finished eighth in my age group. That’s absolutely mindblowing to me when I think about how badly I wanted to give up just a couple miles in.
This story with Jamie reminds me of the courage it takes to ask for support. It also reminds me of the courage it takes to accept that support. It shows that we need each other. Sometimes, we just can’t do things on our own, and we need help. Look what’s possible when we ask for and accept support: We can finish something we didn't think we could, and we are both better because of it.
I know that the next time I notice somebody struggling—or when I'm struggling myself—I will follow in Jamie’s footsteps. You might be happy to know that she and I are still in touch. We are both running the same half-marathon in October and plan to do some training runs together!
I’m curious about what this story brings up for you. Have you ever had a Jamie in your life? Have you been a Jamie for someone else? What kind of support do you need right now, and how will you ask for it? Hit “reply” and tell me more.
Friends, it’s so good to be back here with you. May we all have the courage to live like Jamie!
Big hugs,
