When Life Replaces the Training Plan

The last time I wrote about running, it involved a kitten and cross-training. Shortly after that, life reminded me that sometimes the workout plan gets replaced with survival mode.

Shortly after I shared the antics of Hobbes, the cross-training kitten, my mom went into the hospital. About a week later, she came home on hospice care. Three weeks after that, she passed away.

Hobbes the emotional support chaos gremlin. 

  

Layer that on top of starting a new job, and my running routine promptly fell off the dreadmill. I didn’t have the time or the energy to put into a workout, even though I know running helps with stress relief.

 Knowing something helps and being able to do the thing that helps are two very different animals.

To be fully honest, I’m still in that place.

Right now, all I really want to do is hibernate at home. Part of that is the weather. Old Man Winter is being an old man jerk this year. 

But the honest truth is that even if the weather were perfect, I’d still be struggling to run at the moment.

So I’m learning to give myself the same grace I extend so freely to everyone else.

It’s harder than it sounds.

Every now and then, Garmin Brain pipes up to remind me that I passed my running coach certification, so therefore I should always want to run. This is shenanigans, and I am not buying it. Yes, I passed the certification, but nowhere in the ethics agreement I signed did it say I must feel motivated at all times or risk having my running card revoked.

I know grief ebbs and flows. It’s only been about three weeks since I lost my mom, so I have to keep that perspective.

I also know that sometime soon, I’ll be able to get out there and go for another run. I’ll get that joy back. It’s not gone. It’s just on hold.

And when I do take that run, I know in my heart I’ll hear the echo of my mom telling people that she was never a runner, so clearly I was adopted.

My New Workout Partner Has Paws (and Opinions)

About two months ago, I adopted a kitten.

I’m a rescuer at heart, and when it comes to cats, I usually gravitate toward the older adults—the ones who get overlooked and have a harder time finding homes. My plan was just to visit a local adoption event. No commitments. No kittens.

Famous last words.

I was playing with one of the adoptable kittens and chatting with a volunteer. She mentioned a group of shy kittens that would be tough to place and asked if I’d ever consider a baby instead of an adult. I said sure, thinking it was a purely hypothetical question.

It was not.

She took me to the foster home, scooped up one of the shy babies, gave him a quick snuggle, and handed him to me. And that little rascal immediately melted into my arms—purring, relaxing, and placing one tiny paw on my chest like he’d chosen me.

I asked if he was always like that.

She said, “Oh, absolutely not. It took me weeks to earn that kind of trust. I’m a little jealous.”

Reader, that kitten came home with me.

He’s incredibly sweet—but he’s also full-throttle kitten crazy. Determined to be directly involved in everything I do. His name is Hobbes, and apparently he has decided that cross-training is a team sport.

First, Hobbes discovered strength training.

His favorite activities include:

Untying my shoelaces

Swatting at my hands and feet

Trying to play with my weights

Sitting on my stomach during core work (he’s hefty enough that he actually adds resistance)

Hobbes, my judgy feline assistant, giving me the “your form could use work” look.

And then, last night, he discovered yoga.

Hobbes is particularly passionate about Child’s Pose and Savasana—mostly because they involve me being conveniently close to the ground.

The moment I stretched out for Savasana, he came sprinting over, climbed onto my stomach, and settled in like I was his personal heated mattress.

Other yoga enhancements Hobbes has introduced:

Untying my shoelaces—again, always a classic

Climbing on me any time I’m on all fours

Sitting directly under me during Downward Dog and attacking the strings on my pants

Rubbing his head on my hands any time my arms touched the floor

Honestly? I choose to find it all adorable. I know he won’t be a kitten forever. (Although, truthfully, there are moments when I’m eagerly awaiting the mellowing-out years.)

Which raises the question:

Why isn’t cross-training with pets more of a trend?

Sure, there’s yoga with kittens, rabbits, and capybaras. I’ve done kitten and rabbit yoga in my own home, but I’d love to try the others someday. My animal-yoga wish list currently includes:

Baby goats

Capybaras

Otters

Don’t laugh—these all exist. I’ve seen the ads. I’ve watched the videos.

But honestly? Strength training with a kitten adds a surprising cardio component and an undeniable entertainment factor.

It’s much harder to hate a core workout when a tiny, judgmental feline is perched on your stomach, staring down at you like your personal furry fitness coach.

The Day My Bones Failed a Test I Didn’t Study For

Several years ago, my doctor sent me for a bone density test. As a breast cancer survivor on Tamoxifen 🤢, he explained that some degree of bone loss was likely in my future.

I’d already suspected as much. My oncologist handed me calcium and vitamin D supplements about 37 seconds after prescribing the Tamoxifen.

She explained that the supplements were preventive — not a miracle shield, but a way to slow the process down.

So off I went for the bone density test. I was pleased to discover it was basically a giant X-ray machine and not some exotic torture device involving needles or other devilry.

A few days later, my results showed up online. No explanation. No reassuring note from the doctor. Just one unfamiliar word.

Turns out, I kind of flunked the bone density test.

Osteopenia.

My immediate response: Okay.

My follow-up response: What the heck is osteopenia?

Since I had results but no doctor yet, I scheduled an urgent appointment with Dr. Google.

Dr. G informed me that osteopenia is a fancy medical term meaning: “Your bone density isn’t what it should be for your age, but you don’t have osteoporosis yet.”

He then gleefully added that most people deal with this after age 50.

Since I was barely in my 40s, I muttered rude things about Dr. Google and kept reading.

When the doctor’s office finally called, the nurse confirmed everything I had learned online. The only new information was that I didn’t need medication yet, and that I should take calcium and vitamin D.

I told her I was already doing both.

I asked if there was anything else I could do.

She hesitated, then asked if I exercised — with the tone of someone expecting a firm “no.”

I told her yes, actually. I run or cross-train 5 to 6 days a week.

She did not hide her surprise well, but recovered quickly and said that was amazing and I should absolutely keep it up.

I briefly considered telling her that, as long as throat-punching morons is frowned upon in polite society, I would indeed keep running.

I asked if any particular type of exercise was best. She said anything that uses your body weight is ideal. Running and strength training are perfect.

So while I was already running, finding out that it helps slow the progression of osteopenia turned out to be a great motivator.

And so far, it seems to be working.

I had another bone density test right before Thanksgiving. When this year’s results came back, I was thankful that I still don’t need medication. My highest fracture risk is only 3%. I tend to beat the odds — but even so, I’m not particularly worried, despite being a grade-A klutz.

The bone loss has progressed a little, but I’m still firmly in osteopenia territory.

So for now, I’ll keep running. As long as my body lets me. And as long as the sidewalks aren’t snowy or icy. I love cold-weather running, but I’m not interested in personally testing whether the doctor was right about my fracture risk.

Running, Healing, and the Case of the Baggy Spandex

The summer I started training for my first half marathon, I decided to buy myself some “real” running clothes… by going to the local thrift store. Because honestly? I wasn’t convinced I’d stick with running. (Narrator: She stuck with running.)

For about $35, I scored several pieces of name-brand gear. #Winning

I wore those clothes all through my half-marathon training summer. The following year, still very much running, I pulled out my warm-weather gear, fully expecting to squeeze another season out of them.

Wrong.

Somehow my spandex running clothes were too big. Not all of them, but enough to make me question the laws of physics. My cutest piece—the orange-and-pink tie-dyed shorts—had gone from snug to parachute. They wouldn’t even stay up when I ran.

Baggy spandex.

I was baffled.

Who has ever heard of spandex that doesn’t cling like its life depends on it?

The only explanation I could come up with was that the universe was playing some kind of cosmic prank.

At the time, I was taking an anti-cancer medication. I had lost weight during chemotherapy, then puffed back up like a balloon afterward. When I Googled how to lose weight on that medication, the internet basically said, “😂😂 Good luck with that.”

But running—this thing I never expected to love—wasn’t just healing my mind. It turns out it was healing my body, too. I never started running for weight loss, but it happened anyway.

I don’t have the stereotypical runner’s body. I probably never will, and honestly? That’s fine. This body—this one right here—does amazing things. (Including tripping over absolutely nothing, but that’s a story for another day.)

One of the surprising joys of running has been watching people’s reactions when they discover that I, in this body, have run marathons. I was chatting with a colleague recently and casually mentioned that I was training for two fall marathons—numbers three and four for me—and I swear their eyes nearly fell out of their head.

Rude? Maybe.

Did I care?

Not even a little.

But my all-time favorite stereotype-shattering moment happened last year. A few days after my fall marathon, I wore my shiny new Chicago Marathon finisher shirt to work. Someone I didn’t know noticed it, gave me a once-over, and asked—very skeptically—if I really ran that race.

So with my sweetest innocent expression, I said, “Oh this? Found it at a thrift store. Thought it was cute.”

Reader… the look on their face as I walked away was absolutely priceless.

Here’s to all the okayest runners, shattering stereotypes one race at a time.

Rest Days Are Easy… Until They’re Not (A Runner Goblin Tale)

Rest and recovery after a race is hard.

I know that sounds like something only a running goblin would say, but hear me out.

I spend months training for marathons. By race day, I’m ready to give it my best okayest effort and then sleep for three days straight. Historically, rest days were my favorite part of training. Canceled runs? I happy danced right to the couch. Cut-back weeks? Perfect chance to nap through all the chores I planned to do when I wasn't running so many miles. Getting back on the trails after a month or two of doing absolutely nothing athletic? Brutal. When I didn’t love running for a season, coaxing myself out the door was like negotiating with a toddler who hasn’t napped. My brain was not having it.

After Chicago this year, though? I was wrecked. Personal responsibilities plus marathon training kicked my butt all the way to Friday—possibly Saturday. I was instructed to rest for two full weeks before ramping up again for Indy. Week one was easy: I slept like a champion. The cats graciously let me borrow their bed. (It was mine before they moved in, allegedly.)

But by week two, the restlessness kicked in hard. Sure, I could’ve deep-cleaned my house or tackled some other responsible homeowner activities… but what I really wanted was to run. My legs disagreed and threatened to call HR every time I even thought about running a mile. Still, I missed the mental reset of a few miles—especially when shenanigans with the other okayest runners are involved, which is… always.

When I finally headed out for my first post-Chicago run, it felt great. Easy. Fun. My legs did file a formal complaint, but we settled it with a firm foam-rolling session and promises not to do anything stupid. (Narrator: We will definitely do something stupid.)

Recovery after Indy was harder. I was exhausted, and I knew I needed the rest, but mentally? Ugh. Not running was rough. Shout-out to Mother Nature for dropping a ridiculous amount of snow on us and then following it up with even more ridiculous cold. I still missed running, but those conditions made “staying inside like a sensible human” slightly easier.

This week, Coach Homey assigned us a couple of short homework runs before our first fall/winter training session. I packed my running clothes for work so I could bolt the moment I clocked out.

Getting onto the trail felt a little tough, but also really, really good. It’s only Tuesday and it’s already been A Week™, so taking my frustrations out on the pavement was exactly what I needed.

It was a fantastically gloomy day—the kind that usually sinks my mood—but not today. Today I loved it like it was 72° and sunny.

Bonus: I did not fall on the wet leaves. A win is a win.

I genuinely understand the importance of rest. I even own a shirt with a sloth asleep on a treadmill that says “Never skip rest day.”

And I don’t.

But I’m so grateful to be in a place where I want to get back to running… even when the “run” is basically a two-mile slip-and-slide obstacle course made of soggy leaves.

Imposter Syndrome, But Make It Running

 So, after my last post—where I finally admitted that I am, in fact, an athlete—it’s time for another confession.

This one has been sitting heavy with me, especially since my marathon last week:

I spend a lot of time feeling like a fraud when it comes to running.

Yep. Full-on running imposter syndrome. I do the things that make me a runner, I show up in the community, I train and race and sweat and cry (sometimes all in mile 17), and yet I still catch myself wondering if I truly belong here.

Let me be clear: no one has told me I don’t belong. Friends, family, and other runners have been welcoming, encouraging, supportive—or confused. (That last group is mostly my family. My mom has dementia and even on a bad day, if you ask her about my running, she’ll tell you I’m adopted. My cousin and I always say it’s not that diabetes runs in our family—it’s that nobody runs in our family.)

So why do I feel like a fraud?

Because my races don’t always go the way I hoped.
Because I am, without question, unnecessarily hard on myself.
Because my brain acts like those old cartoons with the angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other—except in my case, it’s Encouraging Runner Brain vs. Garmin Brain. (#IYKYK)

Encouraging Runner Brain is like:

“You did the best you could. And you finished! You lapped everyone still sleeping, and you stayed ahead of the sweeper car the whole time. It wasn’t even your slowest marathon! Indy was actually your second-best finish—only four weeks after Chicago!”

But then there’s Garmin Brain, who apparently had a childhood career as an Olympic-level trash talker:

“Wow. No PR. Again. You’re too slow. If you fueled better your stomach wouldn’t hate you. Second best finish? Why not first? You skipped a workout, remember? You couldn’t even keep up when you were supposed to support a friend. Maybe stick to 5Ks. Maybe stick to the couch.”

These two sides wage war in my head after almost every race. And I’m learning—slowly, stubbornly, imperfectly—to turn Garmin Brain’s volume down. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. In the moments when I’m exhausted or disappointed or replaying every mile in my head, Garmin Brain sounds a lot like truth. Unlearning that is work.

But here’s what’s also true: I am improving. Maybe not in dramatic montage-worthy leaps, but steadily, meaningfully, me-fully.

I learn something at every race.

This time? Chewable Pepto is a girl’s best friend. (Sorry, diamonds. We had a good run.)

After the race I talked to my nutritionist, and she reminded me that GI issues are extremely common in long-distance running, no matter how carefully a person fuels. Garmin Brain swore I was the only one with a stomach that stages a coup at mile 15. Spoiler: it lied.

So going forward, I’m carrying stomach-calming meds and probably taking a pre-game dose. Take THAT, Garmin Brain.

And yes, I will probably still feel like a fraud sometimes. But that feeling isn’t the truth. The truth is this:

I put in the work.
I run the miles.
I cross-train.
I do yoga with feline supervision (which should absolutely be an Olympic event).

I may not be the fastest or strongest runner out there, but I belong out there. Absolutely, unequivocally, fully belong.

Me? An Athlete? LOL.

If you asked me to describe myself at any point in my life, I would have rattled off a list with zero hesitation:

Book nerd.
History nerd.
Band geek.
Cancer survivor.

None of these labels bothered me. I wore them proudly. (Especially that last one.)

Athlete, though? Absolutely not. Years ago, I went to Russia on a mission trip and helped run a sports camp. When I returned home, people kept saying, “Wait… you did a sports camp?” And I would clarify, very politely, that while I was not particularly skilled at sports, I would have made an excellent blooper reel.

So yeah. I was never what you’d call athletic.

Fast forward to a year or two ago. I reached out to my friend—an athletic trainer—to figure out why my hamstring was behaving like a rebellious teenager. She told me I was her favorite athlete because she knew I’d actually do what she told me to do.

My immediate response was something along the lines of:
“Well, yes. Your athletes are 16. I am old enough to be their mother. I follow instructions so I don’t break myself permanently.”

But later, a tiny brain cell piped up:
She called me an athlete.

Me? No. I mean, yeah, I run. I even finished a marathon. But that doesn’t make me an athlete.

Does it?

Cue me, standing in my kitchen, asking Google the hard-hitting questions.

To my surprise (and slight horror), the internet informed me that I did, in fact, meet the definition of an athlete.

And that’s when things got complicated. Because it’s one thing for Google to say it, and quite another for my brain to believe it.

Could I see myself that way?
Could I wrap my mind around it?

Eventually, I landed on a simple truth:

Yes. I am an athlete.

I pursue consistent training—running and cross training—with actual goals in mind.

Admittedly, my goals for my first marathon were:

1. Finish the race.
   
   

2. Have fun.
   
   

3. Stay alive.
   
   

So not exactly Olympic-level aspirations, but honestly? I think they were perfect.

I used to get tangled up in pace charts and time goals. I still set goals, and sometimes I even achieve them, but I’m no longer strangled by them. When I focused on running for fun again—on joy, not judgment—something wild happened:

My training became more consistent.
My pace improved.
I stopped skipping runs because I actually enjoyed them.

These are not the goals of a professional athlete, but they are the goals of an okayest runner.

And honestly? I’ve decided that if showing up, doing the work, and occasionally ugly-crying into my hydration pack counts as being an athlete…

Then yeah. I’m an athlete.

I may not be breaking records, but I’m breaking old beliefs about who gets to use that word.

And spoiler: it turns out the answer is me.