I got this cheeky statement t-shirt for Christmas last year. I’d been eyeing it for awhile but it felt bold, so I put it on my wish list…as if someone else buying it would mean that it was someone else’s idea. The fit was more cropped than I expected, but I kept it. Of course, and I knew this would happen, I feel all kinds of self conscious about the sliver of belly skin that shows above my leggings so I’ve worn it only three times. It’s too skimpy, it’s too flashy, it’s too much of a statement.
There’s this thing we do as humans where we present a side of ourselves to the world that’s not really accurate but feels necessary in order to receive the acceptance we all long for. Susan Howatch calls it our “Glittering Image” but I’ve heard it called other names too—the false self, our mask, a shadow side. This image we project starts, unconsciously, in our earliest years to protect ourselves. It’s based on messaging we received, or didn’t receive, from culture and authority figures. I have plenty of glittering images I’ve projected over my life, but the trickiest one is where I live into an image of something I’m not.
When I was quite young, I decided I wasn’t an athlete. It started around third grade when I played on Coach Fred’s AYSO team— the Fireballs—and he yelled at me all season for not being fast or aggressive enough. I was never sure where I was supposed to be on the field, and honestly I just didn’t really care that much about getting a ball into a box. Why play a silly game when one could read a book? (And honestly, I still feel this way about soccer.) I was klutzy and uninterested in pushing my body, so I claimed this non-competitor identity early, and I kept this view of myself even while playing years of competitive volleyball. Our glittering image can be a way we deceive ourselves, to protect ourselves.
But in my early twenties, something changed. I was longing for friendship and hobbies during a season where I had neither, so I started running. What first started as a chore turned into a rhythm. My friend Sharon and I met at 6:00am for many years. We’d always log three miles, but often it became five, six or seven. We trained for multiple half marathons and a Ragnar Relay. We learned how to run in the Sacramento rain and the heat. The progress was so slow and steady that it took years to even acknowledge I’d become a runner.
But after becoming a mom, running looked different. Some years I ran with a stroller, some years with friends, and others the YMCA treadmill was my companion. For ten years, running was consistent but short and slow. The goal was to simply show up.
Recently though, for the first time in a long time, I’m running competitively. I joined a HIIT gym—Orange Theory— where I’m coached to push myself. So I do. I turn my mind off for an hour, lift the weights, row the machine, sprint uphill, and come back again a few days later for more. I’ve gotten a lot faster and a lot stronger; willing to set goals because I have enough margin to meet them.
One morning recently I showed up for class and another woman said, “You’re the girl who wears the shirt that says ‘Pretty good at running.’” I was embarrassed, and quick to correct.
“Oh noooo—it says ‘Pretty OK at running.” And then, I fumbled and bumbled about how it’s a great saying because really, what does “good” actually mean when it comes to athletics? The thing with running is there’s always a new goal you can meet. Who defines good or great or best? Pretty OK at running says, “I’m not a bad runner but I could also get better.”
Then I asked if she would consider herself a good runner. Because I’d seen her on the treadmill, and she is not slow.
“Oh, not really…I mean, I’ve done a marathon and some halves but it’s been awhile.” I laughed.
“Sounds like you’re a pretty good runner to me,” I said, aware now that both of us were unwilling to claim any kind of skill.
This fall I set a 5K goal time I wanted to hit. I ran a race in September and finished only 10 seconds shy of my goal. Showing up alone felt like one of the bravest things I’d done in a long time so I tried to focus on this rather than the finishing time. I figured I’d try again in November at our city’s Half Marathon/5K, but as the race drew closer I realized there were a lot of factors at play. One is that Owen wanted to race but our other kids didn’t, so we weren’t sure how to logistically make it all work. At the last minute I registered myself with no goal other than to help him finish safely.
This morning, brave looked different than my last race. It looked like my kid wringing his hands at the starting line, and clicking his Invisalign in the way you do when you’re nervous. Brave looked like asking for help from the kids’ running group coach, Mindy: “Will you run with Owen so that maybe I could peel away when he’s ready?” And then brave was leaving him behind—his face twisted in concern, my heart hesitating— as Mindy yelled, “Show him how to chase your goals, so he will learn to chase his own!”
When I left Owen around the two mile point, he did what Mindy promised he’d do—he ran faster. Without his mom around to give him permission to slow down, he forged ahead. And when he started to walk, my mom friends on the course—Laura and Meg—said, “Owen, pick it up so you can beat us!”
I didn’t set the time I wanted, but he set his own PR by three minutes. The glow on his face when he showed me his medal is a better victory than any time I could have set. After all those years pushing him in a stroller while I ran, he’s now starting to push himself. How I move through the world impacts how he sees himself, and what he believes he’s capable of—whether that’s pushing from behind or setting the example ahead.
Tonight, when he gets into bed, I will whisper, “You know what, buddy? You’re pretty good at running.”
And slowly, timidly, proudly… I tell it to myself too.
