Go on, get a group going!

At my first writing job out of college, I was gifted the opportunity to work under an extraordinarily talented and motivational editor. She was a tremendous teacher, but it was her weekend warrior lifestyle that cast a deep spell on me. She was a marathoner, ultra-marathoner and all around badass lady. I was in my early 20s, she was in her early 30s, and I was entranced by her athleticism and breezy, carpe diem demeanor.

At the time, I was a young professional still teetering on the brink of campus life and struggling to abandon bad habits, but I desperately wanted to be a runner. My editor would sit in her office and talk to me for 30 minutes about the best shorts to get, what to look for in footgear and breathing techniques. I would get so enthralled with my sensationalized, hypothetical running self after those talks, I would almost go for an actual run when I got home.

Eventually, I took the plunge. Kind of. I signed up for the Indy half marathon. Per my typical MO, I talked my roommate into signing up as well. If my memory serves – and forgive me, it’s been more than a decade – I believe we did a handful of training run/walks along the canal downtown leading up to the event. But the sobering truth was that my editor couldn’t run the race for me. And, as luck would have it, one of my best friends ended up holding her bachelorette party that day and, as a member of the bridal party, I just couldn’t miss the festivities. I never ran the Indy mini. I’m happy to report that my roommate did, though. I’m still so proud of that cookie … who turned out to be so, so tough.

A few years later, I signed up for another half marathon, but just a few weeks into the training, I found out I was pregnant with my first little chick and dropped down to the 4-mile route. But I have no regrets. I ended up walking with my parents when Mom was in the midst of her cancer treatments. She wore a tank top that said, “Fuck cancer” and everyone cheered as we passed. That was the walk I was meant to take that day.

And yet, it haunted me. Two attempts. Two zeroes on the scoreboard.

Then I went on a real hot streak. The following year, I committed to walking a local half marathon. I recruited my sister-in-law and when the big day rolled around, we covered the ground and crossed the finish line. I did the same thing the next year with a friend from college. The year after that, I decided I really wanted to run it. Britni, a friend and former coworker, was also in the market for a little challenge. We trained together and knocked it out. Then the following two, I ran the half with Jackie, a friend I’ve had since I was 15. Then we decided to change up the terrain and did a 20-mile trail race together.

The truth is, anyone can finish a race. I know it sounds like crap, but truly, if you want to walk, jog, run or crawl a certain number of miles, you’ll figure it out. It might not be fast or pretty – neither of which are adjectives I’d use to describe any of my races – but you’ll get where you’re going eventually. And really, after first place, all the medals are the same.

I never lost a ton of weight training for races. I didn’t get enviable toned arms or carved calves. But I did gain something so much greater.

Whether I was putting in miles with Britni or Jackie or my sister-in-law or my college friend or my husband, the best part was always the conversation and connection. There’s something sacred about the breathless exchanges that transpire on the trails.

The ritual became cemented in my life a few years ago, when Jackie and I decided to meet as often as we could, whether we were training for a race or not, at a local state park. I think these early runs were among some of my favorites. Jackie is one of my oldest friends, with a soul so sweet and pure you can’t help but cherish her heart and relish her advice. Sometimes we ran 10 miles and sometimes we ran 4. We talked about the trees and our marriages. Our kids and our jobs. Our friendships and plant-based eating. Most weekends we found ourselves at the crossroads of purging and peace. It was better than therapy.

“Want to go to church on Sunday?” she’d text. And I always knew exactly what she meant.

We were worshiping in a sanctuary of trees and on ridges overlooking shimmering lakes. Our prayers were carried from our crowded minds by gentle breezes in the silent moments and our candid words floated from our mouths only to get soaked up by the sun’s forgiving rays. It was a safe space. Sacred.

And then it grew.  

In the last year or so, friends of mine (including Britni) and friends of Jackie’s have found their way into our runs, either by invitation or inquiry. One person showed up one week, and someone different the next. For the most part, everyone who came once, came back again. And now we have this lovely circle of women, all connected through spokes shooting off of two high school friends.

We call ourselves the Gnarly Nubs, because on the trails, just like in life, things pop up and try to take you down. (It’s official now, because we have embroidered headbands.) Our group text thread is a mix of coordinating schedules, injury updates and celebrating small victories. The vocabulary is unique and specialized.

But, you might be saying, I hate running. I have absolutely zero desire to run. Why should I give two flips about your running group? The point is, whether it’s historical fiction novels, knitting, Majong, dissecting the royals (#ImWithMeghan) or bird watching, it’s important to find peers who cheer you on and want to have a shared experience. You need friends, for more reasons than there are words that can be put down and assembled on this page. But more than just that, you need friends who encourage you to keep moving forward.

Sometimes I think people put off joining clubs or groups or gatherings out of a preconceived fear that they won’t measure up. They won’t be accepted. They count themselves out before dealing themselves in. I can tell you that none of us are setting any speed records on those trails. Some weekends, we do more walking and talking than we do jogging. Other days, someone has a great run and finishes 20 minutes ahead. We respect what each gal has in her tank on any given day. But good or bad performance, I don’t think any of us really care about the outcome. We care about the time in the woods, and we always walk out lighter than we went in. it’s not always about being the best, but it’s always about feeling better.

We belong to a sorority of women in a similar stage of life. When we come together, we can talk about our kids, but we see each other as more than just moms. We can talk about our relationships, but we know we’re more than just someone’s wife. We can discuss work without limiting the definition of who we are to just our careers. We can be all of the facets of ourselves without squeezing into stereotypes. We see each other. We hear each other. And we respect each other. I believe that’s a universal need for all women. Not just the ones who like to run on trails.  

When I think back on those conversations in my editor’s office, I can see now that I really enjoyed being in her company and soaking in her energy more than anything else. I loved connecting with her about something other than writing, because I thought she was a cool person. In today’s world of 280-character correspondence and emoji messages so many of us are missing the opportunities to really connect.

I will never be a fast runner, or a thoroughbred as I like to call them. My destiny is to be a trusty quarter horse, slow and steady. Some of my most treasured runs have been at a snail’s pace, where the trail seems to stretch out forever and the conversation is deep and soul-altering. I never mind bringing up the back of the pack because that’s where perseverance likes to play. I’m a better person because of the encouragement I’ve given and received in the final miles, the most painful steps and on the hardest days. And all of that translates, no matter what hobby or pastime you choose as your centerpiece.

My hope is that you find your people. That they bubble up to the surface through an introduction or a rekindled relationship or a random run in. Be on the lookout for the ones who really see you; the ones who align with your vision for your greatest self. And then get them on your schedule on a regular basis. Make them part of your routine, just as you would any other appointment.

Life can be chaotic and heart-breaking. It can leave you threadbare. It’s good to know that at the conclusion of even the toughest weeks, I can take my ass to church and it’ll all be alright. I pray that you, too, find your congregation.