A couple months ago, I dove in and indulged an ambitious notion that had been simmering just beneath the surface, nagging at my brain. I decided I was going to run three half marathons within three months—a manageable endeavor if approached correctly, but something that felt big for me personally. I knew I could do it, but it was hard to admit that to myself, to let that be true. Signing up for all three was like giving my self-confidence permission to surface. You’ve got this, it said. Let’s do this.
Unfortunately, I won’t be running all three. And, truth be told, I may have to bow out of another race or two this spring as well. I wish I could say that that reality didn’t knock back my self-confidence, but it did. I’ve been struggling for the last month. I don’t doubt for a second that I could have finished those halfs, but the absence of running, of getting out there and logging those miles, feeling my legs and breath carry me across the pavement—it’s been crushing. So what happened?
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