because high school was all things Mary Engelbreit

Judy asked me to go through a few more boxes in my old closet tonight. I had taken a break last week after all the photo albums got me really depressed. So what did I uncover tonight? Prayer journals. Oh dear Lord. Literally.

For starters, I can barely read my own handwriting. Thank God for good typing skills. Secondly, I didn’t date my entries for some strange reason. Like there’s a date in the beginning of the book so at least I can tell when it started but I’m quite sure I didn’t make a daily habit of journaling (maybe in spurts), so I have to intuit the timeline based on events mentioned. And I must have had a deep paranoia that someone might read my journals because I leave out the salient details and even abbreviate names into initials that I cannot decipher some 20 years later. I mean I was praying to the God of the Universe in code? What a freak.

But dang if I didn’t struggle with the same damn things then and now. Almost every single entry mentions something about my insecurities about my physical appearance. I wasted so much energy feeling bad about myself. And boys. Holy cow. I might not have dated, like at all, but I sure did torment myself about them. I’m pretty sure I drank in high school for the sole purpose of numbing those two insecurities. My senior year I went to Jenny Craig with my mom and I remember it working in the short term (not that you can really tell much from the pictures). As if that isn’t sad enough, in one entry I said I hoped it worked because I didn’t want to waste my father’s money. Even at 18 years old I had guilt about accepting generosity from my parents!

I did have some redeeming qualities though, I promise. I prayed a lot for my friends. If you are reading this and spent any time with me in high school (or college), know that I probably prayed for you, specifically, repeatedly. Friends from high school in Wichita, friends from high school in Memphis, youth group, church, summer camp, etc. Well that’s one redeeming quality. I’ll have to keep reading to see if I unearth anymore.

If I could go back and tell my 18 year old self one thing… I’d probably send myself on one of those leadership trips into the wilderness to forage berries and grow leg hair and wrap bandanas around greasy hair in the hopes that maybe I’d find my inner adventurer a little earlier in the game called Life. Get out of my own way and such.

And I would definitely tell myself to include more juicy details in my journal so my future self knew what the hell I was talking about!

Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity. It is the source of hope, empathy, accountability, and authenticity. If we want greater clarity in our purpose or deeper and more meaningful spiritual lives, vulnerability is the path.

There is certainly some irony in the fact that the person who gave me the Daring Greatly book in January 2014 was my then-fiance, who I would say goodbye to 3 days later, never to hear from again. So naturally I let the book reside on the bottom shelf of my coffee table for quite some time, mostly out of spite. I don’t know exactly how long it took before I picked it up but it was close to a year.

In that year I canceled a wedding, I ran my debut post-ankle surgery marathon, I sat with my mother at chemo, I helped my sister with her newborn baby, I dove head first into the triathlon world, I dated wildly inappropriate men, and I took a long hard look at my life. So naturally before the clock struck midnight to roll the calendar over to 2015, I booked that flight to Europe for a 2 month adventure that became the impetus for the whole rebirth of Emily.

Daring greatly looks different at various points in my evolution. That New Year’s Eve it was finding the courage to buck tradition and expectations, quit my job, shirk homeownership, stop seeing a perfectly nice guy. Because I wanted something more. Specifics unknown, but an independent journey. 9 months later, after proving to myself and anyone else paying a lick of attention that I could execute a beautiful Ironman debut, daring greatly was in the what comes next. The constant moving had provided a layer of emotional insulation so I peeled it off and tried to plant some roots. Another 9 months after that, some might say I succeeded, others might say I never stood a chance. Then daring greatly took yet another form. Daring to trust someone, take big chances, stop pretending maybe one day I’ll like my job…

It all happened so quickly that I didn’t do much contemplation on the front end. I wasn’t feeling that thing that I needed to feel to keep going down the path I was on so I was excited to get on a new one. There were certainly lots of scared and nervous feelings, whispered midnight confessions, and endless explanations to shell-shocked friends. I didn’t know what it was going to be like until we were in it. But once you’re in it, it’s hard to be objective about how it’s going or how it could be made better. At least for me. I have a propensity to spend a lot of energy either soaking up the moment or planning for the next, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. But in a situation such as this (and by this I mean sharing <200 sq ft with another human being bouncing from campground to campground every few days), there is a lot to be said for being intentional. Intentional with each other and with myself. Somehow it seems I forgot that I’m not in this alone. I’m so used to being alone that I’ve formed some rather selfish tendencies and I was acting like this was MY adventure when in fact it is very much OUR adventure.

Time to build intention into my daily routine. Daily gratitudes. Daily reading. Daily writing.

Time to learn how to be a partner. Vulnerability. Accountability. Authenticity.

Then maybe I have a shot at the clarity.

Does 3 make a streak?

Finished my first book of the new year, thanks to my sweet condo-loaning friend Allyson for gifting me this one: Present Over Perfect. For the first half of the book I felt like maybe it wasn’t the one for me seeing as how she kept talking about she worked worked worked and was neglecting her family in pursuit of fame and fortune. Yeah, doesn’t sound like me does it. But something kept me going (I actually have quite a bad habit of not finishing books). The lack of love and fulfillment she felt in spite of her success sounded a lot like the lack of love and fulfillment I feel in my search for a passionate vocation. The bottom line is identity. Knowing it, owning it, nurturing it, cultivating it, living it. Whether one is squeezing every second out of the day flying to speaking engagements and book signings or wasting the days away binging Netflix and surfing Instagram, our souls are still unsatisfied and the ache sounded familiar. The peeling off of layers of protection is the same process, just unique to my experience, my particular defenses. I may not have a marriage to save or kids to raise, but I have relationships to repair and dreams to birth.

So how? Back to the basics.

I am loved.

So deeply unconditionally eternally redemptively gracefully loved.

Exactly as I am.

Rescued.

Saved.

Chosen.

Made.

There is a plan. Go where there is peace. Not necessarily safety or comfort or easiness, but peace. No more of the anxiety and loneliness and frustration. The next place may still be scary and new and uncertain. But it feels different from the forced tense do-what-is-expected obvious place. It didn’t work before, it’s not gonna work now.

I choose adventure.

I choose me.

Cause if I’m not truly me, how can I be any use to anyone else?

don’t think, just write

A New Year is a cliche time for reflection and goal setting. I’ve found myself with an overwhelming amount of things to reflect on and absolutely no concrete plans for the future. It’s basically paralyzing me. And I vacillate between making lots of detailed plans and making none whatsoever. In this instance freedom feels like shackles. Too many options is dizzying. My eyes literally hurt from scanning websites for job opportunities, house sitting gigs, and rental units. We’ve been in a holding pattern for about 6 weeks. My family kicked off the holiday season with a funeral which set a strange tone for me. It’s hard to explain but celebrating my grandfather’s life leaves me wondering what the hell I’m doing with my own. I mean, I wonder that a lot, I always have. I’ve felt an uneasy unsettled unsuccessful blah thing for as long as I can remember. I’ve gone in so many different directions, started down a variety of paths, but I never seem to get very far down them before I take another oddball turn. I get the impression some people think it’s irresponsible, others find it adventuresome, still others probably assume I’m lost, or a lost cause. I read books about women who take chances and chase their dreams and make bold statements and love deeply and find success in often unconventional ways. And I feel kind of desperate to be like them, since I’ve so clearly not followed any traditional or expected path. But the thing that keeps tripping me up is I don’t have this deep seated desire to do or be anything. I don’t have a hidden talent. People don’t reach out and tell me – hey, that thing you do for fun from time to time – you’d be really good at that like as a business. I’m well-educated, I’m intelligent, I like to read, I like to write, I love puzzles, I love nature, I am reasonably athletic, I have an eye for beauty and color and shapes, I am agreeable and relatively comfortable with people. But there are no blatant talents, no outstanding achievements, a lot of anxiety and insecurity, no drive to be successful, no entrepreneurial spirit, no desire for attention. I just want to find a rhythm. Some way to contribute to society. To be productive and useful in a way that is somewhat unique to me. I just feel so plain and boring. That might sound strange coming from a girl who quit her job not once but twice in the last two years to go out into the world and explore and try to find herself and this THING that she’s supposed to do or be. And how phenomenally depressing to even utter the words that after almost two years of adventuring and putting myself out there, that maybe I’m just not that interesting and don’t have some incredible thing to offer. Please dear God don’t let that be the answer. Come ON already! What do I need to do to find some direction? You’d think after all the hours I’ve spent running, hiking, and biking in nature, in addition to the hours and hours of driving back and forth across America, that maybe I’d get some little signs or feelings or nudging. But as I resign myself to work another tax season I feel a piece of me dying. Cubicle life is suffocating for me. It doesn’t lead anywhere. If I was meant to succeed in an office environment surely one of the many many jobs I’ve had would have gone somewhere rather than left me physically ill and emotionally drained. I put on weight just thinking about it. Looking back on the photos in my closet from middle school, high school, college, and my 20s it is obvious that I’ve been coping with these issues for a long long time by sneaking junk food. I can’t even think about how different my life might have been if I’d spent some of my teenage years figuring out who I really was and where I belonged in the world. I weep at the thought of the life I could have been living these past 20 years. But since I can’t do anything to change the past I’m left with the big what now? How do I really start my life NOW?

Iron Adventures in France Part Deux

as continued from Part Un

There was a noticeably lower level of race morning anxiety for this second go around. Kelly seemed more anxious but I was relatively calm. We did have to drive into town and park and transition opened later (5:30 for a 6:40 start) than most races which I think contributed to Kelly’s nervousness. But we were one of the first ones there so got good parking and found chairs right next to the transition entrance, also conveniently located by some of those fancy portable toilet trailers – which at least for the first visit were remarkably nicer than your standard port-o-pot. We were literally the first ones into transition when it opened and I beelined for my bike and the pumps before a queue formed only to confirm my fear that their pumps did not fit on my weird rear valve. So I went right to the mechanic tent and let a cute French fella pump my tires for me. After arranging bottles and setting up my garmin we went hunting for special needs bags drop location. Literally walking in circles around transition asking everyone to no avail. Finally we located Morning clothes bag drop so we went ahead and stripped down and I strongly regretted not having throw away flip flops for the rest of the pre-race walking around (and mainly the last port-o-pot stop – electing to block that from my memory). Apparently special needs drop site was right outside the door – we had honestly walked by it like 3 times but they must not have been set up yet. Maybe we were distracted by the naked man who decided to just change clothes right in front of God and everyone at the entrance to transition. It took a few frustrating laps to locate the entrance to the swim start where we did our good luck and goodbye hugs before Kelly jumped into the lake for the in water pro start and I weaved my way closer to the back of the self-seeded pack. I stood at the railing watching the pro packs swim their first loop as the sun rose over the rooftops of this cute little French town and all the Europeans chattered around me. I had a brief moment of overwhelming emotion and teared up and almost started freaking out but I stopped myself and said a prayer for a good calm confident swim for both of us and refocused on the day ahead. We kept inching forward to the dock and I was feeling good, ready, committed to a great race.

Then I’m diving in off the dock and all hell breaks loose. My brand new (open water and pool tested) goggles were fogging up within seconds. The time trial style start didn’t provide the thinned out field that I anticipated. The water was not clear, like couldn’t see my own arms in front of me. The sun was blindingly right in my eyes breathing left, which was the side the buoys were on. The water was reverberating off the seawall creating tons of chop. It just plain sucked. I couldn’t calm down or get into a rhythm. I actually hung onto a kayak for a bit to get my bearings. Every time I’d stop to sight or clear my goggles the guys in boats would ask if I was okay. It took me over 14 minutes to get to the 500m buoy and some quick math told me this could be a 2 hour swim. The outbound half of the first loop took FOREVER. I spent a lot of time debating with myself whether or not to quit on the dock at the end of that first loop. But by the 1000m buoy I was starting to feel better, manage the situation – it wasn’t pretty, but I was making progress. We had to exit the water and run a little ways then jump back in. Perfect opportunity to bail. Here was my chance! It had taken me 50 minutes to go 1900m. I was pissed. I am better than this! I’ve had some awesome open water swims this summer. Of course I’d never questioned whether or not it would be wetsuit legal so my 1:20 time goal was definitely under revision without it, but I just didn’t know how much it would wear me out to actually have to swim for 2 hours without one, and I had the whole rest of the day to consider. But I came all the way to France. I had prepared for this. I didn’t even have the car key so if I quit, I’d be sitting around for the next 9 hours waiting for Kelly to finish. So I jumped back in. And scraped the ever living $hit out of my right foot on the damn concrete boat ramp hiding in the murky water at the end of the dock. UGH. I couldn’t even figure out where to swim because the sun was so blinding. I was still pretty mad swimming the second loop but at least I wasn’t getting swum over constantly – now I was the one passing people. I had resigned to having a terrible swim split and I’d figured out I could go roughly 500m before the goggles got so clouded that I absolutely had to stop and clear them, so now it was just managing my attitude and getting to the next buoy, and the next, until finally I got to turn for the exit. The old man in front of me was struggling to stand up so I fell over running into him and scraped up my left knee. Perfect. Something over an hour and forty minutes, but it was over. Nothing like a terrible horrible frustrating slow swim to start what I had hoped would be a perfect day for a nice big PR.

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I never get excited for the bike leg for a triathlon. I mean it’s one step closer to running, but all the uncontrollables make me anxious for it. But today, I was sooo looking forward to getting on the bike. Anything but swimming, please God. I didn’t even sit in transition. Swim skin off, tri top on. Shoes, helmet, glasses, go. Worked on my cool wings as I hobbled to my bike and hustled the long way to the mount line. Next time I need to remember to have a nice big snot blowing session instead of doing it for the first 2 hours on the bike. The first few miles getting out of town was twisty and bumpy and I hit so many potholes that by the time I got to some decent asphalt I could tell my derailleur was all kinds of jacked up. Great. Always nice to look forward to 6 plus hours of riding with a noisy chain and sketchy shifting. It was overcast and cool (not the 97 degrees we were anticipating) but I was in a foul mood from the swim. Happy to be riding, but angry that the day had started off so badly. There are hardly any women on the course but the men keep zipping by me. This is not unusual, however, considering how bad my swim went, I was just a little confused why they were all starting the bike after me. It should have dawned on me that I wasn’t the only one who struggled with that swim and that might have helped my attitude, but I was in a yuck place and feeling sorry for myself so that didn’t occur to me at all. 112 miles is a long ways to go and it wasn’t thrilling but it really wasn’t bad at all. I ate, I drank, I dumped water on my wings, I enjoyed the beautiful countryside, the British fellas were friendly, my attitude improved. My favorite part of the course is the last 15 miles of the loop – ironically, the hilly section. I didn’t mind the false flats or the cute towns, but the hills were more interesting and very pretty. Made a quick stop at special needs for nice cold Rocketfuel refills and chamois cream and started the second loop with a little more push on the pedals. Instead of getting passed nonstop now I was doing the passing, and finally seeing some ladies. It drizzled a few times which was awesome – didn’t affect the roads, but kept things cool. The pro men started passing me around half way through and I kept wondering if Kelly would catch me and if she did, would I tell her what a terrible swim I had? I didn’t want to distract her from her race but wanted her to know how things had gone so she didn’t worry when I was taking so long to finish later. But it was a non-issue, I managed to not get lapped by the ladies. I made a point to work the hills and was bummed when I realized I wouldn’t make my 6:30 split goal (range had really been 6:15-30). Lucky me, my garmin was 3 miles short and all of a sudden I was rolling into transition for a 6:23 split which really lifted my spirits.

My hips did the thing where they don’t like to stand up straight coming off the bike, so the long walk to rack my bike was a good opportunity to stretch them out, even if it cost me time. I did sit down to put on my socks and shoes over my poor bloody (swim scraped) feet and was sad that somehow after all the bag packing and repacking I hadn’t put any lube in my t2 bag so there would probably be some blister action happening. Pulled all the extra crap out of my shirt pockets from the bike and threw in my planned run nutrition, took a second to fill up my handheld bottle with water from the table and almost ran into a fence turning the wrong way out of the tent. A volunteer yelled at me to put my bib on as I was trying to buckle my belt while running out the chute and I pulled up my arm sleeves as I turned onto the run path and through the shower station. Quads were feeling the push from the bike but of course I was jetting off at a 7:30 pace blazing by everyone and trying to catch my breath. The path was half runners, half spectators – picture scooters, bikes, strollers, dog leashes, and a stream of tired stinky racers gutting it out on uneven asphalt. It cleared up as we got away from the venue though and then the first aid station appeared. Coke in mouth, water on sleeves. I’d repeat that 5 times per lap but I wouldn’t remember to walk them until #3 on that first lap. I was just too excited to run and accidentally forgot that part of my race plan and ticked off some stupidly fast splits. Goal pace was 8:45, not 8:25 so I needed to walk and chill out. Then I started seeing more reasonable numbers. And I was feeling pretty great, considering. Taking salt licks every mile, staying cool, no desire to eat though, which might come back to haunt me later. At the end of each lap you ran through the finish line, like literally across the red carpet but right next to the actual arch, then back out of the little stadium to get a bracelet and start your next lap. Red, yellow, blue, finish. Oh how I coveted that blue bracelet. Second lap was much like the first, feeling strong, sticking to my plan, thinking I would probably have to stop and pee but the port-o-jons were sparse and I kept going even when I saw one. I had dreams of running a 3:40 which should have cued me to realize I was running too fast. I could tell my garmin mileage was getting off but I crossed the finish line the second time at 1:47. Uh yeah, a little fast. Hmm… okay third lap. The need to pee was getting strong, too strong, and there were no bathrooms for miles it seemed. So I did the unthinkable – I peed myself. I know people do it on the bike, but I don’t think people do it on the run. Dear God, I am disgusting! Was close to an aid station so dumped water down my shorts and hoped no one noticed (and that I didn’t smell! well, at least any worse than I already did). Alright that happened, time to get back to business. I had some enthusiastic French gentlemen fans under the first bridge who always brought a big smile to my face. And I was still running a great pace, so people cheered everywhere “bravo! allez Emily! on y va!” or something like that. All day long, on the bike and run, the French cheered like we were Olympians – they were fantastic. But it happened again! This time I grabbed a shower head from a volunteer at an aid station and doused my lower half. My soggy socks were the least of my problems now lol. Somewhere in the midst of my hydration problems I must have missed some salt doses because by the end of my third lap my stomach was growing uncooperative as well. I finally stopped in a potty just before running through the finish line area but after getting my blue bracelet I had to take up a run walk, and boy was I pissed mad. Upped my salt intake and after a mile or so I was back on track, not moving as quickly, but running between aid stations at least. It was a mental battle of managing my expectations, forcing myself to suffer, and trying to enjoy the final few miles in spite of it all. The tummy trouble had ruined my sub 12 goal but I could still PR, I was sure of it, if I just kept moving at a steady pace. Some of the more rowdy spectating groups were disbanding and it was getting a little quieter on course but the volunteers were still going strong and it felt awesome to be in the home stretch. Again, I was just awed by the competitors walking with only 1 or 2 bracelets, they would be out there for quite some time, what guts.

My final lap around the finish line stadium was such a relief. I didn’t see Kelly even though she was there, it was so crowded and loud, and there were a few people finishing just ahead of me but I think I heard my name. The emcees were insanely awesome – they were basically running a discotheque in the park for 12 hours.

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The finishers tent was nothing more than a bottle of water, a t-shirt, and a long line for a massage. Kelly came and found me in line and we lamented the swim and I told her my stomach kinda crapped out around mile 20 – I think she thought I was really unhappy and asked me if my run was like a 4:10 and was kind of shocked when I told her it was actually a 3:50 for a 5 minute PR overall. Of course it was like pulling teeth to get her to tell me she finished 3rd – for her first pro 140.6 podium! I made friends with a first timer also named Emily waiting next in line and we all chatted til it was our turn. The emcees asked Kelly to be at the finish for the last hour (10:30-11:30) so I got my morning clothes bag, cleaned up and changed and we sat on the patio having donuts and beer (okay, only I had beer) and discussing the day. We eventually checked out my gear and took it all to the car then headed back to the finish area for some soft serve and hung out watching the party. For the last hour we actually went down to the finish line and partied with the other winners and emcees. At 11:30 they set off fireworks then showed a really great video from the day and bid us all adieu. It had been a pretty epic day, no question. Thank you Ironman Vichy!

Takeaways:

things are different in France –

  1. volunteers are great but not as knowledgable as we needed them in several instances
  2. there was zero mechanical support on the bike course
  3. there were lots of officials on motorcycles and strict rules about drafting but I never saw a single black card given
  4. ice is not a thing
  5. there are no bike catchers or finish line catchers
  6. supposedly you aren’t allowed to run shirtless, so I didn’t, but I saw plenty of shirtless women running
  7. you have to wear your bib on the bike or you get DQ’d
  8. you can’t wear a tri kit under a swim skin if it isn’t wetsuit legal – they made a special exception for this day that you could wear ONE layer under a swim skin – and they DQ’d a bunch of people for wearing a sports bra, a tri top, and a swim skin, even Pros

things that affected my performance –

  1. not being able to practice swim at the actual venue is tough – I actually haven’t at any of my half or full venues, and I think it would really help in the future
  2. building my own bike and only getting a cursory check out by a mechanic might have left it in less than ideal shape for race day, that’s a tricky thing about flying to a race
  3. I wasted 2 hours on the bike being mad about the swim – that was just stupid
  4. I honestly just didn’t visualize or run through my race plan enough – and started off my run too fast and didn’t get in any nutrition, which may have contributed to my (honestly very mild) stomach issue. last year I at least got down like 1 gel and 1 pack of chews then some bananas towards the end – this time it was only coke and a few oranges

things I’m proud of –

  1. not quitting on the swim. it was a very real possibility
  2. pushing on the bike not knowing how it would affect my run
  3. much better transitions!
  4. overcoming a huge setback on the swim and not being defeated by a setback on the run

And I’m not feeling burned out or finished or anything – I have a fire in my belly for more – because I know I am capable of much better. I am more fit than the circumstances allowed me to perform. Yes I’m registered for Roth next July but I don’t think I can wait that long to go again. So we’ll see what I come up with in the meantime 😀

Again, it wouldn’t have been possible without the wisdom and support of my coach, my friends and training partners, and all my teammates spread across the country. I really wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t fun like 80% of the time. Running is my first love, it is in those moments that I feel confident, strong, smart, and talented. To misquote the movie line, it is there that I feel God’s pleasure. The sermon at church tonight was about the inseparable nature of grace and truth in Christ Jesus – and how through His Spirit, we receive grace and truth, are convicted of righteousness, and are made free. We are constantly becoming more of who we are – more you-ier. Sports have a beautiful way of refining us, tearing us down, exposing our weakness, and providing unlimited opportunities to learn and grow and be made strong under wise teaching. It’s a never-ending process and I look forward to becoming more of who I’m meant to be, as an athlete, a daughter, a sister, a friend, and a child of God.