"Fail early, fail often, but always fail forward." John C. Maxwell
"You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated." Maya Angelou
Last weekend I failed.
Big.
It was go-time and I was ready to run my best half marathon yet.
I knew the goal. It was a stretch goal: Achievable but challenging.
I mapped the course for months. I knew exactly what it would take to reach my ideal time and I plotted the steps.
I trained. Hard. Long runs, tempo runs, HIIT runs, hill runs. I didn't miss a run.
I LOVED EVERY MINUTE OF IT. Running has been my go-to movement since I was in college. I think of myself as a runner and, this year, after consistency, commitment, education, and grit, I thought of myself as an athlete.
I trained smart and I trained right.
On race day I was READY. I ticked all the boxes of my "cheetah checklist" (the list I created to succeed). Nutrition, gear, attitude-- I was excited. I was optimistic. I was stoked. I was SET. It was practically in the bag.
Until it wasn't.
After a strong start and a few happy, fast miles, I started to slog.
My hamstring-- a seemingly chronic injury that I'd pampered with acupuncture, physical therapy, and care-- pulled the emergency brake. Adding to the issue, my light legs that I thought were made of feathers turned to lead, and every step felt clunky, awkward, and hard.
WHAT. THE. F*!K.
The physical setback was real. I stopped and walked (walking in a race breaks all my personal rules) to reorient myself.
Instead of recalibrating, I added insult to injury, salt to the wound, pain to pain-- I berated myself. Harshly.
My inner critic stole the mic and turned the volume all the way UP.
"Loser!" "Embarrassment!" "Fake!" "Phony!"
The physical pain was fierce. The personal pain was worse.
By mile 11, my brain and my legs told me I needed to get the heck off the course. I ripped off my bib number, stepped aside, and Google-mapped my way home. I was so ashamed.
Head down, I hobbled along, alone.
(The bright spot: as a consolation prize, I stopped at the Donut Bar on the way and grabbed a glazed Old-Fashioned and a Mimosa to go. ☀️)
The next day, after rest and perspective, I served up a big warm slice of humble pie and slowly started making sense of what happened.
As disappointing as it was, the injury was eventually easy to understand-- even though I thought otherwise, my injured muscles just weren't down for a 13-mile run.
However, the self-loathing that chimed in required a more thorough exploration, unless I wanted to struggle this hard with future disappointments.
Here's how I've made sense of everything since...
I realized that failure was almost inevitable because:
1. I made perfection my only option. Next time, I'll still aim high, but I will allow room for disappointment. To paraphrase Steinbeck, Now that I don't have to be perfect, I can be good.
2. I tied my identity to a very specific label. When my performance didn't match the label, I fell. I need to know that I am more than my descriptors. I am Michelle and at the end of the day, I'm okay no matter what.
3. At a time when I needed self-compassion the most, I gave the mean-me the mic. Next time I'll grab another microphone and let the kind-me have a dialog with my harsh self-critic. What am I so scared of? What is at the base of the personal attack? What would I say to someone else experiencing a similar circumstance? Curiosity quells cruelty.
A week later, my hamstring still hurts. I haven't run since, but I will run again. I've mapped specific ways to improve my physical game and my mental game. I have three more races on my calendar. I'm still disappointed with the recent race outcome and how I reacted to my defeat, but I'm mindfully making room for compassion.
I am not defeated. I am failing forward. After all, failure can be a great teacher. I'm sitting front-row, ready to grow. If I apply what I learn, maybe my worst run will be my best run, after all.
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| Early in the race: Happy hamstring, happy me. |