Head Tilt #79: Worst run. Best run.

"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. 

Early in the race: Happy hamstring, happy me.

 

Head Tilt #78: I'm scited (sacred and excited)

That's right-- I'm scited! 

Big race coming up in San Diego... (3/27)

Mentally I go through my checklist:

 ✅  Have I trained enough?  (I think so? I guess I could always train more.)

 ✅  Have I done enough hill work? (Hmmm... too late now if I haven't!)

 ✅  Did I plan my taper-week right?  (Sure! I love an excuse to take it slow and eat a few more carbs.)

 ✅  Do I have the right gear: socks, shoes, etc?  (Absolutely yes on this one!)

 ✅  Do I have my hydration tabs?  (Another yes)

 ✅  Do I have the right playlist?  (Still might add a song or two...)

I am ready! I am also scited.

Scited means the state of being scared and excited at the same time. It's a portmanteau created by the wonderful human, Glennon Doyle. 

And I am scited when I think about the race. 

I am excited about the thrill of racing. It's so much FUN! The amped energy of the racers is exhilarating! I am also eager to see what my body is capable of this year. 

I am scared that I didn't prepare enough after all. I am scared I won't finish in a time that I consider respectable. What if I bonk?! 

Here's the thing: Anxiety (being scared) is a state of negative arousal. Excitement is nearly the same exact experience physically, but it's a state of positive arousal. 

I first heard this from Tony Robbins at his Unleash the Power Within conference and it blew my mind. 🤯 Shortly after, I tested the idea. My son and I were in line for The Twilight Zone Hollywood Tower of Terror -- a 130ft elevator drop ride in Disney California Adventure. At the time, it was my son's favorite ride and my least favorite. It was so scary!!! Even my butterflies were biting their nails when I stood in that queue. 

I committed long ago never to be a sideline mom, so despite my anxiety, I agreed to ride it with him each time we visited the park. 

As we waited our turn, I started thinking about anxiety and excitement as the same thing, different perspective. 

I thought how fun it was to be with Brendan. I thought how safe I was (despite the ruse of a broken elevator) and what a thrill the ride was. I actually talked myself into a different state of mind.

Did I still have butterflies? Oh yeah! An entire parade of butterflies do-si-doed in my belly! 

But now I was much more excited and much less scared. 

I've used the same mind game with the anxiety I feel before a big presentation or interview. I can feel the butterflies, but I let them lift me. 

As for the race, my scared parts are real, but they aren't as loud as the excited parts. 

My mind is reading the pre-race jitters as information and then turning it into fuel. 

I might bonk (doubtful). I might not finish in the time I want (could happen), but I am dressing this particular parade of butterflies in the best damn outfits I can imagine. 

Now they are all doing high-kicks in unison while cheering me on. 

I think they'll help me fly come Sunday morning. 

On my mark.

Get set.

GO! 

Head Tilt #77: Learning to F.L.Y (Fully Love Yourself) while losing your hair (5 of 5)

Original art from Dancing with the Diagnosis, 2003

Special note: On March 13, 1997, I was diagnosed with leukemia. During that time, I wrote a book titled Dancing with the Diagnosis, Steps for Taking the Lead When Facing Cancer. It was published a few years after the completion of my treatment. In honor of the 25th anniversary of the diagnosis, I am highlighting parts of the book and the lessons I learned in this five-part series. I hope the posts will encourage and maybe even inspire. I welcome comments and conversations! 

One thing I've been asked throughout the years is whether or not I lost my hair during the leukemia treatments. I did. I was as bald as a baby bird. This post is an excerpt from the chapter that discusses that. 

Excerpt from Chapter 6: Learning to F.L.Y. While Losing Your Hair

Many of us who choose to heal our bodies through chemotherapy are bound to lose our hair. I was told I would lose my hair within three to four weeks after receiving the type of chemotherapy required for my treatment. This scared me for a couple of reasons. First, as a woman in an image-obsessed society, I didn't know how I'd handle it. Would I be able to look in the mirror and truly accept who looked back at me? Would my then-husband still find me attractive? Sure, I was practicing the art of fully loving myself "as is," but I was forging into new territory. 

The second thing that bothered me was that losing my hair would put me in the visual cancer group. Until I lost my hair, I still had days in which I appeared 'cancerless' to those who didn't know better. A bald head would signify my official initiation into the Cancer Club. 

One night I contemplated the power of mind over matter and its relation to hair loss. Maybe I could will my hair to stay in. After all, I heard that some people never lost their hair despite receiving chemotherapy. Maybe I could be one of those! As if answering a question I hadn't yet asked, the next thought in my mind was "rebirth." I understood the message immediately. As a child is born with little hair, my hair loss would mark my personal rebirth into a new life of fully loving myself...as is. Acceptance replaced vanity. 

Hair loss is a very small price to pay for an extension of life.

Each of our experiences may differ: for me, the physical process of losing my hair was much more upsetting than actually being bald. Before my first round of chemo, I had my shoulder-length locks cut short. I thought it would be easier to deal with the short hair when it fell out, but it wasn't. The truth was that no matter what the length, I couldn't stand having strands of hair falling out all over my clothes, in the shower, and on my pillow. I felt like Charlie Brown's Christmas tree: one touch and pieces of my hair fell out like dried pine needles! 

My then-husband, "Jim," had the perfect remedy. "Let's shave it!" he enthusiastically offered. Seeing an opportunity for some control, I agreed. If losing my hair wasn't optional, I'd be in charge of how, where, and when. 

Jim got the clippers, and we went outside. As he shaved away, I let him know that this was the only time he'd ever cut my hair! He made it magical, though. 

He repeatedly told me he loved me and said that I was beautiful- hair or no hair. 

We laughed with nervous excitement as he said, "This is for all the times we've been late because of your hair!" He asked me to sing "Nothing Compares to U" (Sinead O'Connor), and I did. 

What could have been an extremely emotional time was...but the emotions present were love and laughter, not the fear and sadness I had anticipated. 

Eleven days passed before I looked at my bald scalp in the mirror. I decided that I'd see it when I was ready to see it. When I finally took a peek, I wasn't thrilled, but I didn't despise it either. I accepted it for what it was. I then realized that my beauty, my femininity, my being, was not in my hair; it was in my soul.

As I became used to my new look, I marveled at my scalp. It was so smooth, so delicate. It needed special care: sunscreen or hats on sunny days (trust me, a burnt scalp is not fun) and cotton nightcaps to keep warm at night. My scalp also needed to be loved, not scorned. Someone told me to experience rain on my naked head. When I got the chance, I did. It was wonderful! 

My hair was about one inch long when my treatments ended, and I was temporarily free from clinic visits. Proud of success and more comfortable with my thinly covered scalp, I didn't want to wear a wig anymore. My newly sprouted hair was a testament to my accomplishments. I fought cancer! Sometimes though, I felt a bit awkward in public. Friends reminded me that fully loving myself still meant "as is," with or without hair or wigs. 

A few times, male acquaintances whom I hadn't seen for a while would stop me and say with disbelief, "What happened to your hair?!" Mentally prepared for such comments, I would muster all the enthusiasm I could and reply, "Isn't it great? I am recovering from cancer!" The look on their faces was well worth the disclosure. 

Losing my hair and growing it back again made me a braver and more confident person. ❤️

Head Tilt #76: Learn to Listen (4 of 5)

Special note: On March 13, 1997, I was diagnosed with leukemia. During that time, I wrote a book titled Dancing with the Diagnosis, Steps for Taking the Lead When Facing Cancer. It was published a few years after the completion of my treatment. In honor of the 25th anniversary of the diagnosis, I am highlighting parts of the book and the lessons I learned in this five-part series. I hope the posts will encourage and maybe even inspire. I welcome comments and conversations! 

Excerpt from Chapter 12: Learn to Listen (Tips for Caregivers and Support People)

As I traveled on my path with cancer I often talked to my support team about how the disease specifically affected them. One recurring theme in our discussions was their desire to make things better for me, coupled with the frustration of not knowing what to do. Those in support roles frequently equate themselves to mechanics who need to fix the one who's hurting. In reality, the one who is hurting doesn't need to be "fixed" by their support team as much as they need to be heard by them. Many of my family members and friends didn't have to do much more than really listen to me to lift my spirits when I was feeling blue.

Just listen. Sounds easy, right? Well, it is...sort of. Listening is easy once we pay attention and commit to the practice of the necessary skills. As you know, listening involves much more than merely hearing what is said, or staying quiet while another takes their turn to speak. Effective listening starts with mindfulness -- being present in the communication situation. The focus is on the moment. Our thoughts are on the speaker's words and feelings, not our next response.

Active listening encourages listeners to check their understanding of a speaker's verbal message (what was said) and nonverbal message (indicated through facial expressions, pace, tone, and body language). Active listeners respect the speaker's ideas and feelings while encouraging further exploration of both. It's particularly appropriate when someone is expressing negative feelings about something.

Consider the following example:

Speaker: I am so sick of feeling sick. I am not getting chemotherapy anymore! 

Listener 1: You want to get better, don't you? 

Listener 2: Image all the people whose treatments are lengthier and harsher than yours.

Listener 3: Chemotherapy is really a blessing. Fifty years ago it wasn't even an option and people's prognoses were much worse. You're actually lucky to be getting it. 

Listener 4: Don't talk like that! Don't you have any idea how much you mean to your family and me? This is hard on all of us.

Hmmm...do you think that the speaker really feels heard by any of those listeners? 

Probably not. 

Each response is a well-intended attempt to change the speaker's perspective, but each comes at the cost of denying the speaker's verbal and non-verbal message.

As exemplified here, more communication is not always best. There is a time to listen. Active listeners tune into the speaker's message and ask themselves, "What's really going on here?" Next, they check their perception of the situation by paraphrasing the speaker's statement with their own interpretation of its meaning. 

For example:

Speaker: I am so sick of feeling sick. I am not getting chemotherapy anymore!

Active Listener: You sound so upset. These treatments must be really rough on you. 

Active listening necessitates clear comprehension of the message as the speaker intended it. When paraphrasing the perceived meaning of what the speaker said, the active listener gets a chance to check if they understood correctly. Without words, the active listener is saying, "I am trying to understand what you're saying. Tell me more." 

Steps for active listening include: 

1. Stay present. Put your own stuff (worries, defenses, rebuttals) aside. You can retrieve it later if you want. 😉

2. Paraphrase. Focus on the actual words and the underlying feelings expressed. What did you hear them say? How do you think they are feeling? Repeat your interpretation in your own words and ask if your guess is correct. 

3. Monitor nonverbal language (both theirs and yours). Be aware of what messages you are sending through your own nonverbals, and carefully check for discrepancies in theirs. 

4. Ask good questions. Strive for clarity and comprehension. For example, ask, what do you mean by that? Could you give me an example? When is it worst? Best? Ideally, how do you see this turning out?

5. When permitted, reframe. After the speaker has had ample time to vent, ask if they would like a different perspective (reframe). If they are ready, offer a new vantage point. If they are not ready, save it for a time when they can really hear you. 

Sample dialogue using active listening:

Speaker: I am so sick of feeling sick. I am not getting chemotherapy anymore!

Active listener: You sound so upset. These treatments must be really rough on you (paraphrase content and feelings) 

Speaker: They are! It's like the treatment is worse than the actual disease! I really didn't feel bad until I started chemo. I just want to feel well...and stay feeling that way. 

Active listener: I bet you do. When will the treatments be finished? (acknowledgment plus a question to elicit more information)

Speaker: Not soon enough. 

Active listener: I can tell you've had it. What other options do you have? (paraphrase expressed feelings/question to find resolution)

Speaker: I guess I could just stop getting chemotherapy...

Active listener:  uh-huh… (shows that you're listening while encouraging the speaker to continue)

Speaker: (spoken softly)... but then I increase my risks for relapse.

Active listener: Hmm... that sounds like a risk you're not willing to take. Is that right? (wait for answer) Can I offer a different perspective? (paraphrase/check for accuracy/ask permission to reframe) 

Speaker: I guess. 

Active listener: The long-term benefits of chemotherapy ultimately outweigh the short-term hardships. Maybe we can talk to the doctors about different things you can do to ease the pain as you go through it. What do you think? (reframe)

Speaker: Yeah, at this point I am willing to do just about anything. 

In the semi-hypothetical example (I had a conversation very similar to this one), the active listener allowed the speaker to explore her feelings before moving to the point of resolution. If the speaker had jumped to the reframe, the speaker might have become even more frustrated. She would be left to explain, justify or defend her feelings. Instead, the listener encouraged the speaker to continue. 

Active listening is not a panacea; it is a needed skill, particularly when performing the support role. ❤️ Don't worry about fixing everything. Commit to hearing your friend. 

Original art from Dancing with the Diagnosis