I hate even talking about it—mostly because it’s awkward for everyone in the room—but I gained weight during the pandemic. Probably 25 pounds. In 2019 I was a size 8 or 10, and almost always a medium. Now I’m a 12, and a large or an extra large.
Clearly, this isn’t the end of the world. Weight gain happens to a lot of people, especially to women in their 40s. I’m about to be 43, so it all lines up.
Pandemic stress + getting older + life in general = weight gain
Yeah, yeah, yeah Amy, take a number and get in line. This happens to lots of people, I know. BUT, just because it happens a lot, doesn’t mean it’s fun. Seriously, where’s the lying-on-my-back-staring-at-the-sky-asking-why emoji? Where is the pulling-out-my-hair emoji?
🥴 I think this is as close as I can get to that feeling.
🫣But sometimes it’s a little more like this hiding one.
Guys, my full time job is a fitness coach, and I also have a side hustle as a health teacher. Could the universe just do me a solid and make me magically thin forever? Does the universe not know that I wear spandex to work everyday? Doesn’t the universe know that I often have to record myself working out on camera? Seriously….WHERE IS THE WHY-ME-GOD emoji?
Anyway. Up until recently, I stepped away from a lot of the things I used to do, including running races. I figured I’d just wait til I was back to my regular old weight—the weight Id been at from age 21-40. And in the mean time, I’d be a great sport.
At my new weight, I’ve been happy to show up at a race and cheer for the KVCers, or pace a KVCer, or even do a bike race. But the idea of entering a race and running my fastest with KVCers? Nope. Nadda happenin. I’d rather ride the bus naked.
Such big feelings. But why?
I think I thought it would expose me. I think I thought it could make my KVC people feel like I let them down. Or maybe someone would call me Coach in front of a bunch of runners that I didn’t know, and those runners would be like, “That’s the Coach? Her? No. She must be a size 12. She can’t be the coach.”
So I cheered, and I encouraged, and I helped other people be brave, and try hard things, and do their races. And I did all that, fully and truly believing that every person of every size, shape, and speed, totally deserved to be there exactly as they are.
Oh, you know, except me. I could be genuine happy and supportive of everyone there, except me.
Since this summer, I’ve known in my gut that my attitude and my behavior has had to change. If I can’t show up, I can’t expect the KVCers to show up. I’ve known for a while that I was at a crossroads. Either get myself on a new career path, where I could feel proud and comfortable and at peace with being fully seen — or be fully seen where I already am, at KVC.
I started by sending out resumes related to my old line of work, and got zero replies. Not even a nibble. This was good news and bad news, because I love KVC and don’t want to be done…but it also meant that it was time to be vulnerable, show up, and participate exactly as I am.
😬😰😳.
That is the Oh Hell Yikes emoji combination.
This Fall, I encouraged the runners at KVC to sign up for a 5 mile race in Portland, and I registered, too. But I didn’t just register. I registered, promising myself that I’d do my best on race day, whatever that meant. So I ran 75 miles in September, and 100 miles in October, fully committed to giving it my damndest on November 12th.
Keep in mind, I’ve truly had no idea what my damndest equates to these days. Runs at a 10:30 pace have felt challenging lately, so I guessed 50 minutes for 5 miles. And even though 50 minutes is a far cry from the 37 minutes I would have run a few years back, I decided to do it with my head held high.
I decided I’d treat myself the same exact way I treat the people I coach.
If I was coaching someone with my same story—and I have many times over—OH MY GOSH I’D BE IN THEIR CORNER. Holy smokes, NOTHING would make me happier than seeing a runner like me show up for themselves. It’s exactly why KVC exists.
Well, long story short, I ran 42:52 today, an 8:32 pace. It felt awesome. I started conservatively, and every mile was faster than the last—just the way I like to do it. I loved being out there, I loved passing people, and I loved racing with my teammates. I’m really, really, really proud of myself.
If you’re scared to show up, I get it. If you think you’re the wrong size, or the wrong speed, I also get it. If you’re not showing up because you’re not who you used to be, I get it. I’ve always been able to empathize, but now, I’ve actually, literally been there.
So now that I showed up for me, I can say this with 100% sincerity: Show up. Don’t wait until you’re the weight you want to be or the weight you used to be. Show up now.
Life is precious. Life is short. Show up, run the race, and be you. The world needs you, exactly as you are today.
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