I cried in a CrossFit class last Friday. I pulled my grey hat over my eyes to hide the tears. We were supposed to be squatting with a medicine ball, and I just couldn’t do it. Stupid really. I felt frustrated and embarrassed. The coach asked me if I was ok. I nodded. But I wasn’t.
It feels like I’ve spent the last few weeks really doubting myself.
My word for 2014, ‘dare’, clung loosely to my legs as I slowly meandered through January. I kept looking at the word on my blackboard, and yet I didn’t know what ‘dare’ meant to me anymore. The start of the year sounded a 14 month klaxon until my LA to NY run, and I suddenly felt overwhelmed by the monumental size of the journey upon me. Not just the near 3000 miles across an entire country, but what lay ahead in terms of training and logistics, and what it meant to me as a runner, as a human.
I’ve spent a lot of my life doubting myself and what I am capable of. My mum died when I was 18, and I kind of lost my way soon after, the sheer weight of the loss paralysed me, and I fucking floundered for a long time. I wasn’t a child anymore, and yet I certainly wasn’t an adult. I had to figure things out and make things up as I went along, I didn’t really know what I was supposed to be doing with this thing called life. I always looked to others to tell me what to do. I didn’t dare trust my own inner-voice or intuition. I felt very trapped and lived a small and safe life.