Cliché I know, but there are few better feelings than crossing the finish line– the swell of emotions, the excitement, relief. Tears (naturally) for me, a cold beer (Anchor Steam) presented to me by my sister.
Sweat dried in salty rivers around my face, white Lulu tank soaked through. Cold, but not, and buzzing with adrenalin, endorphin-charged high. Stoke level 100.
Post-shower (me) with my two faves. What champs! They ran 26.2 miles & look amazing.
A smile unfading despite feeling the sudden tightness in my quads, twinge in my knees, the throb in my Achilles.
This year’s SF Half Marathon coincidentally fell on the same weekend as my apartment move. Packing and shuffling boxes combined with race prep and a friend’s visit to run with us meant struggling with the balancing act– but somehow we made it all happen.
(I’m not kidding when I say I get by with
a little a shoot ton of help from my friends.)
Thirteen years ago I stood on a scale and hated the number I saw for the first time.
I don’t remember what the digits were, but I knew they were higher than the number my friend saw. And suddenly these lines were no longer just empty numbers– they were empty vessels holding all my not enough-ness.
My 12-year-old body saw everything she was not reflected in these numbers: not skinny enough. Not pretty enough. Not smart enough, not responsible or mature enough. Not old enough. Not fast enough. Not funny enough, witty enough, nice enough.
It’s been thirteen years. 13 years. And I’ve had enough. So I’m running 13.1 miles, one mile for each year, to prove it.
Mid-July marks my six month anniversary of my move to San Francisco. July 16, if we want to be exact.
(And if you’ve been reading along for the past six months, you may be dang tired of me writing about and talking about my move– but sorry not sorry, this topic isn’t going away any time soon.)
But today instead of waxing poetic on my love for my city, my home, I’m going to talk about enjoyment.
Blown away by the bay
I’ve noticed how easy it is to forget how to be alone.
You may not believe me if I told you, but I actually fall more into the category of introvert. In this case, introvert to me means this: I obtain my energy, I find rejuvenation, in solitude.
Five months ago, when my move to the city was new and fresh, I said yes to everything: weeknight concerts, dinners and lunches and happy hour mixers. Work projects and freelance projects and weekend trips. Dates. Visitors. Bumble.
I said yes to pretty much everything except to being alone.
Avery lives in San Francisco.
It was a simple declaration really, drifting over the static of a poorly cell serviced phone call. But in this one sentence, my dear friend blasted away any anxiety swelling in my heart.
I live here, I am home. San Francisco, my city. Home.
I know I’ve ardently touted my love for this city more times than I can count– but the moment the honeymoon moving stage wanes, a new wave of fresh excitement washes in and I’m reminded once again: I did it. I moved. I am here.
As much as time has so stereotypically flown by, each week, each day seems to have stretched his limbs out long, extending outside the confines of a calendar box and leaving me thinking, really, only 3 months?
The thrill is still very much alive. My need to fervently explore and discover and be a part of things still exists. And while I feel settled into work and in my home, my routines and habits are shifting. Suddenly I feel caught in a new growth cycle, new patterns, and at times, an entirely new way of thinking.
This all sounds good, right? Living somewhere new changes you. It grows you. We are supposed to grow.
So am I changing? And if so, is that ok. What happens now.