The plan was for me to be wrapping up an 18-mile long run as part of my build-up to the Chicago Marathon, but instead, I found myself sitting in the Hospital ER next to my daughter. She hit a deer on the way home from a friend's house. Fortunately, she was OK. The deer, not so much.
A day like that is a grim reminder of how important running is to my mental health. I mean, it's not like running made me any less groggy when my wife received the call at 4 AM or made it any less scary to think about my daughter bleeding in an ER, but it has helped me to cope with hard situations like this. I like to think of it sort of like overdraft protection. Every run, every mile, acts like a deposit that helps protect me from overdrawing my mental health bank account and going into the red.
I haven't always associated running with mental health. But it has always brought me joy, going all the way back to my earliest childhood memories. I can remember my dad mowing the lawn and running circles around the freshly mowed makeshift track he created for me. That joy of running continued into middle and high school, where I ran track and cross country. I was never the fastest runner (far from it) but I enjoyed being part of a team, challenging myself and encouraging my faster friends that made it to regionals or state.
After high school, I continued to run for fitness and fun. That is until I injured my back during a training exercise while serving in the Air Force. After that, I could barely run a quarter of a mile before I was forced to stop because of excruciating back pain. For fourteen years, I didn't run at all. I tried a few times, but every time I did the excruciating pain in my lower back would shut me down, often after no more than a quarter mile.
That is until one day, ten years ago. I had taken up mountain biking a few years before that and was planning to use the stationary bike in the hotel fitness center, but they were all taken so I grudgingly jumped on an open treadmill, expecting my back to shut me down yet again. But this time, to my disbelief, my back didn't complain at all after the first half mile. Or the first mile. Or the second mile.
For the first time in almost a decade and a half, I was able to run three miles pain-free - not counting the welcome soreness that came the next morning. To borrow a line from Forest Gump, “From that day on, if I was ever going somewhere, I was running!” Ok, maybe it wasn't quite everywhere, but that's how it felt. Any excuse to throw on my running shoes and head out the door, I took it.
My running rebirth couldn't have come at a better time. I was already suffering from serious work-related burnout due to extensive travel and long hours on top of longstanding, untreated depression. Running reconnected me with that joyful part of my childhood and gave me a new tool to help keep my depression in check. I like to think of my depression as my shadow. I'm not Peter Pan, so I can't ever fully escape my shadow, but running allows me to stay ahead of it–most of the time.
Unfortunately, my shadow also appears to be a pretty decent runner and inevitably catches up to me. But by running consistently, I'm able to keep my shadow in line. There are still some days when my shadow manages to outrun me and get out in front of me or I catch it running alongside me. On those days I just try to keep moving, knowing that I'll eventually outpace it if I just keep running.
In the ten years since I returned to running, I’ve managed to continue running year-round (which isn't always easy in Wisconsin) and have only taken a few breaks due to a broken foot and some minor injuries. Running has helped me through my dad's life-threatening battle with autoimmune encephalitis, all of Covid, my 10-year-old nephew's sudden and tragic death in 2020, and through my wife's recent health struggles. It has also been a critical part of managing my depression and recently diagnosed ADHD. And just recently, I had the pleasure of running the Chicago Marathon, my 19th, as part of Team Still I Run.
