snails (my experience with running)

Let me start by saying this:

I AM NOT A RUNNER.

Far from it, in fact. Ask anybody, really. I used to laugh (scoff, even) when people would ask me to join them on a run. Me? Run? I'll pass. And that's the way it's always been. You can imagine my surprise when I found myself, with no external pressure or prompting, clicking "submit" on the registration form for a HALF-MARATHON. Yes, that's 13.1 miles. Of running.

There are moments when I realize just how amazing the human body is. How resilient, how strong. My legs were designed for movement; my heart was designed for rhythmic beating, even-paced and purposeful.  When my anxiety began, everything was out of whack. My heart beat was inconsistent, beating too fast, too hard--shaking my entire body, even in the stillness of my seat.

I was given a piece of advice: run. 

Run for your mental endurance. Run for endorphins. Run to get out of your head. 

Run to remind your body of its purpose.

Your body should not respond so aggressively to irrational fears. 

That physical response, that elevated heart rate, that shortness of breathe, that intense exhaustion:

it should only come from feet on pavement, from movement, from pushing your physical body to its physical limits. 

So run.

It's taken me too long to understand the beauty of a healthy body, working as it was intended.  My body hardly feels resilient or strong. But I know it is working. My crooked knees still ache, my feet overextend. I'm slow and I'm always thirsty. I complain too much and have a billion excuses as to why I couldn't run 7.2 miles today. But my body is responding to its physical purpose. My heart knows why it beats so hard, my muscles know the meaning of movement. 

So I run. At a snail's pace, I run. 

And my body and soul thank me for it. 

Even as a snail, I'm going to kick that half-marathon's butt.