|
A few months ago, I was on TikTok, scrolling brainlessly, as one does (the word engagement is grossly overapplied to most social media interactions).
Rising from the bottom of the For You Page, like a Y2K popstar hauled upwards on a stage platform, appeared a blonde woman, running briskly in the cold spring weather. The white text overlay said something to the effect of:
I'm on Day 700-ish of running every single day.
At the time, I couldn't fathom how a person could commit to that. I'm not a habit girly. I don't listen to podcast series with any kind of consistency. I can barely finish a 24-episode contract without yeeting myself into the sun. Freelancing is the perfect job for the commitment-averse. I've been with my boyfriend for 8.5 years and we still live in separate apartments on opposite ends of the city.
Running every day? On Christmas and New Years Day? Unthinkable.
During the pandemic, I threw myself into work. Living alone with no one to judge me, I treated my body like a seasonally-inappropriate duvet that you dump on the floor every night because it's too hot to sleep under — tossing myself on the couch, plopping in front of my desk, melting into bed. I logged days where I never left the house at all, not even for a "hot girl walk."
I told myself that we had so many projects to complete! So many series to launch! Even when the lockdowns stopped and social gatherings tentatively sprouted, I kept declining invitations, citing that I was still "too busy." It felt safer to lapse into overwork instead of dwelling on reality.
But I gained weight, and my body scolded me. It began to ache in new places that I was previously certain wouldn't let me down. My inner elbows twinged like they were crying weakly for help. My hips shot little zings of pain when I shifted in my chair. I was winded lugging groceries up three flights of stairs. My body was slowly betraying my trust. By isolating myself for two years, I became afraid to be perceived.
In late July, the existing projects started wrapping up. And it left me alone with the person whose company I enjoy the least. For those who don't know, I was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder at 8, and Generalized Anxiety Disorder in my early twenties.
When you work for yourself, the paranoia you feel about locking in your next contract is real. When a project is 75% done, there's a near-hormonal urgency to comb through LinkedIn, Twitter, and all the listservs, looking for your next gig. Most of the time, you end up overapplying; overindicating your interest; overcommitting; the cycle repeats itself.
For once in my career, I decided to politely ignore the frantic internal messages — line something up! reach out to old contacts! unbury that hatchet! — and just see what would happen instead.
In early August, after a jag of daily sobbing, I reflected on all the times I've struggled with mental health, and how I've self-medicated.
It's always been running.
It's no coincidence that I stopped running six years ago because gruelling sixty-hour weeks at my first Big Girl Podcasting Job in left no room for anything resembling humanity. In exchange for the flossy line on my resume, the job left me with permanent hearing damage, TMJ, and tinnitus. Depressing!
Since then, I've gradually come to realize that podcasting doesn't love you back.
It's just a job, no matter how many times a senior executive tries to make you feel like you're replaceable and that you won't get this kind of opportunity anywhere else. I certainly hope not! You can keep your grody systemic abuse! I don't want it.
So, I've started running again.
I'm on Day 24 now; a long way from 700-ish. To rebuild my relationship with my body; she has to trust me, and I have to trust her back. But, here's a secret weapon: fat bodies are strong bodies — physically carrying hundreds of pounds and emotionally carrying societal fatphobia. I'm savouing the slowness. It took me six years to realize that work isn't everything, and it might take six years to believe it.
I run at night, to wipe the day off. I don't give myself a distance mark or a speed goal, but I'm getting faster and running further all the time; and when that happens, I am rewarded by the knowledge that I am more than the things I make for other people.
I took a day off this week because I forgot my running shoes at my boyfriend's house, but I'm the one who gets to say that's okay.
I'm the boss. And I'm giving myself permission to take care.
And I hope you do too.
|
