Maybe If We Stopped Running....
I remember the first, and only, time I ran.
I was little. Less than 10. More than 5.
I was infuriated by some perceived injustice heaped on me by my family, so I hauled ass down our dusty alley, carrying nothing with me but my fiery temper and my wounded ego.
I can still see it.
Wild, curly hair blowing in the wind behind me. Chubby little body trudging forward, determined to let nothing stand between me and my freedom.
And let me tell you… I was the kind of girl who could cover some serious distance fueled only by my fury and my rock-solid will. But I was also still just a little girl, with little legs and a big imagination, so when it came time to choose between sleeping on some leaves in a creepy ravine OR in my Strawberry Shortcake-covered canopy bed, I folded, and made my way back home before anyone even knew I’d left.
Do you have a runaway story? I feel like most of us do.
I also feel like this inclination to run is a rite of passage in childhood that doesn’t necessarily just end once we age.
Sure, we are less likely to take off without a bag in hand or a plan or a place to stay, but even most grown adults I know are just not likely to hunker down in the face of painful circumstances outside of our control.
When things get tough, we like to take off.
That is, of course, unless we feel some sense of responsibility for the people around us.
(Ahem… Every. Single. Woman. I. Know.)
In which case it is far more likely that in lieu of leaving, we will find a way to disappear in plain sight.
It’s like a magic trick.
Now she’s here… wait, she’s still here. But is she?
Or maybe that isn’t you, either, but it sure as shit is me.
This is the kind of running away I’ve perfected.
And it isn’t hard, really, in a culture that prefers its women stay small and silent. We are offered so many ways to make certain we remember that less of us is better, aren’t we?
Or again, maybe this isn’t you, but you guessed it. It is me to a T.
I’ve gotten so good at running.
I’ve used food to run - both in excess and deprivation.
I’ve used sex.
Work.
Alcohol.
Religion. Yes, religion… If you think whiskey is good at making women disappear, try Catholicism. They’ve got the lock on keeping women small and silent. (BUT I DIGRESS)
I’ve used perfectionism, the relentless pursuit of personal development, and a painful number of hours spent with “healers” who might find a way to fix me.
I’ve even used actual running to run.
But here is what I know about running:
It. Is. Exhausting.
And where do you want to go when you’re tired?
Home. You want to go home.
But here’s the shitty part about all of that running… sometimes we get so far from home, we can’t find our way back.
Or, again… maybe not you, but me, for sure.
And so eventually, having tired after a lifetime of trying to outrun myself, I stopped. But I was lost. Like really, really lost, so I decided to backtrack:
I got not one, but two therapists. (yes, I’m an overachiever)
I came out and married a woman, rendering my relationship with religion null and void.
I ditched diets and worked diligently to heal my relationship with food and exercise.
I got sober.
I did all the things I thought I needed to do to find peace.
And then I waited.
For what, you ask?
Homecoming.
I waited for homecoming.
I waited for the feeling of familiarity, like walking through the backdoor of your childhood home and smelling your favorite dish on the stove. I wanted the kind of rest you only get in your own bed, with your own pillows.
I wanted peace.
But it didn’t come right away.
And when it didn’t come, I had a choice to make:
Pick up my things and run again in the face of painful circumstances.
Or stay put, hoping peace might find me, so long as I didn’t move.
And so, I chose to stay. I don’t actually know if my legs could have carried me any further anyway.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t look for the next thing. I just stopped.
And stopping changed everything.
Stopping allowed me to stay in one place long enough to remember what that wild-haired child knew the day she tore off down the alley with nothing in her hands, but everything in her heart.
It invited me to remember that home wasn’t the smell of my mom’s soup or the cool side of my pillow.
It encouraged me to remember that the four walls of a house were never really the home I was longing to find.
Stopping made it possible for me to remember that the home I was longing to find was in me.
It was me. Is me. I am home.
And I didn’t need to keep looking because I never left.
And the same is true for you, too.
I know it sounds crazy, right? Or if not crazy, then wildly difficult, but I assure you… it is neither of those things. It’s simple, really. For me, it always starts in my body. With my breath. Right hand over my heart, left resting on my belly. For me, it always starts with the rise and fall of my chest. And it always ends when I remember I have nothing left to look for.
I was looking for me all along. And I believe you are looking for you.
And so, if you’re tired of running - if you’re tired of looking - if you’re tired of chasing some version of you that always seems to disappear the second it seems to be in reach… just stop.
Right hand on your heart. Left on your belly. Rise, fall. In, out.
