I guess deep down I really wanted to be on the starting line too.

And indeed, the atmosphere on race morning was electric. Fuck me because I still love this feeling. The music, the dark sky, the announcer crowing about the race’s 250,000 fans, and the nerves of the other runners crowding into the chute, that collective effervescence… was it too much to hope for a good day?

The afternoon before the race, I went to a meetup hosted by my charity team @meat_fight for our Houston crew. It was a feel-good reminder of why we do what we do, and it provided a dose of perspective. The team is a mix of supporters like me and then athletes who run with MS, which is a lifelong disease without a cure. My injuries were annoying but obviously not lifelong disability. Our jerseys have upside-down 13s reminding us about beating the odds of a bad hand. Being part of the group made me feel like the race was more meaningful.

That night we spent at my brother and sister-in-laws house. We enjoyed their hospitality: homemade pozole for dinner; a beautiful tres leaches cake. They happened to be entertaining a small group of friends. We played Loteria, and I won a round. Maybe my luck was turning after all.

I started the race as slowly as I could, letting my body warm up. I felt smooth. I slapped so many “tap here for Power Up” Mario signs, gave SEVERAL taps to an anti-ICE sign, and waved and smiled at the spectators like they were there for me personally. I made it to mile 8, AKA my average long run this season, before I started to tire.

This training block was mostly a bust. I couldn’t run fast or hard, couldn’t deadlift, and in the worst of it, I couldn’t even unload my laundry without pain or modification. Alas, I had not sprung for the pricy washer/dryer bases and was reminded of my pain and misery not only while running but also during menial housework.

The thing is, I will whine forever about not getting to run the way I want to run, but I keep. coming. back. And I think it’s less of a Des Linden “keep showing up” ethos, or a moral tale about persistence, than me just not finding anything else I like as much. What I do right now kind of feels like a lack of moving on, but also, for me, this takes repeated humbling. And that is one way I’m growing.

I couldn’t capital-T “train.” But I could run easy. I jogged my 3 days a week. It was un-sexy and disappointing. But it was better than nothing. And by race day, it was enough.

At mile 10 I felt an instinct to start going harder. I could have repressed it. Why bother? But something unconscious urged me ahead.

I thought I’d rejected the doctrines of high performance for good. “To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift,” yeah right, miss me with that bullshit, Steve. Tell that to the breastfeeding toddlers that rankled my nervous system beyond repair. I have been giving it my best, pal. But I’ve been giving it my best since I was 8 years old. And it looks different every year. Some years are trenches. Some years are transcendent.

I can tell you how it all unfolded; year after year. Coaching, injuries, mindset shifts, teammates, education, training settings, opportunities, and other life responsibilities all shaped every season. Some years it’s obvious why it didn’t all click; some years it’s more opaque.

Besides performance, I believe in other good things about the sport: the exercise, the friendships, the routines and rituals.  Was it one of those compelling me to finish hard at Houston?Or was it something more primal? Something familiar that I hadn’t felt in a while? Something I saw glimmering in the distance?

Or was it simply the race-day high? I remembered the energy at the start of the race, the way the crowd had kept me going throughout, even the silly but real boost from hearing “Mr. Brightside” playing on loudspeakers as I ran by. I wondered if it would be easier to get this buzz by going to raves. A missed opportunity, perhaps?

After I turned onto Allen Parkway, the physical effort obscured the mental. I didn’t care anymore why I felt this way. I just gave myself over to it.

I ran my fastest three miles in months, all the way through to the end.

I look so happy at the finish. And I was. Was it worth all the anguish it took? I don’t know. But it’s intriguing enough to make me want to keep trying.

If you asked me how I’ve been, I’d say my week was stressful with work.

But when I look back on my camera roll all I see is soft light, homemade muffins with unicorn sprinkles, the morning walk and cortado I got before my presentation that I didn’t think I was “allowed” to take (🧠: “you should have spent every free moment preparing, you’re not good enough”), but I did anyway to do something nice for myself...

I see the church-turned-restaurant that hosted my brother and me for a good talk.

I see princess dresses on my little girls for a day out. Public art. A cloudy afternoon I didn’t know I needed.

I see a spur-of-the-moment return to a date spot Jake and I hadn’t been to in years (“HAVE YOU TRIED DATE NIGHTS?” Ugh. Fine).

I see a sparkling lake and smiling friends on a Sunday morning run.

The outlines of a joyful life are all there. What’s not adding up? I guess there are hard parts. Not pictured are the hours where I’m schlepping my busted-up body (hamstring tendinopothy for the last three months and two ankle sprains in six weeks) to the gym, and slowly lowering myself off the edge of a box, again and again. I can kind of run, but the moment I pick up the pace or there’s a 1% incline, my leg hurts. No end in sight.

There’s also work: I’m at my desk for hours a day, chipping away at projects in a company of 20,000+ people where my brain inexplicably tells me I’m so important that I need to know how to do my job and probably 19,999 other people’s jobs for good measure too. So I spend a lot of time thinking about all the ways I’m not measuring up or all the ways it will go wrong.

The thing is, I’ve been here before, seemingly trapped, but where? In my stable family and career I’ve been investing in for a decade? I suppose there are stakes. Trapped doesn’t feel like the right expression. Fear, maybe, of not measuring up.

I’m not doing it by myself though, I never have. And am I aiming for no stress? All ease? Shouldn’t work be a little hard? Raising humans? Don’t I like the challenge? The grit of rising to the occasion, emerging victorious? Isn’t that why I ran marathons?

I lead a life of privilege as it is, and I know all the financial security in the world is no insurance policy against loneliness, grief, guilt, pressure or any other negative emotion I’m experiencing.

I don’t want to be somewhere else, floating above it all without any feelings. I guess I just want to feel the highs as highs, instead of feeling them by proxy, numbly, as I’m scrolling my camera roll.

In 2022, faced with the prospect of another hell-on-earth summer in Texas, and working primarily remote jobs, we decided to pack up and spend a few weeks in Seattle. Instead of strictly vacationing, it would be like relocating temporarily.

The first year was a success. So we booked the same Airbnb next year, this time with two kids. Another good time. It’s been four years now and I really hope we get to keep doing it, especially while our kids are so young, adaptable, and can’t dictate their own summer schedules yet.

Anyway, since we have such a great time in Seattle, we’re always asking ourselves what we can do to make our day-to-day back home feel like our time away. It’s like getting home from vacation and wondering how you can maybe feel a little more relaxed, but back home. Is it possible? Is it Seattle specifically, or something else… We love it there. It’s a riot. But we love Austin too. Why doesn’t our life here feel quite so special? Or does it, and I’m just looking at it wrong?

Arrival

Landing in Seattle is a heady rush: descending onto the tarmac, all pine trees and cloudy skies—the locals bemoaning “June-uary;” celebrating summer solstice in sweaters. Coming from a few weeks of 100ºs in Austin, the contrast is intoxicating. The 5 a.m. sunrises, feeling cool air on our skin when running, ditching our car for 6 weeks, walking and biking everywhere, returning to our favorite coffee shops and playgrounds, even going back to my Seattle office to work. Seeing the friends and coworkers we met last year or the year before, picking up where we left off. I wonder if we’ll have time to fit it all in, but we will.

I feel guilty saying this but it feels delicious to decline everyone else’s invitations back home, and just do what we want for a few weeks. We’re a tight little pack of four. A trip with toddlers is always challenging, and we are a little reckless with the bedtime schedule but we get to do things we never would back home—Ferry cruises, car-free life, parks every day, spending all weekend together.

After a few weeks, our visit concludes. We are resolute: back home, we will do more walking. More family time. We must declutter. Maybe we should live in another neighborhood? Take the bus more. Be a tourist in our own city. And we talk and talk and talk about it.

Return

Then we actually get here and it doesn’t quite work out like that. First, we’re shocked by our clutter. I’m stressed by my normal schedule and social obligations. With the heat and the constant boob sweat and probably dehydration, I become the crankiest version of myself. I am unable to appreciate great things in my life. It’s like, OK, I can’t fix the weather, but now I’m mad about my beautiful, affordable house? My full-time remote work schedule? Cry yourself a river, girl (people would kill for this). I’m stressed that I have to figure out when to see my friends? Really? Is it that hard? I don’t understand it, and it’s jarring.

But then a few weeks go by. And it starts to get comfortable again.

The kids go back to their preschool, which is the most beige, calming happy Montessori classroom you’ve ever seen, staffed by angels and filled with cute kids.

I stop being flustered by the piles of laundry sitting around. Maybe I finally clear off my bathroom counters and my desk. Run two bags of clothes to the kids consignment store. Look at her go.

And the people. God…it’s so good to be with the people who know us. We see them everywhere. We’re zipping by each other on the trail, stopping to chat on the street, bumping into each other out at the stores. We host chill Sunday dinners. Brewery playdates. There are so many cool women who I want to run with that I cannot see them all.

The heat sucks, but we’re in it together. At least it’s hot enough to make swimming fun again. The live oak trees calm me down. There’s a cool morning or two.

I drive anywhere I want, weekend day trips, do an overnight without kids. I see my parents again, my siblings, the cousins.

Community

Most of this requires a bit of commitment, a schedule sticking-to. Showing up because that’s where the good stuff in community comes from. And we’ve got the usual chores of daily life that we evade in Seattle: house maintenance, car maintenance, going back to the dentist and doctors, getting haircuts and chiropractic adjustments again.

In Seattle it was fun to be more on our own. In Austin…the fabric of our daily lives is that we’re not on our own. I don’t wonder if we’ll have time to fit “it” all in. Because there’s always another week, then the weekend, then another.

So maybe that’s not the point, to bring the experience here. Maybe Seattle can stay its own separate world, our own magical escape.

It feels good to leave.

And it feels good to come back.

Maybe it’s just two cities, for one family. I think that’s more than enough.

FAQs:

This isn’t really in the spirit of this post but if I was reading it, I’d want to know 👀

• Family: People always ask us if we have family in Seattle. We don’t, but we’ve got enough fellow Austin vacationers, Austin ex-pats, and acquaintances left from my Oiselle days that we get by just fine.

• Cost: They also want to know “how” we swing it, which I take to mean “are you guys rich or something?” And I mean, it costs between $7k and $10K for the Airbnb, which is a privilege to get to spend. Staying somewhere besides Airbnb places would certainly be cheaper. I looked into Furnished Finder and Trusted House Sitters this year, and even sent out inquiries, but couldn’t find anything in walkable areas that was available. Facebook sublets would be good but I’m afraid of getting scammed. It’s one thing if it’s me and Jake, but I’d hate to be across the country with two small kids and have our housing fall through! The cost is partially offset by barely paying for childcare while we’re there (our expenses at home are $4200 / month). And it’s our only big trip of the year—definitely a priority!

• Time off: We both work full time, but we each take two weeks off while we’re there (more privilege, yes). Adobe does a shutdown week over July 4, which helps me feel less guilty about being out… They also have an office in Seattle, so I go in and work there every day—a real thrill for this extroverted yet remote gal. Not that my management has ever complained, but I think that makes it better from an optics standpoint. So that gets us to four weeks with vacation time, and if we have extra childcare we do get to stay longer (since we keep working). Last year our nanny came out for a couple weeks (which we did pay for of course), and this year my mom joined us for two weeks (this PS brought to you by free labor of women!).

On my summer trip to Seattle in 2024, I was curious if I could build some momentum toward bigger things in my run training. I’m still not sure exactly what I was chasing—only that I wasn’t going to do any sort of run comeback if I didn’t start… running more. At least more than three days a week. And although I do my job most of the time I’m in Seattle, so it’s not exactly a vacation, it’s a fairly distraction-free environment compared to being home. Plus the weather is way cooler than our hot Austin summers. So if something was going to happen, it would start there.

I wrote about that experience on my Substack, and came up with a piece that eventually got published in Like The Wind.

In short, last year, I ran a single 30-mile week. It took a lot to get there and the trouble to keep doing it seemed like too much. It’s been revealing of my priorities, for certain. At the time, I also did a 4-month stint with a nutritionist who suggested that running more was just going to be more stress. I wasn’t in a place where I had extra energy to expend. The rest of the year I ran 13-25 miles per week.

So fast forward through last fall, I trained for February’s Austin Half Marathon, started doing workouts again, had a coach again for a few months, and even finished my race 12 minutes faster than the year prior.

The postpartum PRs were falling like dominoes, and I could run a little faster on my easy days, but still didn’t do more than three days a week. I maxed out at 25 miles a week, and usually did less than 20. Still lifting 2-3 times a week, and walking on the off days. I was happy with the progress, but didn’t feel like ramping it up from there. Although my work stress has improved, my sleep is much more regular, and my anxiety is mostly gone, all things that plagued me during the immediate postpartum years, my body still doesn’t feel like it used to. Life and health still feels precarious, with work travel, kid sickness, and parenting responsibilities. I’d rather keep my running at a level I know I can do, versus swing big and be disappointed.

I did explore getting a longer term coach this spring, after the half. I wanted to focus on speed instead of adding more miles or training for a marathon. I tried a brief stint of plyometrics and some quicker, shorter workouts, but my pelvic floor prolapse symptoms flared up. Looking back, this probably demonstrated the need for a coach more than my body’s ability to keep going, but I didn’t want to risk the progress I’d made. Also pelvic floor PT is $250/visit. This searching and testing phase took a few months, and before I knew it, it was time to go to Seattle again.

This year

I got back up to Seattle in mid-June, and I thought briefly, should I try to make it a thing again this year? Ratchet it up? Have another big week? My pelvic floor hadn’t bothered me for more than a few days a month, and the weather should be nice again.

But then I just found myself … not thinking about it again. I ran several days a week. Aside from a couple really long days, I didn’t put a lot of concerted effort into the runs. Getting out the door was important, but how far or how fast was not. Instead, what I thought about were the people I got to run with, or doing novel routes.

• A point-to-point Lake Washington run with Lesko en route to picking up a rental car. “I’m down for some shenanigans,” her text responding to my invitation said. I felt seen!

• Cruising Alki Beach with Phoebe in the stroller and Helene riding her bike. She can pedal the perfect jogging speed. Maybe later we can work on her not stopping suddenly to push a hair out of her face.

• A challenging 10 mile run-hike up to Lake Colchuck with two Austin friends. We ran two miles of the way down so I’m counting it.

• Miles around cloudy West Seattle with Anne

• Racing against the clock through downtown Seattle to make it to the water taxi on time

• An 11-miler with the Green Lake group my first weekend (50°s and drizzly, ha!).

• Running all the way from West Seattle to my office in Fremont (9 miles).

Can I be real for a sec?

I’m still getting more honest with myself about what I want out of this sport. For most of the time since I got pregnant for the first time five years ago, it’s been “I miss running, I miss being fast” 👉🏻👈🏻

And I do, but do I miss it badly enough to start making something happen again? Do I want to be away from my family that much? Not really. Also, would it even work? At 35 lbs heavier, I can tell you I would not be as fast as I used to be. Of course that can’t be the only marker of success, but for the most part running is working for me just like it is right now. And I’m really surprised to say that out loud. But I know I’m like, fortunate in a sense to get to do what I do. I love having our Saturday morning babysitter so I have time to get a coffee after my run. Jake gets to run too. We save Sundays for family walks and relaxing. I go to my gym a couple times a week. Run with friends. There are no commitments and it’s all just so simple. I don’t get hurt and I don’t get stressed like I used to.

I read this quote once, something like:

“Decide on your effort and make peace with your results.

Or decide on your results and make peace with your effort.”

(I tried to find the original but couldn’t… hopefully I haven’t appropriated something). And that made it clear to me. I chose this effort, not an outcome. I think the people who are really great at running also choose their effort—if you’re fixated on results, it’s really hard to be happy about the sport—but they’re also the people who love the grind, the process, and are excited to see how far they can take it. As someone who’s been fortunate to have achieved a lot of their goals, I know both the effort that took …and the hunger I felt afterward, wanting even more. I’m happy with my process right now, and don’t want to jeopardize that in favor of results that may or may not come.

Am I playing it safe? I mean, sure. But I don’t feel bad about that anymore. I still love the idea of staging some sort of comeback but I think I’m realizing how unusual that is, versus before, it was all “why not me?” That messaging is inspirational. But now when there’s a small voice saying, Why not me? I’m like, girl, it’s not a bunch of other people either.

Cate’s Substack

Coming of Age

Five years ago, in the span of a couple months, I achieved two major goals. I qualified for the Olympic Trials Marathon, netting a small sponsorship with my longterm brand-crush Oiselle. I also unlocked a new level in my career by landing my first six-figure job. Both were significant markers of external success. I envisioned entering a higher plane of …

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a year ago · 13 likes · 1 comment · Cate Barrett

I don’t think there’s much helpful one-size-fits-all advice about work stress or career because everyone’s disposition and work environment is different. We also have a workaholic culture in the United States, so individual solutions can only go so far. However, for me there’s been a disillusionment / evolution from the idea of work making me happy and giving me purpose (big millennial energy). I also naturally gained experience in my tenure in this role, which has brought perspective and makes thing easier and less uncertain. It’s so nice to grow and not worry as much. Last year I wasn’t sure how I could go on some days—and this year, I know I’ve got this.

Another nice benefit of examining my relationship to work is that I’m at a point where I get excited about a handful of the challenges in my. job, instead of just being overwhelmed. I wouldn’t even say it’s 50-50 yet. I’m still more stressed than I would like to be. But it’s progress.

The most recent example of this is learning about the Creative Production pillar of Adobe’s Content Supply Chain story. It combines elements of the Digital Experience solutions that I sell (digital asset management and project management software) with the Creative Cloud (Photoshop, Illustrator, etc), that I don’t typically get to sell.

The Creative Cloud has always had this sexy mystique for me. Back in college when I was taking graphic design courses and making attempts at my own art, I learned about the Creative Cloud as THE tool for designers. It enabled so much inspiring work.

I’ve dabbled in the Creative Cloud again lately, but mostly Adobe Express. And since I’ve never sold it, it was a black hole for me in a professional setting. But in the last year, I’ve been on a deal co-selling software with the Creative Cloud sales people. And I’m finally understanding this common value proposition between the Creative Cloud and Digital Experience cloud. I’ve known the talk tracks the whole time, but now it’s coming to life. And I only got here because I spent hours watching discovery calls and studying the solutions. Sure, I could have had AI summarize it for me, but I wanted to actually learn it. I got there, and it’s exciting!

It takes a certain degree of comfort and autonomy to be able to spend time learning like this. I already sell over a dozen software products to more than 20 large retail companies, on large, ad-hoc teams. It gets complex quickly. Learning is part of my job but the breadth and depth of what I could be learning or working on at any given time is overwhelming. So it also feels good to carve out something specific and say, I got from A to B.

Some days I felt like there was no way out or no way for things to improve, but I’m so happy that feeling didn’t last.

My relationship with work still needs, well, work, but I’m proud of how I’m showing up.

A few women passed me in the last quarter and I had to really draw on my old kick to get to the line. I lowered my head and charged like a bull. It was ugly, but it worked. A brief thrill.

After the race, another runner, a friend-of-a-friend, asked me, “So are you like, back now? From kids?”

In the moment, I bristled. “I’m here, right?” I said, then “This is a race, I guess,” and gestured around at the finish arch. I felt like I was being rude. But should I say more to explain my hesitance to say that I am back? Does it even matter? I’m not really trying to get back to my competitive heights anymore. But I’m physically here, doing something. What is that, exactly? Who’s asking?

Another finisher asked me if the race was my PR. I huffed out “No, I ran 4:41 once. That PR is now a teenager.” I want to say they looked bemused at my response, but I can’t even remember. All I remember is how I felt—self-conscious. How could I put this without sounding like an asshole or, only slightly better, a self-indulgent old-timer? I held back from also reminding them that back in my day we didn’t have super shoes, I was 50 lbs smaller, and we walked uphill in the snow both ways to school, etc.

I think my terse replies, and the desire to explain the “real story” stemmed from anxiety—if only people just understood, I often think, they’d get me. It’s one of the reasons I write the way I do. I love being able to work through this with an audience. And people do get me, a lot of the time. Sometimes it feels like people get me more on the internet than they do in real life, which is, perhaps indicative of the medium’s distance from reality. It’s easier to write a caption than it is to reckon with the daily messy middle.

I mused that I would feel better if the other racers chatting with me knew the back story—my journey in and out of years with the sport. Of course that was not the time and place to tell that story. We weren’t reminiscing over beers like old friends. They didn’t ask about that, frankly. We were just high-fiving at the finish line. But the cool things is that whether they knew me or not, where I’d been… I already had their sweaty, endorphin high-fueled support that morning.

A lot of people did set PRs that day. It was a race format our Austin running community hadn’t seen lately—exciting. It was also 75° and humid. Muggy, classic Austin beginning-of-summer. A small race, four heats, a few dozen runners. Just a good hard Saturday run. More of this.

Part of moving on from my old identity as a competitive athlete is navigating these interactions. I’m striving to do it more graciously. A new kind of practice, I think. I’m noticing that I’m hard on myself in a way that doesn’t really serve anyone.

So, no. The race was not a PR. I was not expecting one.

And also,

• I ran my fastest mile in five years

• I ran a big postpartum PR (-18 seconds)

• I’m grateful. I’m out there in my fully able body, an adult with free time again, doing what she loves. I didn’t have that for a few years. I don’t discount that this is relatively speedy and a privilege to get out and do it.

• This shit is still humbling!

My showing up is an expression of letting go of perfection and the ideal of performance > everything else. In fact, I think that’s one of the reasons it can still be fun. If it was only about performance, I would be so discouraged. And if it was exclusively not about performance, I wouldn’t be motivated.

It’s a little of both: it’s play, it’s work, and that’s the good stuff.

Finally, preschooler cheers are the best:

The likes and the paychecks arrived. It wasn’t enough. Actually, it was too much. I got everything I wanted, and then I got anxiety.

2019

Work

The challenges at the new job quickly overwhelmed me. I’d jolt awake in the mornings with my heart racing, my brain contemplating the day’s tasks. I’d spend hours at my desk procrastinating or stuck, not knowing where to start a task, or wait until it was too late to ask for help, then get chewed out by a superior.

Looking back, I’m not sure it was actually that high pressure of a role—I didn’t have a quota, and I was in a three month training program before I had to do any real work. But there was a lot to learn. I was working at Oracle, which is one of the biggest tech employers in the world. There were new customers, new products to support, and it was my first time working in a big sales org.

The complexity of the role was one new element, but the culture shift was probably more destabilizing than I realized. I had spent the first five years of my career at small businesses and tech startups where the whole company worked in one room, pressed against each other in open offices. At Oracle, my direct team was distributed around the country. If I wanted to ask a question, instead of turning to my neighbor, I had to send a Slack or an Outlook invite. Startup culture had its downsides, like the CEO (who was also in charge of HR) making porn jokes. Good luck reporting inappropriate conduct! But my coworkers and I had been close. We called each other family. I knew it was risky to believe, but part of me meant it. We cracked jokes all day, and got drinks after.

Further increasing my psychological distance from the concept of belonging at Oracle, none of the other new hires appeared to be struggling. What was wrong with me? My new role almost doubled my prior salary. It was a confidence boost on one hand, but on the other, the stakes felt higher. And it was an embarrassment to be struggling this much. When I brought up the discomfort of my imposter syndrome to some more senior coworkers I trusted, they told me the feeling never really went away.

Running

My running was freshly challenging that year too. Though I had qualified for the Trials, I didn’t level up like I thought I would. Training was lackluster, and I didn’t get into any of the US Championship races I tried to enter. Running typically comforted me when times were tough, but in a year of feeling sluggish, adjusting to my new job, and a couple small injuries, it wasn’t enough to pull me through.

Wilder

A few months into my new job, I landed a spot at Lauren Fleshman’s Wilder retreat. You had to write an application to get in, and it cost what would have been an exorbitant, unaffordable sum only the year before. So it felt a little exclusive, even though as I arrived, Lauren exclaimed happily, “It’s Cate from the internet!” She knows who I am, I thought. Score. But also, the pressure was on. Make her proud.

Unfortunately, Oregon was not far away enough to escape my mental lows.

The retreat was focused on the paired practice of running and writing. Every detail attended to. Women only. I don’t think I even saw a man for three days. It was peaceful and beautiful. Serene, even. But I broke down in tears when deciding whether or not to skip the run workout one day. And my writing, which we were sharing out loud with each other in small groups, took on a dark tone that disturbed me. Its honesty shocked me. I had this beautiful life. Why wasn’t I fulfilled? Why wasn’t I even okay?

The retreat inspired me to start therapy that fall. I started to practice more self compassion. I found a way to keep going. I even got a little more comfortable at work.

But I also got running back.

I had been injured part of the summer, and felt so sluggish in the months before that. I was hesitant to enjoy running as much as I wanted to. But with the Trials just a few months away, and fresh vigor in my legs, it felt so good. It was like coming home from a date, slamming the door closed, and breathlessly sliding to the floor in ecstasy—joy in being chosen. You can’t fully control what happens next, which is part of why it’s exhilarating.

I knew I was doomed if running ever went away again. I told my therapist this. I don’t remember what she said to do about it. When faced with choosing running or actually doing something more about my mental health, I picked running.

Trials

I pulled together the most mileage I’ve ever run in the 4-month build prior to the 2020 Olympic Marathon Trials. Oiselle and my online fanbase remained incessantly and joyously supportive. Although I ran slower than I wanted, finishing in the bottom 10% of the field, I knew it was an accomplishment to be proud of. It was a tough day for a lot of people, and I was happy to be a face in the crowd of a historically large women’s marathon trials—an event that’s only been happening since 1984.

After the uphill battle of running in the past year, I decided it was baby makin’ time. I still wonder what would have happened if I stuck it out another year in work and running. Would I have found my stride? Of course, the pandemic canceled every significant race the rest of the year, so I didn’t feel like I was missing out on a lot. I also question if I was ready for kids, but are we ever? I had a job with maternity leave for the first time, we’d been married for five years, and I was 30 years old.

I was fortunate to get pregnant quickly, in April of 2020. Pregnancy was now my main mental occupation, a new way to belong, and a new thing to post about on Instagram. Once again I was able to defer actually handling my mental shit.

2024

It’s been five years since I took that new job, and four years since the Olympic Trials race. That was the last time I competed seriously.

I’m on my second solution consulting gig, now at Adobe. It’s a role that would have been wildly inconceivable and amazing to me, just five years ago. I’m a mom to two fantastic little girls. I’m effectively retired from competitive running. My capacity at work has improved vastly. Parenting has borne new challenges, understandably. My marriage has gotten more complex.

I have gone to therapy for most of the last five years. And anxiety has stuck around. It’s rarely about anything specific besides work, or climate change, but that’s the point. It just feels like waiting for the other shoe to drop even when things are good.

Coming of age

In my last post, I mentioned the term matrescence—a period of mental and physical changes, like adolescence, that women go through when they become moms. And this one, this time, feels like my first real coming of age. My children are still quite young, and while they’re changing rapidly, that’s what we expect. Myself on the other hand, it’s like these changes are surprising me at every turn. My teen years weren’t like this. I didn’t experience that profound sense of feeling different. But it’s the closest way I can think to describe it: raw, tender, confused, searching for my place.

Running was always my compass—it was the first thing that was mine in a big way. It arrived so unexpectedly, so clear and sharp, that I knew exactly where to go. It was the biggest yes of my life. It shaped my college choice and how I oriented myself and more decisions for years after.

Super mom and the fifth trimester

I want to say things have gotten better.

First, the good stuff: I have tapped a well of self-compassion. As I nurture my children, I am learning to nurture myself with the same grace and tenderness.

I have cultivated resilience. Giving birth once, navigating birth trauma, and then having a home birth the second time helped me so much with this. I just don’t question myself as much anymore.

Not to say going back to work after having children was smooth. After the life changing experience of home birth, I felt like the natural birth community that had supported me just dropped me off at the doorstep of the Adobe office and said “Good luck! You’re forever changed, but no one is going to ask you about it again, and the skills you learned are not going to carry over.”

There’s one (and only one, at least from what I’ve found) popular book out there, The Fifth Trimester, that speaks to moms returning to work after having kids. “You’re probably really good at your job,” it counsels. “Just keep playing to your strengths!” Bold of you to assume I’m good at my job, I remember thinking as I read. I hadn’t felt good at my job in years. My anxiety could never.

It did say to lower the bar, which I agree with. The only other concrete advice I remember it offering was to not make any sudden decisions about work in the first few months back. I made it a whole four months back at Oracle, after my first kid was born, until I left for another new gig. Everyone else was getting these monster raises by taking new jobs, so when a recruiter from Adobe called, I leaped. The move proved fortuitous, as Oracle slashed my department several months later. But I had a 9-month-old. It was awful timing for me personally. Without even my niche book advice to steer me, I felt pretty rudderless.

Adobe is great, literally a dream company. And I am no longer a sleep-deprived zombie parent to a baby who wakes at night. Nor am I pulling all-nighters to compile my quarterly deliverables…that only happened once, at 7 months pregnant, thank you very much. But it’s still hard (surprise). I’m still too invested in the idea of performance at work and in running, which is exhausting and ego-busting.

While I don’t get anxiety’s racing heart quite as often now, I do get uncomfortably wired.

I wrote about that last fall:

I get quite stressed too. I want to say I was used to being stressed before I had kids, juggling running and work together. But this is a new level. I get sick more often and stay sick longer. I’ve always been a teeth grinder, but I apparently took it up a notch last year (“Going HAM,” were my dentist’s exact words). That resulted in getting two crowns and eventually my first root canal. Healthcare stress! And although I’ve mostly figured out my running-related injuries, it’s not been a clear path back. I’ve spent most of the last five years either pregnant, postpartum, and/or in bouts of injuries: pelvic organ prolapse, dehydration cramp pains that lasted weeks, and achilles tendinitis.

Stress, anxiety, and overnight parenting did a number on my sleep. When parents say they haven’t slept in months, it’s not literally true, like zero hours of sleep ever. It just means you have felt kind of unbelievably, low-level shitty for months, and maybe can’t remember the last time you slept through the night. It wasn’t the newborn waking that did me in. I expected that. It was the anxiety spirals keeping me up at 1 a.m. when after 14 straight months of depletion and toddler night waking. I felt like I should have re-assimilated into working mom life, into running, into being a good wife by then, which is what made it so trying.

Still here

I’ve had so many hard days, so many hard weeks, all strung together, that sometimes I can hardly believe I’m still doing all of this. Still doing this job, still showing up to plod my few miles around the neighborhood.

Some days, I’m baffled at how I ended up here. And I don’t know why I’m doing half of it.

I know it’s normal, but this was just not modeled to me growing up. It was a world of stay-at-home moms. But I’m working, in charge of two tiny humans in my off hours, navigating daycare and hiring nannies and paying their salaries and leading bedtimes and so many meals… and without running and training, specifically, being a daily joyful habit that buoys me and gives me purpose.

The jig is up

As a young person, I bought in to the idea of excelling at running with the intensity of a religious convert. I think that’s what enabled me to be so successful. Deep down, I knew it couldn’t last forever, this devotion. But with the examples of so many mom runners crushing it, I didn’t think I would lose that part of my life yet.

So many women offer encouragement that this is only temporary, and that running will always be there for me. Let’s say they’re right, and instead of three months, this season is just four fucking years long. Instead of constantly looking at my feelings of overwhelm as indication I need to change something, or optimize, or try harder, can I just be here and be grateful? I am wearing myself out, trying to find a way out, and I think that’s contributing to my anxiety.

I was blaming matrescence for making this chapter so hard. And the responsibility of raising kids certainly up the ante. But so did that new job five years ago. And I have been rising to those challenges. I am supported. I am resilient. I’m pulling it off, aren’t I?

I am able to hold space for myself in what feels like a contradiction. The old me would have said there are no excuses for not performing—if you want it, go chase it down. I know it’s not that simple anymore, which is nice because if it was I’d probably hate myself. Honestly, I think I’m doing a great job. I try to be honest about my choices. I know everyone has their own battles, and many fight theirs with less privilege than I have.

I think the real coming of age is being okay without this sport. I want to get there. But I still have some more growing up to do.

It was Hayley who introduced us all to Chappell Roan earlier this year. Chappell accompanied Hayley and the girls for living room dance parties and rides to swim lessons alike, becoming our inadvertent summer soundtrack.

I marveled at how, in Phoebe’s tiny body, the memory of Hayley registered. But the realization also made my stomach flip from nerves.

Because Phoebe doesn’t know that Hayley, her companion for the last 15 months, isn’t going to be our nanny anymore. Phoebe doesn’t know that Hayley is off to her next adventure: a year working abroad.

I don’t know if Phoebe wonders where Hayley went, or if she even experiences her absence as a loss.

But there’s something that cuts me about the whole thing, even though I knew it was coming. It’s that Phoebe doesn’t know that that many of the people we love will come in and out of our lives. And for her, it’s just beginning.

Bumble for nannies

When Hayley walked in the door for the first time, I didn’t know how close we’d become. Phoebe was less than 6 months old, and she wasn’t quite sitting up by herself yet. But my maternity leave, longer than probably 99% of American women’s, was up, and it was time to bring in the paid care.

I’d grown weary and resentful of my nanny search during leave. It was sapping precious time and made me feel like a corporate hiring manager. I spent hours sourcing candidates, phone screening, and conducting onsite interviews. I Forcing my children to participate as members of the interview panel felt especially icky. So I threw my hands up and hired a service. Families fill out a questionnaire and open shifts, and sitters pick them up. It was like Bumble for nannies; what could go wrong?

Well, I already struck gold once on online dating (Jake and I are celebrating 10 years next month, thanks OkCupid), and I was about to do it again.

Hayley’s first day was my first day back to work. I don’t even remember if I did a phone screen, and we hadn’t done a trial sit. But once she got here, we started talking and it felt like we never really stopped. Because I was breastfeeding, I’d come out of my office multiple times a day. So I’d sit on the couch, and Hayley would sit in my living room chair like a guest I was entertaining, and we’d get cozy. We talked about work, family, growing up in Texas, and babies, of course.

Over the next few months, thanks to the creepy cross pollination of our Instagram Explore pages and Spotify Suggested songs, taking each other’s book and podcast recommendations, and our shared project of raising my two kids, we covered even more ground.

And here’s the thing I didn’t realize about bringing a nanny into your family. I didn’t really have an ideal one in mind. I mean, you want someone to be competent. But newborns are easy. Especially since I was doing the feeding. I thought I just wanted someone to hang out with Phoebe, take her on some slow walks outside, and hold her while she fell asleep before tenderly laying her down…

And Hayley did all of that, of course. But where she surprised me, and blew me away—she made me feel like an interesting human, not just a mom, not just an employer. And to me that support was so amazing. It’s women supporting women.

Matrescence

Early motherhood is a transition from your past life. There’s even a name for it: matrescence. It’s the emotional and physical changes that moms encounter as they enter a new phase of life. Similar to adolescence, there are growing pains. Even though this was my second baby, I was still feeling the unsteadiness and upheaval that my first kid’s arrival brought. So much attention goes to babies, but the moms gets neglected—their needs are constantly pushed to the side. But they need support too, of course.

While Hayley wasn’t officially caregiving me, taking care of my baby so I could focus on work, easing that stress, was care on one level. And she listened to me drone on about parenting topics like feeding and attachment style. She knew the names of my coworkers and listened to my work stories. She knew about my relationships with my family and Jake. She knew how much I struggled with the bounce back mentality. She was there for me. And while she was paid, quite literally, to be there—that human touch she brought to her care, that wasn’t a requirement.

You can’t put that in a  job description.

“Make me feel good.”

“Pat me on the back.”

“Talk to me about books you like and listen when I tell you what I’m reading.”

I’m laughing just thinking about it. I got so lucky. There’s so much more we could talk about here: how caregiving is so utterly undervalued here in the United States. I know I undervalued it until I started doing it. And there’s all these layers, not just caring for the kid, but for the mom and the family too.

Seattle

After those first few weeks the deal was sealed. We added after-school care with my older child, Helene. Hayley started picking her up from school for us. The months rolled by into a full year. Both the kids loved her. And I invited Hayley to join us in Seattle so the girls and I could stay a couple extra weeks. Jake’s work took him back to Austin, so we had a little room in our two-bedroom basement apartment.

She accepted, and joined us for the last two weeks of our stay this summer. It was a sweet time together, a send off for her, one last hurrah for us all of this chapter. We’ve stayed in touch so far, and I hope we do for a long time.

One chapter ends; the next begins

Phoebe now attends the same Montessori preschool as Helene. She has a class of other toddlers and rooms full of toys and materials to explore. She has new teachers who will love her, I’m sure. Her world is growing.

Hayley’s world is growing too, literally in another part of the world, and I’m so excited for her.

I don’t rue my kids growing up yet. It’s just getting so much easier. Bring it on.

But the inevitability of chapters closing for good, and relationships shifting, as the years pass by—whew. It’s comforting that some things won’t be this hard, at least not in these specific ways, forever. And at the same time, as I’m nearing 35, realizing I can’t redo parts of my life ever again—like the kids and I can’t have that year with Hayley again—in a small way, it’s devastating.

I have been doing my best to “Moms can still be athletes” my way through life since I got pregnant with my first child in 2020, had her, then had my second child in 2022. And it’s kind of, uh, not working.

For background, I was an NCAA track/cross-country competitor at Baylor, and competed post-collegiately in the marathon. I ran in the 2020 Olympic Trials, qualifying in 2018 with a personal best of 2:43 in the marathon. I’ve been a runner since I was eight years old.

Almost two years since my last baby, there’s nothing officially wrong with my body. I just can’t run as much as I used to, and I’m a lot slower. I obviously can’t race close to my old times. I ran a very well-executed half marathon race this year, and it was 35 minutes slower than my PR. I was not delusional that my fitness or performances would all come back right away, but I thought I would at least be on the way back, or have a clear path ahead. But with the pace of my recovery and return-to-run lack of progress, the dream of competing is still on hold, maybe indefinitely.

I thought there was no way that kids would be the death knell for my competitive running career. But so far, it seems like they are.

In the past I was always able to figure out new challenges and make things work for training. That looked like running a little less, training smarter, and fitting in training around a 9-5 job. But I genuinely can’t figure out any more cards to play now—or, any more cards I want to play. And that’s probably the rub.

Example: after hearing me complain about this problem, a good friend and fellow runner who I admire deeply, suggested I could get a treadmill. She reasoned that I could run when the kids were asleep, or that our nanny could come early so I could workout before work. I easily found excuses for why that wouldn’t work. I don’t want a treadmill, and if I were running inside, my kids would bother me; if they were asleep, I should be sleeping too. And I already have so many hours of childcare, I don’t want less time with my littles. And while valid reasons for me, they represented the truth perhaps more starkly than I was willing to admit. I was at capacity for what I wanted to and was able to give to being an athlete. Those are logistical solutions to a problem. But the problem is deeper than that: I am a mom and I have a job that’s somewhat stressful; I’m juggling a lot between that, my marriage, my friendships, and taking care of my overall health.

A single 30-mile week obviously doesn’t mean I’m “back,” in fact, I’d probably say the tightly-coordinated effort that went into it is a sign of how far away I am from doing more training … but it does represent something I haven’t been able to do for a long time, also known as, PROGRESS.

And that’s interesting, because it actually approaches answering the questions that have been stumping me for four years.

What happened to my running career?

Can I really blame my kids? I’m not exactly “postpartum” anymore.

Why can some women come back so easily? What’s wrong with me?

What if I did put “life” on hold to pursue this goal? Wait, what’s the goal anyway now? What would I have to give up?

Would it be worth it?

The single, shining 31-mile week: How I Did It

A 30-mile week looks simple on paper, but like I said, for me, it hasn’t happened for four years.

For reference, I used to run routine 50-60 mile weeks, and many competitive marathoners will run 80-mile weeks as amateurs. Pros will run up to 120 mile weeks. I’ve always been a lower mileage runner, and I could probably do pretty well off of 40 miles a week (I averaged just 35 miles on my first marathon build, sweet Jesus 😅) but for most of the last few years I've only run between 10 and 15 miles per week.

Here was the week’s break down:

• Monday: 3 mile run solo with kid in stroller

• Tuesday: lift weights at work gym before work

• Wednesday: 6.5 miles with a friend

• Thursday: 6 miles at Flight Club group run, lift weights at work gym during lunch

• Friday: off

• Saturday: Long run 12 miles with group

• Sunday: 3.4 miles solo with stroller

I get that I’m not going to be performing close to my best when I’m running as little as 10-15 miles a week, but running a lot has been out of the question. I’ve gotten injured, haven’t had time, and have had long layoffs with pregnancies, etc, all of which hampered my mileage. I don’t really know what my mileage goal is these days, I only know it’s been low and I’m not sure I’m capable of getting it up. So this week was a bit of an experiment.

My biggest takeaway from looking at this week was how many lifestyle factors had to align to make it possible. Running is never just the time on our feet, it’s all the other things we do during the week to allow us to feel good when we lace up our shoes. And as a mom, of course, your time to run and recover is constrained. Clearly plenty of moms still find time to fit in their runs, but carving out 60 minutes to run is not the same as it was before kids.

In total I counted NINE factors that impacted this week, about half of which are either complicated or out of my control to implement back home in my normal life in Austin! Enjoy!

• I’m not injured: currently healthy, but I’ve dealt with a few postpartum injuries since kids. I’ve had a mix of achilles pain from overuse (so humbling to be overusing when you’re doing 12 miles a week!), cramping due to dehydration (breastfeeding strikes again!) and pelvic organ prolapse (I had a 5-month layoff from running after my second child was born).

• Weather: I live in Austin, but my husband, kids and I are in Seattle for a few weeks on our annual summer sojourn. This is our third year coming. We work remote, take some time off, and spend a lot of time together as a family. It’s a blessedly cool 60°s in the morning, and 70 or 80°s in the afternoon. If I stick to the shade I can run any time of the day. Not the case at home! I have to run early or I literally can’t go. Also I feel a lot better and lot less depleted when I’m done. I’m not getting cramps or getting dehydrated or as depleted from daily life as I do in Austin—where something as simple as meeting friends at an outdoor restaurant can require recovery.

• Childcare: Jake or I have been off work since we got here. Having a partner who is home and able to watch kids with flexibility is huge. We have 40 hours weekly of childcare in Austin but it’s all focused on our work time. With Jake on vacation, I also have more control of my schedule and don’t have to plan around when he’s leaving for the office. We’re still taking turns watching kids outside of work like normal, but he’s generally more available than he is at home.

• Work / Stress: Speaking of work, mine has been unusually slow. This is the lightest two weeks of work I’ve had since December last year. I have been able to finish my run without rushing and start the day a little later, or lift weights during lunch. I’m also less stressed and depleted mentally when the day’s over.

• Running routes/ Location: We’re staying steps away from beautiful Green Lake Park, which has a 3-mile paved running trail. The vibe is like Town Lake, with lots of happy people exercising all day long. While I can and do run from my front door in Austin, it’s easier to do it here thanks to the novelty and scenery. Bonus: people-watching that keeps the toddler happy in the stroller.

• Running groups that work for my routine: I have been trying to get better at doing more groups in Austin, because there are loads of good ones, but for a long time it was difficult to get to any groups due to unpredictable kid schedules. I’ve found a couple in Seattle I can attend: the Green Lake Running Club (long runs at a leisurely 7 am) and the Oiselle Flight Night store run. Building these into my routines makes the decision-making and planning part of running much easier. Plus I have people to run with.

• Sleep!!!! I go to bed with my 3-year-old. Every night. I just now have zero adult time after the kids go down! What could go wrong! I started doing this in April. Honestly the idea depressed me at first, which is why I never tried it before, but I can honestly say I’m happier and my mental health has improved. She goes to bed around 9 so it’s not actually that early. I have been a hardcore “revenge bedtime procrastinator” for fifteen years and this is a way I just … opt out of that daily struggle. I know that many parents prize this post-bedtime time with their spouses but for us it just wasn’t worth it. In the past few years, I was too tired to do anything meaningful, so I’d watch a show I didn’t care about and wonder why I felt so unsatisfied, then I’d stay up later trying to find something else to do. I did read a shit ton of books last year, which I’m proud of, but I was still low on sleep... Sleep has been really stressful for me for months at a time in the past few years, so having it be smooth and easy is still new for me.

• I am more active during the day and I’m taking more work breaks. I am bike commuting to Adobe’s Seattle office daily. At home I work remote full time, which is an amazing perk, but I’m just sedentary a lot of days. I can’t come out of my room during the day if Phoebe is home with her nanny, unless I want to hear her lose it. And often I’m in back-to-back meetings for hours. So I get stuck at my desk and I hate it. Even if I did have time it’s like… what am I going to do, walk around the block? I mean, I do that sometimes. But we have a pretty campus here, so I cruise the hallways or take a lap on the walking path behind the office. And with having my lighter schedule these last couple weeks (not anything I can control, sadly), I have ample time for breaks.

• Less stress/ activities: Although we take turns working while we’re here, I’d say it’s closer to vacation than normal life. We have a few friends we’ll catch up with and get coffees or do playdates with, but we don’t have any appointments, errands, or chores outside of grocery shopping and cooking. We do the bare minimum of chores and of course aren’t doing any weekend projects. We focus on family time…  and my little fitness project.

Lifestyle + problem-solving:

I think I blamed myself more for why I couldn’t make running happen more effectively these last couple years. I have been running after all. Why can’t it just look and feel like it used to? What’s standing in my way? Well, a few things. Looking at all of these factors, I think my lifestyle is contributing more significantly to my progress or lack of it than I have acknowledged previously.

Let’s level set on baseline challenges though: I have been problem-solving so I could stay sane since my first kid was born. The world and possibly even your own body will tell you that you’re a shit parent if you don’t spend every waking hour with your child. So that’s your starting point, just know that… I get enough time away to work and do a little for myself—I get more than most moms I know—but somehow it doesn’t always add up to be enough to get time to relax, see friends, and ALSO do a time-intensive sport.

I have been working on improving in a lot of these areas, but things are never isolated. For example, I took a new job in 2021. It was probably a poor time for me to make a move, personally. I had a 9-month-old and I was definitely not sleeping well yet. It’s been stressful since then to feel like I’m performing well at work and it’s led to a lot of anxiety. But it was a great job market for seekers then; I don’t think I could have gotten hired here if I waited another year. And that job is still paying the bills, letting me save, offering opportunities for advancement, not to mention funding all my wellness spending like acupuncture, therapy, gym fees, and good food.

For myself, I find that taking care of my kids, sleep, work, and stress play off each other quite a bit. The summer heat is also a big threat to feeling good in training. I’m not complaining about Austin, I trained years in this heat and had great NCAA cross country seasons afterward, but I have so much less capacity now.

Being here in Seattle has been like a trip to Neverland; a place where at least some of the daily stresses are eased, and I can find out what life looks like while putting a few more miles on the legs.

Small shifts vs. big shift:

I would call all of these differences in weather, location, time, etc small factors. They’re pieces of the puzzle. Tweaking one or two could allow you to improve or feel better on runs, or inversely, ignoring all of them is going to tank you. The problem is, I don’t know if I am going to make the performance improvements I want without something big shifting—or at least shifting five or six of these factors.

Before coming out to Seattle, I have been making small improvements where I can. I was finally getting more sleep this spring. I’ve gone to a couple training groups in the last year. I’ve figured out how to manage my work calendar a lot better, which decreases stress.

And I foresee more small shifts in the future: the kids will both be in preschool in the fall, so I can move around more during the day and have an easier time making lunch for myself. I think we’ll hit another busy season of work, but it’s supposed to be calm around November/December again. I envision slightly older, more independent children, able to put on their own shoes and jackets, able to play for 15 minutes while I clean up dinner… maybe the little changes would be enough to add up to bigger ones for Mom. Maybe. If it took another four years to get to my next “highest mileage in a week milestone,” I’d be pissed…

A Big Shift:

So what if I did make a big shift? The main one I can think about are structuring my life to allow more time for running. I’ve explored scaling back my role at work to 30 hours a week (with commensurate reduction in pay). It may be possible, but honestly not sure if it would get approved and I’m concerned about the impact it would have on my career growth or even keeping my job. Not working at all is a tantalizing option, especially on bad days. But making no money sounds extremely risky to me, and I make close to two-thirds of our household income. While we’d be able to survive, I don’t think we’d be saving anything. We certainly wouldn’t be here in Seattle paying for an Airbnb while also paying our mortgage in Austin.

I could also hire more childcare. I’m reticent to spend less time with my children, that’s really not my goal, but I’m sure it’s a sacrifice some parents make. But with work I already only see them a few hours a day. I’m just not interested in pursuing that.

Would it be worth it?

For a long time, I thought not being able to run was holding me back from happiness. And I will say that in the past, that’s pretty much been true. Running = happy, not running = depression. Running takes sacrifice, we all know that. But now it seems the price has inflated. If I make those big shift sacrifices—would it even work? Would they get me back running? We have all these stories in sports about devotion and going all in. And I don’t want to take the risk to find out.

I said I didn’t feel like I was successful as a Mom-athlete. I will say the “Mom” part has been very successful! I was fortunate to have two healthy pregnancies that I planned both times, two decent recoveries, and I am still (!) breastfeeding my younger kid who is almost two.

Personally, I’ve also held down a job, and got a new one with a big raise in 2021 (pour one out for the contraction of that job market, sigh). I did a lot of therapy to help with growing anxiety, overcame birth trauma, worked on my marriage, and balanced maintaining my adult friendships with making new ones, while navigating the partial loss of running community and my new identity as a mom.

I’m sure all the people I admire athletically have made sacrifices. But before I had kids, the sacrifice felt like maybe not going for a promotion, or not taking on a professional development course at night. Or it was going to bed early. It was saying home instead of partying or going out often. The sacrifices weren’t things that impacted other people, or impacted them in ways I wasn’t okay with.

Now the only things I have to cut down on are time with Jake or my friends, time with my kids, or time at work. It’s just more costly.

Success

I respect the people who have figured out how to make parenting + running really fast work, but it’s perhaps not very realistic. It’s certainly unusual, despite what our social feeds might seem like. I read that there were about two dozen women at the Olympic Trials Marathon who have children. I can only think of one or two moms who made the Trials who also have corporate jobs.  Maybe to an outsider that seems obvious. But as someone who came from this culture, who literally became an adult firmly ensconced in the running world and its messages about performance, reading stories about people who achieved in spite of all odds, the revelation that I couldn’t do all of this came as a sobering reality.

“Having a baby doesn’t have to end your athletic career,” Alysia Montaño shouts from the rooftops. And I’m like yeah! Fuck Nike! Pay me on my maternity leave!

But what if it wasn’t really my athletic “career?” I’m not a professional athlete, even though I liked to pretend I was training like one. Having a baby certainly did not end my professional career. Adobe paid me quite well on my maternity leave. Maybe work can go on, but it’s your hobbies that take the hit.

Evolving

Why did I need to write this in the first place?

In all the hours I’ve spent writing and editing, I probably could have run another 30 miles.

But these are really important questions for me to answer right now. I don’t know if I’m at a fork in the road to make a decision, or this is just another stop along the way, but I still think deeply about running. And while I’m hopeful this 30-mile week might mean more progress is in store for me, I’m also inspired by the people who are sharing about their transition away from a life dominated by athletic pursuits.

Kara Goucher shared that her life is so much richer and more fulfilling now at age 46, than it was when she was at her peak:

Marie Claire quoted Alexi Pappas recently in a story about her evolving career. Pappas represented Greece in the Olympics, running the 10,000-meter race in 2016. But after that she moved on to pursue her other passion: filmmaking. She’s dabbled in ultras, World Marathon majors, and leading blind runners in races, and clearly still runs, but it isn’t her main pursuit anymore.

On no longer being a competitive athlete, she said “If I can stand behind the life choices I’m making as a whole, how can I be upset about not running five seconds faster or…even five minutes close to my PR right now? I believe in the life I’m choosing.”

And I do believe in this life. I shared about my limited capacity, and sacrifices I was not willing to make. Those aren’t conclusions I came to lightly. I don’t know if these choices are going to take me exactly where I want to go. But I really, really want to be open to the new possibilities they create.

I visited a new-to-me running group a few weeks ago.

People were friendly and chatty, and the course was well-marked. My good friend Vanessa had invited me, and though we didn’t run together, we still got to hang out after. The coach even bought us bagels, for goodness sakes. I’ve been casually considering joining a running group, but this one didn’t feel like home. The problem is, no group sounds appealing to me. Here are some reasons why I’ve decided I couldn’t possibly join other local groups:

• Meets too early

• Meets too late (it will be hot)

• They run too fast

• They run too far

• People are too young

• Too bro-y

I am apparently not looking for a running group; I am looking for a fairy godmother who will fix everything back the way it used to be before I had so many other things I cared about besides running. 🧚🏻‍♀️

Oh! “But having babies doesn’t have to ruin your athletic career!!!” Well, allow me to be petty, it ruined mine. My life was full before I had kids, of course it’s even more packed now, and something would have to give. I’m just apparently so drenched still in narratives about success and “wanting it bad enough,” that I’m judging myself so hard for being here.

Maybe I can define “ruin.” I feel like a whiny teenager saying this. Yes, I still run. I am able-bodied and have the privilege of having some time to run. I do about 80% less mileage than I used to, with the performance decline and body changes to match. I don’t have the freedom to pursue it with leisure. I think that’s the biggest thing I wanted. I’ve never felt like the all-in, ascetic distance runner devotion suited me. The few times I did try it, I ended up getting hurt. Pre’s “Somebody may beat me, but they are going to have to bleed to do it,” does not resonate. Respect to the man, but if someone wants to bleed to beat me, then they deserve it.

Ego

And here’s something else humbling: I’ve known for a long time that the thing that made me my best at running for so many years—my drive, my perseverance—was tied to ego. I could dig deep for a fast set of 1Ks at my college practices simply out of pride and wanting to beat my own teammates. I was dedicated and I prioritized running, but I was talented too. It was clear from a young age that I didn’t have to work as hard as most of my peers for the same results. I ran less miles and with less sacrifice. People called me balanced, which I do think was part of it—but I trained so that the races wouldn’t hurt. My best races were the ones that “just felt good,” the ones in perfect weather where nothing went wrong. I wasn’t as good at handling adversity. There were some notable impressive races in tough conditions, like the 2018 Boston marathon where I broke 3:00 in record rain storms, but for the most part as the conditions deteriorated, so did I. And now that I’m here, where any resemblance to my old ability and accomplishments seems like a fantasy, where it’s clear that the only thing standing between me and my goals is sacrifice. And call it enlightenment, burnout, or just feeling like it’s all too hard, I’m not willing to go there.

Faster ≠ better

Would I be a better version of myself if I were able to run like I used to? I mean, it cannot only be about speed, right?

Sure, I enjoyed my results, my status, my friends, and my gear sponsorships. It was bigger than that though. I think that prioritizing running was also just a lot of fun, good for the mental health, planning trips was fun, it was belonging. I can see logically that the finish times may never come back, and that should be okay.

Everyone slows down eventually and would have to grapple with this. I had a satisfying training block for the Austin Half last winter; I ran 30 minutes slower than I had a few years before, but was much happier. So why isn’t that enough? Is it still the ego holding me back?

I’m just afraid I’m not ever going to get that fun part of the sport back. I can’t make it make sense to myself. The old life still feels like me that’s gone missing. It’s been four years since I got pregnant with my first, when things shifted. How long am I going to keep holding on with this vise grip?

When would you need a $76 wool shirt for running? Well, picture this: it’s 40º. You have a two-hour long run on tap today and you must start now, at 6 a.m. on a Saturday, because that’s when all your fellow running crazies meet up. The air will warm to precisely 53° after the sun comes up (you checked), one hour into the run. Since you will undoubtedly overheat, you need a shirt that’s warm, but not heavy, and easy to carry after you peel it off but still have an hour to go. Naturally, it is imperative that you also wear your $400 GPS watch to track this run, and you’d prefer to be able to start/stop it without rolling up your sleeve. Maybe you’re mixing it up that day with some speed work in the long run too, because running two hours isn’t enough. You’ve committed to memory some combination of minutes, miles, and paces of warming up, fast running, recoveries—which are still running, just slower—then more fast running, and a cool down. So you want to be able to see your pace, distance, and laps on the watch’s screen.

Fortunately, you came prepared. You wear the holy grail of running shirts: You bought two colors, because you run so much that you’d need it again before doing laundry again. It’s made from a 30/70% wool-synthetic blend, by a woman-owned brand which you connect with deeply. It has a cutout in the wrist so you can see your watch while you’re running. That feature even has a name: the Watch Window. Behold, the wonders of the Oiselle Flyout Wool Long Sleeve.

Long run goes great. You were perfectly equipped. You hit your paces. You spend most of the time chatting with your friends. It was comfortable; maybe you even got a beautiful sunrise. Then you head to brunch. What else is on deck for the day? Oh, who knows. Maybe a nap, maybe grocery shopping, maybe visiting a brewery with the same friends you spent two hours with that morning. Life is good.

That watch window shit was the cherry on top. So purposeful, so satisfying.

Now, I don’t need special shirts for long runs.  I barely do long runs. And when I do, it’s okay if I overheat a little. I certainly don’t do workouts in my long run, so it’s fine if I can’t see my watch while I’m running. I don’t run at 6 a.m. much, either. I need so much more flexibility than what’s provided by meeting up with a big group, or one of my kids is awake and demanding attention at 1 a.m. and an early alarm no longer makes sense. If things go well, I may run later in the day. But it probably won’t be cold by then.

My needs—setting myself up for success in running—used to be of the utmost importance. It was fruitful: I ran four years of Division I track. I ran Boston. I ran the Olympic Trials. I enjoyed most of the “work” I put into that lifestyle. But I don’t want to prioritize like that anymore, since kids came into my life. I’m not even sure if it’s possible.

I still have my Flyout wool shirts. I can still wear them, if I feel like squeezing into something a bit too tight. This is how I feel about people saying “You’ll get back to running one day.” I mean, I am back; I do run. But it doesn’t feel like I’m back, you know? The shirt doesn’t fit comfortably anymore.

That life doesn’t fit comfortably anymore.

And so I miss the little things like a watch window, or rather, the delight and absolute certainty they gave me. Back then, when I clad myself in special socks, arm warmers and technical trucker hats, I wasn’t just getting dressed.

I was validating myself, believing I was worthy. I embraced my goals, and I embodied them in a daily practice.

I was nurturing myself.

I have a lot of new clothes I like now, that I bought for different reasons. With kids, the work of nourishing myself and others is ongoing. And it is, once more, fruitful. It looks different now though. While I am still nurturing myself, recognizing how I do it is taking some practice.

I ran four strides on Wednesday and my legs have yet to recover 🥲 In spite of the soreness, I want to say it felt good, that I felt like myself again.

I’ve heard people say the same, when they start getting more active after kids again.

“I feel like myself again.”

But now when I consider the sentiment, it’s more depressing than satisfying. Have I not been myself for the last 3-4 years? That seems to discredit how far I’ve come…

And oh the places I’ve been!

🤰🏻🏥👶🏻 🤰🏻🏠👶🏻There were the pregnancies, the births, the trauma, the redemption. Y’all. I went from uninformed and practically disassociated with my first pregnancy, squarely and unquestioningly in the western medicine system, to radicalized and having a physiological home birth in a pool in my bedroom. Like what. I could never have predicted that.

👩🏻‍💻 There was landing a job at a dream company, the comedown from sky-high expectations, the pulling myself back from the brink of overwhelm and burnout.

👩‍❤️‍👨 There was two years of couples counseling and deciding we came far enough to be done (for now).

💁🏻‍♀️ 👗🛍️ There was becoming a pretty-happy-most-of-the-time midsize woman after a life of size small.

🤱🏻 There was becoming a champion breast feeder. Something like less than 30% of American babies get breastfed for a year and it’s been TWO YEARS, 10 MONTHS, AND COUNTING! Plus tandem nursing for a year now.

👩‍👧‍👧 There was awakening to the challenges of motherhood in the United States and the humongous gaps we have in social support, especially for the people who need it the most.

💭 I’ve chipped away at layers of beliefs about myself, gender, sexuality, religion, marriage, body image and fatphobia, my upbringing, the role of medicine and healthcare in our society, and about capitalism and career. These were all major shifts for me. Almost everything seems to be up for questioning and re-integration. It’s beautiful, just exhausting.

So, no, I don’t expect to ever “feel like myself” again. I doubt people meant it to be that deep. Maybe they just meant they felt good on a run that day…

And for fleeting moments, I still have that.

“I’m actually getting a tattoo tomorrow,” I said. Jake, his friend Noelle and I had booked these matching pedestrian peacocks weeks ago.

“You’re just getting all kinds of needles,” he remarked.

I smiled to myself, thinking of my latest new ear piercing. Yes, I am hardcore. I am the Cool Girl; unbothered. I like tattoos, I like piercings, I can handle this.

But then the first syringe of local anesthesia came looming into my field of vision. A flicker of nervousness. A few minutes later, after I was properly numbed, the assistant  leaned me back. The light was uncomfortably bright. I screwed my eyes shut, crossed my arms protectively, and the dentist started drilling.

Trauma and [re]birth

I’ve never had a problem with dental work before. But I’m still finding ways in which trauma from my first birth almost three years ago affects me now. I had an upsetting experience giving birth, with an emergent c-section due to fetal heart rate irregularities.

It took about a year for me to unpack what happened and why I felt betrayed. It was a monumentally tough day for me, yet the doctors seemed surprised that I was unhappy. They thought everything was fine, because to them it was not an unusual experience: 1 out of every 3 births in the United States is a c-section, and the second-most common reason for them is the fetal heart rate. That knowledge (acquired later) was salt in the wound; I should have known this could happen and worked to avoid it.

But the truth is that I also counted myself out from being an active participant in my labor. I vowed not to let any of that—not being informed, not speaking up or advocating for my needs, working with providers I didn’t explicitly trust—happen again.

And for a while, it didn’t. I advocated for myself in a minor dermatology procedure the next year. Good practice.

And then I had my second baby in a radically different way—home birth. I spent months preparing, surrounding myself with positive, capable professionals who supported me wholly. I pushed myself to find new narratives about fear and pain, new sides of myself, and it worked. I delivered a healthy 9 pound girl in a vaginal birth after cesarean. At home, in my bedroom. Zero interventions, zero pain meds.

Taking that power back for birth was transformative. But it was also a lot of work. I don’t think I expected to need to advocate for myself so heavily in every medical procedure for the rest of my life.

I used to just sit there and let the professionals do their thing, but apparently that doesn’t work for me anymore. I didn’t do any research on the crown prep for my teeth, and I certainly didn’t consult anyone about their experiences. I didn’t ask the dentist any questions on the day of the procedure, and didn’t communicate any nerves. I’d had fillings before. They were unpleasant, but manageable. But that was before the birth trauma.

The Tooth-Decay to We’re-All-Going-to-Die-One-Day pipeline

The crown procedure was unexpectedly challenging: no one explaining what was going on, a burning smell as teeth were ground away, uncomfortable pressure, loud equipment, water pooling in the back of my throat making it hard to breathe, and me with no idea how long this would go on. I felt trapped, uncertain if moving or speaking would somehow jeopardize things—and besides, what would I say? “This sucks” or “Are we there yet?”

After the procedure, I just wanted to forget about it and move on. But my temporary crown kept falling off.

I had to wait a few weeks to get the permanent one (still waiting). For a week, my mouth was sore and my jaw ached. Eating was uncomfortable. Each time when I went to get the crown re-cemented, the staff assured me it would be stronger adhesive. I found myself laying up in bed at night anxious about the pain. I wondered why I didn’t say more at the appointment. I spiraled about the inevitable progressive decay of each of my teeth, and later, my whole body. I felt sorry for myself. I was Fontine from Les Mis; I was James Frey in A Million Little Pieces. It sounds so dramatic to literally lose sleep over this. But my anxiety likes to root out anything bad and ruminate over it, as if to confirm my generalized fears are founded.

Before birth trauma, I think I’d have been annoyed about my crown falling out. But now I had extra suspicion—did the dentist do something wrong? There were so many things about my first birth that I learned later, through requesting my medical records and getting more educated around birth statistics. It’s not that the doctors ever lied to me exactly, but they didn’t ask a lot of questions or provide alternatives. What happened makes perfect sense now: a little bad luck and an ill-informed first time mom. Like I said, I course-correct the second time.

But do I really need to get that invested in dental care? Birth is so multi-faceted. There are so many ways to have a baby, but are there really that many ways to do a dental crown? After the procedure, properly shaken, I did get more informed. I watched YouTube videos from dentists and read blog posts about crown procedures on dental websites (they definitely had the air of SEO copy, but better than nothing I guess). And finally I was emboldened and got my dentist on the phone—he said we were just unlucky with the crown. It hasn’t fallen off again.

Healing on a tattoo table

The day after the dentist was my tattoo appointment. I was almost giddy to see the artist, Kelly, and to feel properly cared for. She’d done my first bigger tattoo earlier this year (two birds on my upper arm for each of my daughters). This time, I got the peacock on the back of my arm and it barely hurt at all. We laughed, I rested, we reflected on the drama of medical care and how hard it is to just feel seen by providers sometimes, and how getting a tattoo hurts too, but is 10 times more fun and chill than other procedures. It’s nice that it’s elective, sure, but I think good tattoo artists want to make you feel comfortable. It was something that became evident to me was missing after my crown procedure.

This is not an attack on doctors, dentists or other healthcare providers. It’s bigger than that. I think most of them really do care about patients and even about helping patients feel comfortable. They are also stressed, in high-stakes situations, and they can’t read people’s minds. I just don’t think they get it, how patients really feel, and people like me are too scared or too ill-informed to speak up. That said, I hate how the onus for bridging that gap between doctors and patients seems to be all on the patient—when the providers are the ones with so much more obvious power and knowledge.

Fragile

Through the fog of my newfound dental anxiety, a new realization emerged: maybe this is bigger than dental work. I’d been feeling depleted in a few ways, and this took me over the edge.

I sought out relief from acupuncture, particularly for the jaw pain and trouble sleeping. The acupuncturist was sympathetic, nodding sagely as I described my symptoms and what I hoped to achieve. She placed the tiny needles in my feet, my scalp, my stomach, my jaw. My body was practically quivering, I felt so activated, desperate for some help. Finally I calmed down. When we finished, she asked me how I felt.

“Fragile,” I said.

I felt restored, but I was concerned too. I’m not sure how sustainable this all is—if a routine dental procedure throws me off for two weeks, what am I going to do if something actually goes wrong? I feel like I’m in overdrive, with that feeling of anxiety but not sleeping but also my superpower of not being that tired.

I know I’m not the only mom who feels overwhelmed. I do what they’re supposed to do: I go to therapy. I don’t work overtime. We have a monthly cleaning service. Jake and I have date nights. My kids sleep through the night. I exercise. I see friends. I have so much support.

But I need more. The gaping maw of my needs feels shameful, indulgent, extra. What else can I ask for? What else do I deserve? I don’t know. Everything feels too high stakes.

I don’t know how to stop it.

More needles

What I do know is that I will be going back to acupuncture next week.

I guess my dentist was right about all the needles.

I got a COVID shot and a flu shot yesterday too (at Target! A mini mom-cation).

And then later I’ll be back in the dentist’s chair for my permanent crown, with more anesthesia.

I might as well plan another tattoo… after all, I am hardcore. I am the Cool Girl.

I don’t know what else to tell myself.

Mid-July

Before we even left Seattle, I started getting anxious, then tired. Anxious about what, you tell me. That’s the point. Things were too good, our time too short, who can say?

We took a day trip to Alki Beach on our last full day there. We rode the water taxi and walked over 9 miles getting around downtown and west Seattle. I’d been staying up late losing sleep for a week by that point.

Back home in Austin, facing down at least 6 weeks of 100º+ days and a drought with no relief in sight, I resolved to do what I could to stay positive: run in the morning before the sun is up, jump in Barton Springs, don’t go out during the heat of the day. And it worked alright. But I got tired, and I stayed there.

At night, after the kids went to sleep, I scrolled and scrolled and scrolled: mostly Instagram, sometimes Facebook, sometimes a message board. Some nights I tried to lay down early, only to toss and turn for an hour, growing frustrated. Others, I tried my old standby melatonin—then Phoebe would have a rare night wake and I’d have to tend to her with my eyes practically glued shut. That happened literally twice. Sometimes I’d get hooked on a novel until the wee hours of the morning.

Thanks.

One night I was so stressed, I stayed up until 3 a.m. Why? Because I had to drive a 3-hour round trip to Waco and back the next day. I used to do that drive during college frequently, and it was terrifying when you’re drowsy.

Another day I slept just 3 hours before getting up to meet a friend to run. I’d canceled on her last time; I’d no-showed on other friends earlier that week. Balls were dropping. I was overwhelmed and I needed some positive momentum. It didn’t make sense.

But I pulled off both of these days. I’d found a silver lining of sorts: I was so wound up I didn’t feel sleepy during the day. I felt like shit, but I wasn’t yawning. Being sleepy was a luxury I couldn’t afford. That and my pride got me out of bed; that day I left to run, I could not claim another day of rest—could not, would not—besides, if I stayed home I’d just have little ones climbing on me or wanting to play, instead of a run then chat over tacos.

End of August

We got ourselves to the Texas beach, joining my family on vacation. Sleep eluded me for various reasons (an errant smoke alarm, baby wakes, my own tossing and turning). And that was vacation—imagine regular life. I felt ragged and stuck. I wanted it all to stop, to disappear. I considered taking a sick day from work but was too chicken to do so, instead trudging back and forth to the kitchen and eating leftover Pop Tarts for a meal, ignoring my Garmin’s admonishment’s to move. I quit going to the gym for my lifts. I felt numb to my physical needs, couldn’t even tell you where my emotional needs began. I’m amazed that my body continued to make breast milk when so much else felt like it was short circuiting.

I was so frustrated at all the things that need to go right for me to get rest. It made me not even want to try anymore. But I was desperate. My mind wandered for a solution. A solo getaway was not in the cards. My hypothesis was that it was either time to give up coffee, or get off social media. If I could at least stop the nighttime scrolling, maybe I could fall asleep. Or maybe the caffeine—my normal habit, but this didn’t feel like normal life anymore—was ramping up my anxiety.

I decided to keep coffee in my life, and I changed the passwords on my Instagram and Facebook. I didn’t save them, so I effectively locked myself out. But would it fix anything?

September

It’s been almost two weeks without Instagram and Facebook, and I’m not sure if much is better. Maybe it hasn’t been long enough. I still find myself craving the escape from daily life; I’ve resorted to surfing other sites like Pinterest or Reddit, but things seem a bit less unpredictable; I’m not getting sucked in as unawares like I would with Reels. I still have that urge to scroll when I want a break or I’m bored. I check Strava more, and LinkedIn, which I find only slightly interesting, and I read two Judy Blume novels this week. I know some practical tips for what I could do when these urges hit: things like movement, or taking a break (an actual break). I don’t often do them because the nice thing about scrolling is you can pretend you are juuuuust about to start the next task (or go to bed) after this next couple minutes. Yes, any minute now. Versus getting up the desk, actually taking a break, and wait, whoa girl, you haven’t earned that yet! Yikes.

And the bad part is without Instagram, I also feel less creative and connected. I know it has its pitfalls, but it does get me taking more pictures of my daily life, noticing pleasant things or small beauties. And it keeps me writing.

Now

Two nights ago was the first night I felt like I got actual good sleep. Instead of numb or wired, I felt tired. I laid down; the baby slept all night, and I rested. I woke up to a soft rain falling; our first in weeks.

This drought can’t last forever, right?

Nice to meet you:

If you’ve made it here, you probably know me already. But here’s a refresher: I’m Cate Barrett, a thirty-something mom of two, tech sales professional, wannabe creative, and former competitive marathoner. I’m living, working, and sweating in my forever hometown Austin, Texas.

Why this, why now?

I’d like my writing to have its own home off Instagram where it can breathe a bit more, not be part of the endless scrolling dopamine hellscape of that platform, and be more searchable and organized.

I used to have a lot to say about running. When I stopped running and training hard, it got harder to express myself. But every time I open up, I hear from people who have been in my shoes. There’s more to say about life right now, even if I don’t know what it is yet.

Thanks for being here.

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