Tag: coping

The Gym is not Your Village

To be honest, not much running has been happening this week. I haven’t been feeling great. And around here, when mama doesn’t feel great, nobody feels great—meaning my not feeling great tends to ripple outward, creating a low hum of anxiety for everyone else. Still, I push on with my morning walks with friends. We’re experiencing an unusually mild winter, one that has gifted us many pleasant morning miles. I’m not complaining.

The other morning, our conversation turned to a big change coming to our neighborhood—one that has left most of us feeling disappointed. Maybe worried. At the very least, unsettled. It’s something some of us anticipated, yet still something we’re not happy about: a new development that will inevitably impact our community in ways that make us feel a loss of control.

When we built our home here twenty years ago, community was one of the most important factors in our decision. We were a young, growing family, searching for a safe, family-friendly place where our children could grow up feeling connected. We wanted a village. And a village is exactly what we found.

Over the years, our neighbors have walked alongside us through our daughter’s autism diagnosis, my brother’s sudden and tragic death, my sister’s stroke at thirty-four, my ARVC diagnosis and eventual heart transplant, thyroid cancer, and the loss of our parents—along with the countless mishaps and quiet struggles of everyday life. And we’ve done the same for them. We’ve cried together in seasons of grief. We’ve shown care through meals delivered during sickness, tragedy, or the arrival of a new baby. We’ve celebrated joy-filled milestones side by side. When I need a cup of sugar, a splash of milk, or a teaspoon of baking soda, I know exactly who to text.

That is community.
That is a village.

I don’t know who needs to hear this—though I suspect quite a few people do this time of year—but the gym is not your village. Yes, you read that right: the gym is not your village. I say this as someone who is very much pro-gym. I once had a Pilates studio in my basement where I taught group fitness classes. I speak—er, write—as someone who knows.

Years ago, after a devastating miscarriage, my husband gently suggested I find a new hobby—something to distract me, something that might help me move forward. I certified in Pilates and yoga and began teaching classes in my basement to women in my community. The classes grew. I added High Fitness. Eventually, I was teaching every day of the week. I was incredibly proud of what I’d built. Proud of my participants. Proud of what I believed was a community.

But when the proverbial crap hit the fan and my health forced me to shut down the studio, I found myself unexpectedly alone. It wasn’t the studio participants who showed up with meals, took me out to lunch when I needed encouragement, or sat quietly with me as I gave voice to my grief and fear. It was my neighbors, my family, and my long-rooted friends who did that.

The gym is wonderful for building strength, lifting mood, and connecting with like-minded people. It serves an important purpose. But true community is built through service. A village grows from the steady rhythm of giving and receiving—of showing up and being seen. If you want a village, you must be willing to be a villager: doing the work, offering effort, and investing in others. By and large, people at a gym are there for their own progress, focused on personal goals. They aren’t there for you—and that distinction matters.

When I walk with my friends and neighbors in the morning, I’m stepping into a different kind of rhythm—one shaped by presence rather than progress. The sidewalks and trails bear witness to our grievances, our long-winded pondering, and our unrestrained laughter. Those miles hold our stories. They hold us.

And even as our town changes—even as new developments threaten to reshape the place we love—I’m reminded that a village isn’t made of houses or roads or plans drawn on paper. It’s made of people who stay. People who show up. People who know your garage door code and which soda you like from the gas station.

No matter how the landscape shifts around us, in sickness and in health, this sisterhood, this village, is something I will always carry with me.

The Quiet Joy of Beginning Again

The first official training run for my 5K goal is done. Did I last the full 3.1 miles? No. Did I run the entire time? Also no. But running the entire time is not the point. The point, for now, is solely and exclusively to eventually register for—and complete—an organized 5K. So this morning’s frosty 2.4-mile jog, chock-full of uphill walk breaks, was, in my mind, perfect.

I set out this morning knowing full well that I wouldn’t run the entire time. I planned a route with plenty of hills, focusing on running the downhill portions and briskly walking the uphill parts. It was bitterly cold, hovering right around 20 degrees Fahrenheit. My hands and ears became so numb that I momentarily worried I might do some kind of permanent damage (in packing for our week away, I forgot proper gloves and a hat for running in such cold temperatures).

Regardless of preparation—or lack thereof—slow pace, and shorter-than-ideal distance, I set out this morning to take the first step toward my goal, and I did it.

There was a time when running served primarily as a distraction. A distraction from responsibility, from emotions I didn’t want to confront, and from parts of myself I thought were ugly—not physically, though regular exercise certainly helps with that—but the internal parts of me, parts my personality, that I knew needed change or growth.

It’s true that during runs I often found myself in deep self-reflection. I would revisit interactions, recognize where I had been wrong, and consider what I could have done differently. Sometimes I would pray while running, sorting through hopes and fears, wrestling with mortality, and speaking with the One who could offer the sincerest help. But mostly, running gave me a distraction—albeit a healthy one.

In 2021, when that distraction was taken from me with a diagnosis of ARVC—or ACM, as the kids are calling it these days—I found myself adrift. Where could I turn for peace, sanctuary, or reflection? I had faith, yes, and my faith practices were—and still are—a great source of peace. But the higher forms of worship were not always available to me on demand. Running had been an easy, rewarding outlet, and it wasn’t easily replaced.

Throughout the eighteen months I spent waiting for a heart transplant, the six months leading up to my transplant listing, and the many months of recovery afterward, I turned to several other forms of distraction—some of which I’m not particularly proud.

I tried my hand at designing graphics for shirts and ended up selling sweatshirts with my designs to friends and family.

I explored certain subreddits on Reddit—mostly those centered on criticizing local social media influencers. This one I’m not proud of. Reddit can be a dark place, full of negativity and hatred. I do not, and cannot, recommend this distraction.

As a family, we took to driving around, seeing the sights, admiring mountain views, and exploring neighborhoods we had yet to visit.

We also adopted the pastime of visiting every Parade of Homes our state had to offer. While entertaining—if not exhausting—it led to feelings of emptiness, as our focus shifted toward what our own home lacked and what needed improvement. As such, this became another distraction I cannot fully recommend.

This is not an exhaustive list, but rather a snapshot of where my mind lived for nearly three years. What I learned during that time is this: our distractions become our habits, our habits become our lifestyle, and our lifestyle shapes our beliefs. Choose distractions that enhance and enrich your life—or that move you closer to the life you want.

If you’re in a season of waiting, grief, stress, or upheaval, it’s okay to hit pause. Sometimes moving forward feels too difficult, or even inappropriate. Sometimes simply standing still is the bravest option. And that is okay.

While we all want to shout for joy from the finish lines of our personal races, sometimes we find ourselves waiting apprehensively at the starting line, fully aware of the struggle ahead. There can be joy there too—a quieter joy, rooted in hope and faith, if we choose it. That same place can also become one of bitterness and envy, if we allow it.

Before my transplant—before my heart went haywire—I ran somewhere around twenty races. I may have placed in my age group a few times, but I never won a single race. Winning was never the point. The prize isn’t the trophy, after all.

The prize is who you become in the choosing, in the showing up, in the steady willingness to begin again—one imperfect step at a time. And this morning, in the cold, on tired legs and borrowed patience, I took that step.