Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

running

Beginning Again After Disappointment

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I admit, in the days following the terrible-no-good-very-bad-half-marathon, I seriously considered giving up running for good. Doubt and fear dampened both my confidence and my longtime love of the sport. I wondered if maybe that terrible race was a sign that after 32 years, my running days were over.

The truth is, it’s hard to begin again after experiencing disappointment or failure. As our mind works overtime, a cacophony of voices chanting a negative refrain, we start to second-guess ourselves. Failure wreaks havoc on our self-confidence and can even leave us questioning our identity or calling.

Last week, as I was considering whether to hang up my running shoes for good, I thought a lot about the disciple Peter.

Peter was all too familiar with failure. He who had so confidently and emphatically proclaimed his love for and loyalty to Jesus had, in the end, profoundly failed his Lord and Savior when he denied knowing him three times before the rooster crowed. Peter’s was, by all accounts, an epic fail.

I can only begin to imagine the depth of Peter’s remorse, disappointment and self-doubt in the aftermath of his failure. I can only begin to imagine how he must have replayed his denial of Jesus over and over in his mind and the impact of that failure not only on his confidence, but also on his understanding of himself and his identity as a disciple of Jesus.

Which is why I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the resurrected Jesus repeated his pointed question to Peter not once but three consecutive times: “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”

Jesus knew Peter’s confidence had been shattered by his failure. Jesus knew that in order for Peter to begin again, he needed to relearn and re-remember that failure did not define him, nor did it undermine the role God had for him and the person God had called him to be. In repeating, “Yes, you know I love you,” three times out loud to Jesus, Peter was reminded once again of his identity and his role.

In this exchange with Jesus, Peter remembered that his failure, terrible and disappointing though it was, ultimately did not diminish who he was at his core.

I realize it’s a little silly to compare my story of a disappointing race with Peter’s calling as a founding leader of the early Christian church. But the truth is, each of us will fail multiple times in our professions, in our relationships, and in our character over the course of our lives, and there are important lessons to be learned in even the smallest, most ordinary stories, even in the smallest, most ordinary failures.

Last week, seven days after my disappointing finish in the half marathon death march, I slid my feet into my running shoes, double knotted the laces, and stepped out the front door. As I began my slow jog down the street, stretching my stiff legs and breathing in the chilled morning air, I remembered that one failed race does not define me. I remembered that one failed race does not diminish the joy and satisfaction I get from running. I remembered that one failed race does not undermine my future as a runner.

Last week when I stepped out the front door, I remembered that I am a runner. And I began again.

3 Ways to Fail Better

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I set a personal record in my fifth half marathon last week. Except it’s not what you think. My PR was for my Worst Half Marathon Time Ever. And not my worst time by mere seconds or a handful of minutes. My worst time by many, many, many minutes.

This was a race I’d trained for diligently since December – more than five months of near-daily running, incrementally building my distance over time. And yet, less than two miles into the 13.1-mile course on Sunday, I knew.

I knew I was going to have a cataclysmically bad run. I knew there would be much suffering and gnashing of teeth (to say nothing of quivering muscles and gasping for breath).

I seriously considered quitting at mile six. Lumbering down the street, runners passing me on my right and left, my breath ragged, tongue parched, leg muscles stiff and heavy as tree trunks, I weighed my options. Realizing I didn’t have a way home, I reluctantly pressed on, though I couldn’t fathom how I would complete seven additional miles.

Long story short, I made it. I finally staggered across the finish line and even received a medal for my efforts. But in my mind, the race was an epic fail, not only because of the time but because of how catastrophically bad I’d felt all the way through.

One thing you should probably know about me, if you don’t already, is that I don’t fail well. As a Type 3 on the Enneagram, failure is anathema to me. Type 3s are all about success and achievement, results and outcomes. If we show up and do the work, we expect results, and we expect those results to match our expectations, thank you very much.

But here’s the hard truth about running a race (or anything in which you have an expectation of results): No matter how well you plan, prepare, practice, train and line up your ducks ramrod straight, you cannot control the outcome. You cannot predetermine the results.

No matter whether your failure is personal or professional, whether it’s private or on display for all the world to see, failure stings. Walking through failure can leave you feeling battle-worn and world-weary. It shatters your confidence, fans the flames of self-doubt, fuels feelings of shame and does a number on your ego. Failure clouds your judgment and skews your perspective. Failure is hard on your mind, your body, and your soul.

I’ve thought a lot about the half marathon since I stumbled across the finish line on Sunday. And let’s be real: this isn’t my first failure rodeo, not by a long shot. Along the way I’ve learned some things about failure, and specifically, about how to “fail better,” as author Dani Shapiro once said, so I thought I’d share a little bit of my hard-earned wisdom with you today.

3 Ways to Fail Better

Let yourself be disappointed.
It’s good and right to acknowledge that things didn’t turn out as you’d planned and hoped for. You bombed the presentation. You earned an F on the exam. You were passed over for the promotion. Failure hurts. Allow yourself to sit with that hurt for a little bit. Don’t brush over it, bury it or write it off. There will be a time to dust yourself off and begin again, but for now, for a little while, let yourself feel the disappointment, frustration, sorrow and even anger with how it all turned out.

Acknowledge that sometimes you can do everything right and still have everything go wrong.
As a Triple Type A Enneagram 3 Super Planner Overachiever, I find this infuriating. If I’ve done everything right, I feel like I am owed the outcome I expect. Maybe you do, too?

But the truth is, running (and pretty much any endeavor we engage in and every goal we pursue) is an exercise, literally and figuratively, in surrender. We can plan and prepare, we can cross every “i” and dot every “t,” but as I said earlier, we don’t get to determine the outcome. Stuff happens. Sometimes there’s not even a reasonable explanation for the stuff that happens. We face our failure. We acknowledge our disappointment. We learn what we can from the experience. And then we begin to work on letting it go and beginning anew.

Celebrate the small victories.
You may not recognize them at first, but believe me, the small victories are there. After I posted about my PR for Worst Half Marathon Ever on social media on Sunday, my friend and writing coach Ann Kroeker messaged me with an encouraging, supportive response. (By the way, it’s wonderfully convenient and helpful to be working with a super positive and encouraging writing coach while you are in the midst of a personal failure. File that one under Good Timing.)

“In a way it’s almost more significant to have done it in imperfect conditions,” Ann acknowledged, referring to the unseasonable heat the day of the race and the fact that I was still recovering from an illness. “There’s a whole story here about following through even when circumstances are not as you wish they were. You carry on.”

Truth be told, I hadn’t thought of it that way. But Ann was right; I had carried on. I showed up at the starting line even when I knew I probably wouldn’t be at my best, and I gutted out the race, even under less-than-ideal circumstances. File that one under Small Victories.

No one likes to fail, of course. Failure is humbling and discouraging, and there’s certainly no fun in it. Yet failure is important, even critical, because it’s only in our falling down that we learn how to get back up.

And at the very least, in failing this time, we learn a little bit more about how to fail better next time.

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Hope for Your Hard Season

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For three months straight this summer, every time I laced up my shoes and hit the trail, I felt like I was running through wet cement. When I finally managed to drag myself heaving and sweaty into my house four miles later, my husband always asked how my run went, and my answer was always the same: “Horrible. Again.”

I bought new running shoes. I tried drinking more water. I tried drinking less water. I tried stretching more. I tried stretching less. No matter what I did, the result was always the same: a demoralizing, abysmal run.

I wondered if perhaps my running days were over. Maybe I was simply getting too old. Maybe my body was wearing out. Maybe it was time for a gentler form of exercise.

Despite my frustration, I kept at it, mostly because I am both stubborn and lazy. I didn’t want to take up swimming or spinning or Zumba. I’ve been running since I was 16 years old. I like the rituals around running – the stretching, the cool-down, lying on my sunroom floor as the cool breeze from the ceiling fan wafts over me – as well as the structure and rhythm of beginning my day on the trail. I also like the endorphins, which I don’t get when I walk or bike.

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I’m heading down the home stretch of book-writing, one eye on my January deadline, the other on my word count. But I admit, I’ve been discouraged lately. While the early chapters seemed to unfurl straight from my fingertips, these later chapters have been a grind. I spend a lot of time staring out the sunroom window behind my desk, my hands in my lap (or my fingernails between my teeth), rather than on the keyboard. I delete more than I type.

There’s something wrong, I think to myself. It shouldn’t be this hard.

I find myself wondering if my writing days are coming to an end. Maybe I’m burned out, I think. Maybe it’s time for a different kind of creativity. Or maybe, a small voice deep inside wonders, maybe God doesn’t want me to write books anymore.

One day a few weeks ago, when Brad asked me how my morning run had gone, I realized it had been a tiny bit better. I might not have noticed if he hadn’t asked, but when I thought back to my four miles, I realized they hadn’t been quite as horrendous. For the first time in months, I hadn’t felt like I was about to keel over and die on the trail.

Since then, my morning jogs have continued to improve bit by bit. I got my wind back. My feet stopped hurting. My legs feel steadier. I am energized when I finish, rather than spent. I haven’t done anything differently. Over time I just simply began to feel better.

This morning as I ran through the November mist, I felt strong, carefree, and light on my feet. Everything felt right in the world during those four miles on the trail. Later, after I’d showered and was seated at my desk, steeling myself for another grueling day of writing/not writing, I remembered my summer of bad running – the days and weeks when what had once come easily felt like a burden and a punishment.

I also remembered that my season of hard running, frustrating and demoralizing as it was, eventually came to an end. The difficult season passed unexpectedly, slipping out the back door as quietly and mysteriously as it had arrived.

There is a lesson here about seasons, particularly those that arrive unexpectedly and are not altogether welcome. Sometimes we find ourselves in an uncomfortable, discouraging, frustrating season – a season in which the next right step is, literally or figuratively, to simply take another step, and then another and another.

I still don’t know why I struggled so much in my running this past summer. Likewise, I don’t know why writing is so hard right now. But if my season of hard running taught me anything, it’s that this too shall eventually pass.

In the meantime, I’ll keep putting down one word after another, my eyes fixed on the finish line, until this hard season slips quietly away like a November mist, until I begin to write like I run, strong and carefree again.

The Ripple Effect of a Random Act of Kindness

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Sorry I am a terrible selfie taker! I took three photos and managed to cut off Ted in every one.

You might remember back in September when I wrote a blog post and newspaper column about Ted, the gentleman who brightens my morning run with his cheerful greeting. I happened to see Ted the Saturday the article ran in the newspaper. He flagged me down mid-run to tell me how much it had meant to him that I had stopped a few days earlier to thank him for being a bright spot in my day. Our conversation also gave me the opportunity to tell Ted that I’d written my monthly column about him, and that it was running in the newspaper that day.

Ted and I got to chatting — me a little breathlessly and sweatily, as I am not in the best shape — and I learned he is a writer too. He published his first book in 2015, a novel about a Nebraska farm boy who enlists in the Air Force during World War II and fights as a bombardier. Ted is now working on a memoir, which he hopes to be able to share with his grandchildren.

We agreed to meet the following Saturday morning on the trail for a book exchange. Ted would bring me a signed copy of his book, You Can Only Be Lucky;  I’d bring him a signed copy of Katharina and Martin Luther. 

That morning, back from my run, I pulled his novel from the ziplock bag and read the inscription. “I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it,” Ted wrote. “Thank you for the wonderful article you wrote in the Lincoln Journal Star. I really appreciate you doing that.” And then he signed off with his signature salutation: “Be sure to have a super fantastic wonderful day!”

Turns out, I’m not the only one who has noticed Ted’s warmth and kindness on the trail. Joyce, the mom of one of my son Rowan’s classmates, stopped me in the middle school hallway on parent-teacher conference night: “My husband left the newspaper folded open to your article on the kitchen counter for me,” she said. “We both knew exactly who you were writing about!” Joyce and her husband are runners, and they, too, have been the welcome recipients of Ted’s exuberant greetings.

This morning when I saw Ted on the trail, he told me multiple people have recognized him since the article ran in the paper. “Hey, you’re Ted!” they exclaim, their faces brightening as they pass by. Ted said he’s noticed more people respond to his greetings now, and some even shout out their own salutation before Ted can greet them first. Even the cyclists sing out a hello as they whiz by.

I love this story for so many reasons. First, it’s been a delight to get to know Ted a little bit. Who would have thought two strangers — a retired chief financial officer and a middle-aged mom — could find common ground in the early morning hours on a random bike trail in Lincoln, Nebraska? It just goes to show that human beings are created for connection and relationship, and we often have more in common than we might first assume.

Mostly, though, I love that Ted exemplifies the impact of a random act of kindness. His generosity and warmth have created a ripple effect that reverberates well beyond that one bike trail he walks every morning. Dozens of people have been positively affected and influenced by his simple yet heartfelt greeting.

We don’t often get to see what happens when we offer our kindness to the world. We might assume it doesn’t make any difference at all because we don’t see the ripple effect – the smile a person carries in her heart for the rest of the day, the kind word that’s then passed on to someone else. My experience with Ted has reminded me that we can change the course of a stranger’s day for the better simply by offering our words as a gift.

The Finish Line Isn’t Always the Most Important Part of the Race

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Last week I had to cut short an interview I was doing for my new job when I realized I was going to be late to pick up my kids from school. The man I was interviewing on the phone was kind and gracious, but still, it was an awkward moment, and I felt like an unprofessional amateur.

As I sped down South Street toward the middle school, my cell phone rang, and I knew from the ring tone it was Rowan calling from the sidewalk outside his school, wondering where I was as he watched all the cars pull up to and away from the curb.

By the time I got home from the school pick-up circuit, dialed the manager I’d interrupted 20 minutes before to continue the interview, finished the conversation and hung up, I sat back in my chair, sweaty, flustered, and limp with defeat.

Cleary this new-job-work-from-home-be-a-good-mother-and-write-books-too endeavor was not going to work. Clearly I stunk as a professional, stunk as a mother, and, having struggled to string together ten creative words all week, stunk as a writer too.

No one has ever accused me of being glass-half-full.

That was Friday. On Sunday morning I ran the Lincoln Half Marathon. It was a great race, and I felt good the whole way — my breathing was easy, my body felt strong, and I finished in a respectable-for-me time. After I crossed the finish line, I went home, posted a Facebook photo of me with a medal around my neck and my number pinned to the front of my shirt, and celebrated by eating a great many delicious and unhealthy foods.

Later that afternoon, though, I remembered something important about that race, something the Facebook photo didn’t necessarily reveal, which is this:

I didn’t cross the Sunday morning finish line without days, weeks, and months of training first.

Our results-right-now culture has us programmed to expect instantaneous aptitude, but the reality is, doing a hard thing like starting a new job, becoming a new parent, walking through loss, or navigating a new season of life is a process that entails persistent work, growing pains, trial and error, and both small and large successes and failures along the way.

Case in point: My final training run for the half marathon was one of the worst training runs I’ve had in more than 30 years of running. It was so miserable, in fact, that afterward, as I lay on the sunroom floor in a heaving heap, I announced out loud to myself and the dog that I was done with half marathons forever. Two weeks later, I had one of my best races ever.

Last week was hard as I struggled to balance the new demands of work, parenting, home, and the creative life. I was hard on myself for failing to do it all perfectly, and I assumed that because I hadn’t succeeded right out of the gate, I wasn’t going to succeed at all.  Luckily, a 13-mile race, the culmination of four months of training, reminded me that’s simply not true.

If, like me, you’ve been hard on yourself as you struggle through something big, hard or new,  I want to gently remind you that big things, hard things, and new things don’t magically become small, easy, and routine overnight.

The Sunday morning finish line is wonderfully gratifying and a lot of fun, but the days, weeks, and months of  two-steps-forward-one-step-back are what get us there. It’s the “pressing on” part, as Paul reminds us, that ultimately brings us to the prize.

Turns out, those hard beginnings and demoralizing middles might actually be the most important part of the race.