I run out of patience with my kids when I don’t run. It was years ago when I realized that running had become an essential ingredient in my self-care. I had not run for several days and I had a short fuse with everybody. In the middle of yelling at the kids I was chastising myself for yelling at them. I was not the best version of myself and I wanted to know why. It wasn’t just an off day—all parents have those—there was something missing from my ordinary menu of mental health entrees. I ran down the list and could not put a checkmark next to running. A day off was key, but I had taken three and felt myself stretched too thin.
Since then I have made running a priority. I try to run when it’s convenient for the family. If it’s on the weekend, then the offer stands for Kate to get away and do something by herself for a while. I try to navigate family and social commitments and, for the most part, I do that successfully.
After more than a month of writing, I feel like it’s back on the menu, my menu of mental health entrees. Writing was at best a digestif for too long, something I indulged in only when everything was going right, but the irony is that everything felt off or just not right because I didn’t write, so I never wrote.
Last week was busy. A lot of things going on and a trip to Steamboat Springs to prepare for, so writing took a hit. I thought about it all weekend and, at times, felt the same way I do when I don’t run for several days, dull, easily angered, not as talkative, and more cynical than normal. Yikes. But it was comforting to feel that I am a better version of myself when I write. The cost of not doing so has become crystal clear once again.
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