About toniasmith897

I am a married mom who runs trails and ultramarathons. I was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer in 2013. I am still here and still running!

When Will Women Matter?

This is a story of a girl, a boy, another boy, a fraternity, and the ‘justice’ system of the 1980’s. But there is a twist to my tale. Several years ago I was contacted out of the blue by the person who harmed me.  After decades of emotional pain and loss of trust in others, I forgave him. But I will never forgive the series of people who claimed to be protectors but who, instead, victimized me again.

I went to a small, private college which admitted women just years before, in the 1970’s.  The college still felt largely male-dominated when I was a student in the late 1980’s.  With nearly 20 fraternities for a population of 2,000 thousand students, there were keg parties six nights per week.

I graduated from high school a year early and was younger than most freshmen when I entered college in the fall of 1986. I loved school and was looking forward to learning. Like most people heading to college, I was also looking forward to having fun and going to college parties.

I loved my classes and became fast friends with girls on the floor of my single sex dorm. We studied hard, we talked about cute boys and we went to parties. Sometimes we went to parties 3 or 4 times per week. With the greek culture ingrained on our campus, there was alcohol flowing every night at one house or another.

Meeting Mike

In the fall of my freshman year, I met a boy I will call ‘Mike’. He was a student athlete, very large in stature for his age, attending college on an ‘academic scholarship’. We met through a mutual friend. Mike was cute and sweet, despite his hulking size. Like most boys at our school, he was pledging a fraternity. His fraternity was filled almost entirely with boys who played in one aggressive sport.

We ended up having a few drinks with friends while we were out. He walked me to my dorm room. I was attracted to him, but I was not interested in having a one-night stand with him. Despite my objections, Mike took things further than I wanted. I said ‘no’ but he did not listen to me. I was confused. In fact, I am STILL confused by this incident. I know I was less intoxicated than he was and I remember certain aspects of that night with complete clarity. I definitely said ‘no’ but, I was physically unable to stop it. He was more than a foot taller and 100 pounds heavier than me.

I was truly confused the next day. I had emphatically said no, but I also know that my feelings were more ‘not yet’ than ‘not ever’. Did I give off the wrong signals?

He was apologetic the next day. He was sorry. He had too much to drink. He seemed like a good guy who made a mistake because he was drunk. After all, everyone said he was a great guy. Binge drinking was rampant and doing dumb things while drunk was part of it. Mike was so apologetic and so attentive and kind. I felt like what he did was not right, but I forgave him.

Fraternity Culture

The ‘funny’ thing about pledging fraternities is that they require people to drink, often way more than they should. And so Mike, who was a lovely, kind, sweet person, drank often and consumed way more than he was capable of handling. More incidents happened. He punched a fellow pledge who was a good friend. He got pushy with friends and with me.

But always, we forgave him. People sometimes did really stupid things when they were drunk. One friend who was on the receiving end of a violent punch, laughed it off and bought Mike a hat that said “Instant Asshole, just add beer”.  We laughed and decided we would just try to protect Mike from himself by trying to limit how much he drank.

I cared deeply about Mike but also grew weary of the drama. I was done. I went out on a date with another boy I will call ‘John’. I met John through a mutual friend. He was another ‘great guy’. I did not want a serious relationship with anyone, but I did want to go out and have fun.

If He Can’t Have Her, No One Will

Mike was not happy. I had moved on but he was not done with me. At one point, he came to my dorm room drunk and angry. The ‘security guard’ who was working the front desk that night allowed him to come to my room without calling me first.  That was a clear violation of the rules. Security was in place to ensure the safety of the women in the dorm. However, fraternity brothers did not tell each other no. They were friends, after all, and your brothers came first, before anything else.

When Mike came to my room, he broke my door and threw things around.  I had been sharing pizza and soda with some girls from floor. They quickly ran out of the room. Mike ripped me and my mattress off my bed. His rage continued as he tossed a bottle of soda, spraying it on me. Afraid to move, I watched pizza slide down the wall. My roommate was understandably afraid and angry. We could not shut our door, much less lock it. Yet the anger and blame was directed at me rather than at Mike. He was in love with me. I broke his heart. I made him crazy. I did this TO him.

I attempted to move forward. I went to at least one fraternity party where Mike showed up and cornered me, refusing to let me end the relationship. I did not attend certain parties and I frequently left others because I felt unsafe when he or his friends were around.

One night, following another invasion of my space and my life, I left a fraternity party and walked home cold, fearful and alone. Shortly after I entered my room, John called me. He had been at a party that night when Mike and his fraternity brother ‘David’ got in John’s face and threatened to beat him up. David told John explicitly, “If Mike can’t go out with Tonia, no one will.”

John was going to campus police to report the incident and he strongly encouraged me to go with him to file my own report. Though I was scared, I agreed to go with John to file a complaint. Why had I not filed a report already? I had really never even considered it. As far I knew, I was on my own. I had to handle things by myself. I HAD broken up with him. I upset him and others. I was afraid to speak up and I felt, on some level, that no one would or could protect me. Plus, Mike was a ‘good guy’. I did not want to ruin his life.

A Boy’s Life is More Important than A Girl’s Life

In those days, many colleges dealt with ‘issues’ by holding a hearing in front of a jury of other college students. These juries called witnesses, deliberated, rendered verdicts and handed out punishments.

People who knew me and people who knew Mike were called to testify. I listened while some of the Mike’s friends made irrelevant and frequently false statements about me. Despite using the ‘nuts and sluts’ tactic, Mike was found guilty of everything I had claimed: threatening, stalking, assault. I think John’s testimony as an older, male student helped my case tremendously. I could not possibly be making everything up if his testimony reflected my own.

Despite the jury ruling in my favor, the panel also decided Mike ‘showed promise’. He was allowed to stay on campus  because he was a good guy who made a mistake. He was required to attend alcohol and anger management classes. He did neither. In fact, he drunkenly and repeatedly made attempts to corner me. Essentially, I ‘won’, but he suffered zero consequences. My so-called peers determined he was guilty but apparently his ‘promise’, his future, was more important than mine. The college, apparently, did not disagree.

Eventually, Mike was kicked out of school for drunkenly cornering at least two other women. One incident happened in the late spring of my freshman year. The other took place the next fall. During the second incident, the final straw that broke the camel’s back, Mike cornered a tiny woman who was the new RA on the floor I had lived on as a freshman. He wanted to know  how to find me.

Mike was sent home.

Violence and Violation

The story does not end there, however. Following the ‘jury of my peers’ decision my freshman year, John and I had one more date. I felt indebted to him, grateful for his friendship and for what felt like a sense of protection. SOMEONE in the community cared about me.

Instead of proving himself to be a friend who was in my corner, John sexually assaulted me. I told him to stop. I cried. I said he was hurting me. He responded, “I’m almost finished.” He lived in a fraternity house. There were other people in adjacent rooms. If they heard me, they did not intervene on my behalf. I did not report him and I never told anyone. I was too damaged. I walked away and we never spoke again.

Why Didn’t I Tell Anyone?

For many years, I did not speak about the violence and violation I experienced that year. I believed it was my fault. I believed I needed to be tough and not strong and not go crying for help. After all, when I filed a report and trusted ‘the system’, it did nothing to protect me.

I spent the remainder of my freshman year isolated and alone, feeling worthless and unable to trust anyone. I was embarrassed to share these stories with anyone for many, many years. I expected blame from others. I blamed myself. And while it hurt when men blamed me, it was more painful when my female friends turned their backs on me.

Blame and shame were prevalent in the 1980’s. We all knew there were ‘rapists’ among us, but most women did not report anything to authorities, or even to their parents. We spoke in whispers to one another about people or fraternities we should avoid. Furthermore, students did not transfer schools in the 80’s as frequently as they do now. I never considered leaving the college even though ever day I stayed I was haunted by what transpired my freshman year.

I kept my stories tucked away in silence for most of my life. The shame that tormented me led me to believe if the details came out, people would view me as not being worthy of friendship or love. Sadly, the shame and victim-blaming continues in a very public way today. I am grateful I was able to suffer mostly in silence before the days of social media where people are outed and publicly humiliated.

Forgiveness

My story has one more chapter. Several years ago, ‘Mike’ contacted me. I felt a sense of terror when I first saw his message. I was afraid to read it, but when I did, I found something I did not expect: an apology. He was married with two children of his own. His daughter was now a teenager. Raising a daughter made him reflect on his own life and on his own actions. He told me he was sorry for what happened years ago and he took responsibility for the pain he caused me.

After reading his message several times, I fully and sincerely accepted his apology. His actions changed the trajectory of my life. I cannot forget what happened, but I am glad he reached out, showed remorse and acknowledged the pain he caused. For years, I wondered how he felt about what happened. I wondered if he had any idea how broken I was by the entire experience. While he will never fully what I have lived with over the years, at least I know he has thought about the consequences of his actions. He knew he had harmed me. He was brave in reaching out to me and I have forgiven him. I will never divulge his identity…unless I find out he has harmed other women.

What Makes Someone a ‘Good Guy’?

With all of that said, I have not forgiven the way my college and my peers treated me. I also can never forgive ‘John’ who grossly physically and emotionally violated me during one of the most vulnerable moments of my life.

John went on to get married, have kids and establish a seemingly successful career. I blamed myself for decades for having trusted him, for being stupid. Now I wonder if the people in his adult life consider him to be ‘a good guy’? IS he a good guy? How would his wife or children feel about his actions back in the mid 1980’s?

How do we define whether someone is, in fact, a good person? Do we judge people by what they do today? Do we judge them by what they did decades ago? It appears that we, as a society, are still wrestling with these issues: who gets a ‘pass’ and who does not.

Speaking Truth

The blaming, the shaming, and the feelings of being violated have never disappeared. Violence, violation and dehumanization repeatedly traumatized me during those formative college years. The institutional failure to protect me deprived me of a sense of safety and autonomy as a young woman. It also negatively impacted my education.  It is hard to focus on being a student when you have PTSD and feel unsafe in your daily life.

We all want to believe we live in a world of law and order. We have a legal system that is supposed to dole out justice. So many women, including myself, have been further victimized by the institutions that are supposed to protect them.

Every woman, every girl, deserves to feel valued as a human being. When I hear ‘we have to protect this young man’s future’ or ‘it was so long ago that it is irrelevant now’, I am consumed by the heartache of my own knowledge of how a man’s life was valued over my own. In the 1980’s, I was aware on some level that I mattered less than a male student athlete. I had faith in the system for a very long. Now in 2018, I wonder how it is possible that the most powerful institutions in our country are still making decisions about women’s lives, bodies, equality and sexual autonomy in such an openly paternalistic, dismissive, and degrading manner.  If not now, when, exactly will women matter?

Recently a student from my alma mater called me to ask if I would make a donation to the college. For the first time ever, I said out loud, “I will never give money to this institution. I was assaulted and stalked, and though the administration knew, they did nothing to protect me. They determined that one male athlete’s future was more important than mine.” I said it politely, without emotion. I hung up the phone and felt relief because, finally, had I spoken the truth.

back on pancake rocks

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Running, Not Running & why I cringe over #NoExcuses

Dear runners and fitness enthusiasts:

I am happy for you that you were able to set and finish goals. I enjoy seeing your ecstatic finish line photos. I even enjoy seeing the pictures of the fabulous places you have trained. But I am begging you to please stop shaming people for not being as physically or emotionally able as you currently appear to be. For the love of God, please stop with the #noexcuses and #nolimits crap. It is damaging and harmful and unfair in ways you may not have ever considered.

Running Saved My Life, but I am no Badass

The last two years (really five, but particularly these last two) have been very rough. In 2016, I ran Run Rabbit Run 100. Despite injury, I finished the race hours under the official cutoff time. Oh, the year before that, I ran the Bryce 100 (second female-2015). In 2013, I ran the Vermont 100 (10th female). I was sidetracked from November 2013 until June 2014 for pancreatic cancer surgery and treatment. Through all of the cancer treatment stuff, I kept running. I even ran and finished a 25k with my husband. I was not fast, but I pushed myself so hard I thought I might pass out. In the fall of that year, just 3.5 months after finishing chemo, I finished the Bear Chase 50 mile race.

I was never a badass. Running was never about impressing others. I ran because it was what was in my soul. Running was what connected me to myself. More than once running helped lift me out of a significant depression. I have said many times, “Running has saved my life, both physically and emotionally.” I chased ‘the high’ because it was the natural way of keeping me out of the darkest depths of the lows.

#chronicpain #running

Taking a moment to enjoy the beauty of the wilderness with Willy

The Reality I Cannot Fully Face

After 21+ years as a runner, unless something changes dramatically and quickly, it may all be coming to an end. I am fighting it, but I am on my way to becoming an ex-runner. Psychologically, I am not quite there yet. I keep hoping I will not have to officially hang it up.

When I find myself looking at race photos or reading a friend’s race report, I often catch myself thinking, “I could totally do that ultra!” I get momentarily excited and then I remember where I am physically. Currently I am lucky if I can string together two flat miles of ‘jogging’ once or twice per week. Some days I am able to walk/jog a bit around the neighborhood. When I go to the mountains, I am now more of a hiker with MAYBE a tiny bit of running thrown in here or there. It is in no way related to a lack of trying, grit, or determination.

None of this has happened by choice. I am not making ‘excuses’. I spent 2016 recovering from injury and then had hip labrum repair surgery in 2017. The surgery went well. I rehabbed just as I was told to do. I started running again. I even hiked/ran in the mountains and was thinking I was totally on the way to a full recovery.

A weird thing happened along the way, however. Just prior to the surgery, I was sick for months. I had fevers and a severe cough that would not go away. I had many days where I could walk my dogs around the neighborhood for a mile or two but then I had to go home and go back to bed.

Following my surgery, other problems cropped up. I could not sleep. I was diagnosed with a neurologically-based sleep disorder. I had no energy. I became dizzy and uncoordinated. I took several bad falls.

 

I even fell on the sidewalk in the neighborhood, breaking my wrist. My occasional migraines turned into an every day occurrence.  I experienced excruciating Occipital Neuralgia.

Pain consumed my body. I had a minor foot injury that became disabling. Then the neck and shoulder pain started. I have pain on the ischial tuberosity on the ‘good’ side of my pelvis. There is wrist pain from the wrist break that will not heal. I have spent a great deal of time and money over the last several months at neurologists and orthopedics doctors. I have a sleep disorder, neurological problems which are not entirely clear and inflammatory arthritis. I am still in the process of trying to get some of this all figured out. But I live with physical pain every single day.

Ex-Runner

I am grieving with the loss of my ability to run even very short distances consistently.  Running was never about the glory of a race. It was certainly not about winning anything, because if it was, I would have thrown in the towel long ago. I never needed pats on the back or kudos from anyone. I did it because I needed it. I needed running to make me feel alive and to keep myself from diving into the depths of depression. Running was the part of me which made me believe in myself. I learned I could do things I never thought possible when I laced up my shoes and hit the trails.

#Chronicpain #hiking

Summiting Mountains with Willy

For 21-plus years I ran through everything. I ran through pregnancy. I got up at the crack of dawn to run when my kids were babies. I pushed baby joggers for 10+ miles at times. I spent months on end running indoors, bored out of my mind, on a treadmill when that was my only option. I ran with migraines. I ran through cancer and chemotherapy. I ran through divorce and the aftermath of losing and regaining my sense of self. When I met Steve and we started dating, we fell in love as we ran together.

For most of my running life, I ran every single day, rain or shine, whether I felt wonderful or whether I felt like death. I did not make excuses. I pushed myself outside, figuring if I did not feel better after 20 minutes, I could pack it in and go home. But, no matter how badly things were going, I made an attempt to at least start because I knew that often whatever ailed me would disappear after I started.

Then constant, intractable pain entered my life.

Pain changes everything. It changes who you are as a person and how you interact with the world around you. It changes how you see and think about yourself. Intense, long-term chronic pain forces you to alter your life in ways that you never could have previously imagined. Chronic pain literally changes the wiring in your brain. The effects of chronic pain should never be underestimated or dismissed.

#Noexcuses Philosophy does Harm

Since I was always the person who thought I could just mentally tough out anything and work through it, I thought I could just tough my out of my current physical issues. I looked at social media posts of other runners and the #noexcuses or #nolimits people and wondered if I had gotten soft or weak. I thought if I just got out and did it, my pain would fade away and I would be back doing ultras in no time.

I quickly learned I was doing more harm than good to my body. I have never thought of myself as weak or wimpy or a whiner. But the fact that I could not mentally force myself to do things that were now excruciatingly painful sent me even further into an emotional and mental tailspin. I thought I was weak and a failure. If everybody else can get out there and do this, why can’t I?

Sadly, I had to repeat this cycle in my head several times. In fact, I am pretty sure I am STILL somewhat stuck in this cycle.

Heizer with Willy

Shame, Isolation and Loneliness

I cannot meet with my running friends most days. I get very stressed when I make plans because I never know how I will feel when I wake up in the morning. Some days I could probably go for a short jog, but other days, I will struggle to make it 1.5 miles around my neighborhood just so my dog can go to the bathroom.

I warn people, “I am really, really slow” and even though they say that is OK, I watch them disappear up the trail ahead of me. So I rarely meet anyone anymore. It’s too hard for me and I hate holding people back. The irony in all of this is that even when I was young and relatively fast, I ALWAYS went the pace of the slowest person I was with. ALWAYS. I never left anyone behind and I am really glad that I was instinctively that person. #NoRegrets on that one.

I have isolated myself. I miss hitting the trails with people I love but I cannot trust my body to do what it once did. It’s embarrassing and difficult on every level, but I know I have to just do what I can right now. Some days it might be a 12 mile hike. Some days it is a short walk with my dogs. But it is simply too stressful to try to keep up with people who are faster when I simply am unable to go their pace. And, really, I have found all of this too difficult to explain to people. I am not really sure what to say or how to explain things because I do not fully understand it all myself.

I would love to find an alternative activity that could help me chase the endurance high and feel better about myself. However, swimming and rock climbing are out. Biking is out….I am not sure what could be ‘in’. Nevertheless, I am still tough. I am getting out and doing something, no matter how small, every day. I would love nothing more than to be able to get out and run long, but I do not yet know if that will be a possibility ever again.

Tonia Willly Rosa

Celebrate Yourself while having Empathy for Others

So, dear runners, please know how happy I am for you as I watch your successes and your joy. I used to BE you. I used to be a runner who relished running in the mountains for 6, 10, 12 or even 31 hours and several minutes. It was amazing. I have so many wonderful and fabulous memories from all of the good times and I truly love seeing your happiness.

But, please understand that at some point your body may fail, too.  It could end in an instant or it could be slow decline from injury, illness, aging or all three. The #noexcuses line discounts the very real experiences of so many people. Maybe someone would like to train for a 100 but their job and family circumstances leave them with very little time and energy at the moment. Those aren’t excuses. Those are priorities. Maybe the time will be right at some point for those people, but maybe it won’t ever happen. That’s perfectly OK. I have never looked at people who prioritize other things over running ultras or exercising at the gym as failures, wimps or lacking in discipline or whatever.

Or consider this…maybe someone does not zero body fat and amazing abs because they are sick or pregnant. Or maybe that person is recovering from an eating disorder and they have finally started allowing themselves to enjoy food again. In my opinion, being able to find balance with food is healthier than living with a lifelong obsession over ever morsel that goes into your mouth (speaking as someone who lived with an eating disorder for years).

My concern for and dislike of the #noexcuses mentality is that it is full of judgement without understanding all of the facts or without extending empathy to others. It pushes people to do things they might not be ready for physically or emotionally (I cant tell you how many, “I just finished a 5k and am signing up for a 100 miler” posts I have seen on FB.)  #Noexcuses preys upon people’s insecurities. The message is “I am a badass and you are a weak person with no self-control”. We need to redefine what ‘success’ and ‘badass’ mean.

What does success look like? Maybe it is the guy who quit smoking and just walked a 5k. Maybe it is the woman who has been starving herself for 25 years but has now put on three pounds and stopped weighing herself multiple times per day. Maybe it is the exhausted parent of young children out pushing the double stroller while walking the dog. Maybe it is the person who has always been extremely hard on herself finally giving in to the need to allow herself time to rest and recover and eat a donut.

While I miss the long training runs and the reward of being able to run ultras after months and months of training, that is not the most difficult part in this journey. The hardest thing in the world is thinking I may not be able to get out to see the beautiful wilderness at all at some point. For now, my wish would be to simply hike five miles without pain.

So maybe, eventually, success can be found in the ex-ultrarunner who is very sad at losing her running identity and her place in the running community but who is doing her absolute best every single day to keep moving forward ever so slowly. Hopefully she can accept herself as she is some day, though I doubt the sense of loss and longing will ever be completely gone.

 

#chronicpain

A little jog during a lot of walking in the hills of Colorado

I had to Fake It

Have you ever found yourself in a position where you had to fake it? A couple of months ago, the circumstances were a little awkward, but I really felt backed into a corner. I had no choice. I had to smile. I had to pretend.

It was December, 2017. I knew going in to my oncology appointment that all would be fine as far as my cancer was concerned. I was unafraid.

My oncologist said, “Hey! Great news! You are four years cancer-free!” He was smiling. My husband was smiling. I felt nothing. A couple of awkward seconds passed and I realized I needed to DO SOMETHING. So, I smiled,nodded my head and said, “Yeah, that’s great! Awesome! Thanks so much!”

Four Years is Awesome! Can I Please have Four Easy Years Now?

Four years is pretty damned amazing, especially for pancreatic cancer. I know so many other people have been denied the opportunity to experience four years after a cancer diagnosis. I am not ungrateful. I know exactly what pancreatic cancer means for most patients. I knew what it meant when I was diagnosed with it.

I mean, how could I NOT fake feeling ecstatic? That would be horrible. That would make ME horrible. I felt guilty and ashamed for not genuinely wanting to do cartwheels up and down the hall. I knew the people in the full waiting room were not likely getting good news. Yet, I had a very long list of other things which were weighing heavily on my mind. It is a little bit of one of those post-cancer bullshit realities: even when you face cancer, other hard things continue to come at you.

pancreatic cancer

Four years cancer free. Smiling because that’s what I am supposed to do.

When I was diagnosed in 2013, cancer was not on my ‘worry radar’ at all. I really did not think about it. I never was angry about having cancer because I do not think I ever fully moved beyond being stunned by my diagnosis.

Like many young(ish) people who have never been ill, I thought I would have cancer, get treatment and I would either die from it or I would go back to living life as it had always been. I am grateful the first option did not happen. I was surprised when B also did not happen.

Cancer comes along and creates upheaval for everyone in its orbit. It impacts the things you see as well as those things beneath the surface which have yet to make an appearance.

Earthquake, Aftershocks and Tsunami

For many survivors, cancer is the 8.9-on-the-Richter-scale earthquake which comes out of nowhere. After a period of terrifying rumbling and shaking, you and your loved ones are left huddled together (if you are lucky) in the rubble, tasked with rebuilding something which will hopefully make you feel safe and protected again. You take the pieces, patch them back together as best as you can, but there is no longer any illusion of real safety.

You know another earthquake could roll through at any time, and you know your structure is probably not strong enough to withstand more destruction and trauma. In fact, waves of aftershocks keep occurring and no matter how well you feel you have braced yourself, the shaking chips away endlessly at your foundation.

All you can do is hang on to one another and hope for the best.

Four years of survival. It sounds glorious, and in many ways it has been; however, it has also been four years of aftershocks and tsunamis. I am still here, but I feel like I have been shaken and nearly drown.

The first aftershock came in the form of a scare two years ago. The scare was a large lymph node in the celiac plexus area. I went in for a biopsy, knowing that if my cancer was back it would be extremely difficult to fight. The celiac plexus is a difficult area to reach and it is surrounded by major blood vessels. So, it is hard to remove anything there and with the blood vessels in the area, it is easy for the cancer to travel to remote parts of the body.

It was terrifying, obviously to go through a couple of months not knowing if the cancer was back. One of the hardest parts for me was not being 100% transparent with my kids about the situation. Steve and I knew we were terrified, and I did not want to shake my children’s’ foundation unnecessarily. We would tell them what we knew when we knew it. Ultimately we did not know for sure until after the biopsy and more CT scans.

There were other things that happened during that time, and I found myself sinking into a deep, dark pit of depression. Ultrarunning was what kept me literally and figuratively moving forward. I spent the summer of 2016 training for the Run Rabbit Run 100. I put one foot in front of the other, day after day after day, trying to keep the panther from eating me alive. (You can read more about that Here)

As fate would have it, the race brought me the joy I needed, but a few months later I realized I had an injury I needed to address. I needed a delicate and possibly run-ending hip surgery. I had a hip labrum repair at the Steadman Clinic in Vail, CO under Dr. Phillippon. I had the right hip operated on March 30, 2017, just under a year ago. (Read more HERE)

My recovery was going extremely well until A)I hurt my shoulder swimming during rehab and B) my foot started to hurt. I had some foot pain off and on prior to RRR 100, but it was never enough to stop me. As soon as I started running again and adding hills into my training program, my foot started hurting. It hurt so badly I walked with a limp.

EVERY SINGLE DAY I woke up and told myself, my husband, my friends, “Today is the day! I am going to get out there, have a great run and turn this around!” I did not want this foot injury to sink me mentally after everything else I had been through.

After months of positive self-talk which did nothing to help me, I wondered if I was doing it wrong. Or if I was delusional…or just plain old stupid.

Tonia Willy Williams Canyon

For the last six months, I have tried different things to fix my foot, as I have slowly watched my identity of being a runner disappear over the horizon. I would not care so much if I could hike or do anything without being pain. But that is not where things are for me right now.

Dear God, NOW What?

In the meantime, I have been diagnosed with two other significant health issues, one being an issue I caught on my cancer CT scan report and brought to my doctor.  (People, always read your reports and ask your doctors what stuff means. If you do not get good explanations, go somewhere else!) There is another issue I am still trying to figure out.

In addition, a very dear. very much-loved family member is also having significant health issues. It kills me to be far away because I cannot hug him during his own aftershocks. And, of course, I can never forget the impact my cancer had on my children.

Who am I and Why am I Here?

The constant stress of the last four years have indeed triggered a chain reaction of problems.

I MISS the old me. I miss being a person who took for granted the fact that I would live to be 90 or older. I miss my strong, uncut body. I miss the body which rebounded from illness and injury quickly. I miss not being in pain.

I miss the unquestioning faith I had in my physical abilities. I miss the belief I once had in myself that ‘anything was possible’.

Tonia Smith Pancreatic Cancer

Tonia & Steve

I miss having a body that was imperfect but dependable. I miss taking for granted there would be more running and more races for years to come. I miss believing with every fiber of my being that I could conquer every mountain and finish every 100.

And I miss how running protected my mental health and emotions. I miss knowing I could go spend a couple of hours in the mountains and come back better for it.

Maybe it will all come back. I have not give up all hope, though there have been some extremely difficult days. I keep thinking that after battling cancer, life should guarantee you a couple of relatively easy years, but it does not. For now, I will just hold my loved ones in the rubble and hope we can all keep hanging on. And I hope at my five-year appointment, I no longer need to fake it.

Tonia Smith cancer

With my Aussie, Willy, a couple of months ago.

EEG

The 100 Mile Race: Is there a Gender Bias?

Lotteries for two of the most sought after 100 mile races were both this weekend (in case you know nothing about 100 mile races, those would be the Western States 100 and the Hardrock 100). I was not going to write anything about this topic, but up in my FB memories today came posts from years past about not getting into either race via their lottery systems. Furthermore, my Facebook feed is blowing up with articles/blog posts/ commentary about how we make the system more “equal” for women.

The issue, as I see it, is that we are talking about two entirely differently subjects.

  1. Are the number of women drawn via these lotteries in proportion to the number of  female entries?
  2. How do we make the number of entries more equal, as in 50-50? Currently, most statistics show the finishers of 100 mile races are approximately 20% female.

Lotteries

Let me start by saying, no lottery system is ever going to be perfect. So, this is not a critique of the lottery system, but rather a look at how these lotteries promote or do not promote fairness among male and female applicants.

Western States and Hardrock are extremely popular races for different reasons. If you are a road runner, think ‘the Boston Marathon of 100 mile trail races’. It has a storied history and attracts top talent in the ultrarunning world. Hardrock has a reputation for being incredibly difficult. It has a 48 hour time cutoff. Think brutally long, difficult climbs/descents in the unforgiving but beautiful San Juan Mountains of Colorado. If you can hang in there long enough, you can witness some of the most beautiful land in the world.

These two race lottery systems differ quite a bit. Western States gives out a certain number of automatic entries (past top ten male and female finishers) in addition to a number of golden tickets via sponsors, etc. So, for many elite runners, Western States may be able to provide a way in, bypassing the lottery system.

Hardrock, on the other hand, divides everyone into three lotteries. 45 spots go to the ‘Never Started’ category (for people who have never started the race for any reason). 33 spots go to the Veterans (those who have FINISHED five or more Hardrocks). 67 spots are allocated for ‘Everyone Else’. This could be people who have DNF’d previously at HR, for example.

But wait, there’s more…you have to qualify for both races (which is good, IMO). Once you qualify, the first time you enter the lotteries, you get one ticket which goes into the pool. If you don’t get in the first time, you have to requalify and then when you re=apply you get TWO tickets in the pool, and so on.

This is a gross oversimplification, but the bottom line is, you have a very low chance of getting into either race on your first try…think 2%. If you do not get in that first time, you have to go back and requalify at select races each year in order to get your name back in the hat. If you miss out on a year of running, say due to pregnancy, or in my case, injury and cancer, you have to start all over again with one ticket.

So let’s go back to the two issues at hand.

Are the number of women at these popular hundred mile races proportional to the number of women who apply?

Let’s look at Blake Wood’s statistics from this year’s Hardrock.

gender ultramarathons Hardrock

Here are the number of applications, by catagory, broken down by gender, for the Hardrock 100.

 

First it must be noted that the Hardrock system is kind to veterans. This is not a judgement. It is simply a statement. Women made up 17.3% of the total applicants, but they came in at a hair under 9% of total acceptances into the race. You can see how this is broken down by category.  In total, 13 women were accepted via the lottery system for this race. In my opinion, ensuring the acceptances mirror the actual application rates would create a more equitable system for women who qualify, but that, again, is up to the race director and board to decide.

For Western States, I do not have a complete breakdown on the entry statistics, but my quick calculation of those selected via golden tickets and lottery show the entries to be approximately 17% female. 105 of the 369 spots were automatic entries, meaning NOT distributed via the lottery.  What was the gender breakdown of lottery entrants? Was it close to that 17% we see on the entrant list? Since I do not have gender breakdown of the applicants, it is impossible to say if there is a proportional number of females to males in this case.

I do not believe any female runners think it is their ‘right’ to take spots away from male runners. However, I do think women would like to have proportional representation at these races. Right now, if you are a 5+ year male or female veteran at Hardrock, the system works in your favor. In addition, at Western States, if you are an elite runner, either one who has come in top ten before, or one with connections for a Golden Ticket, the system seems to have ways to help top females find their way in.

Of course, for elite runners who are seeking money, either in the form of prize money or sponsorships, this issue comes to down to wanting to have the same opportunity to put food on  your table as the elite males. Of course, parity is important to these elites. But it is also important to women who simply want the opportunity to test themselves at these big, competitive events. The bottom line is, I think races that do entry via lottery should work hard to make sure women are represented in proportion to the rate at which they apply.

Now, on to topic two: ‘Why are the genders not represented 50-50 at 100 mile races?

Really? Do we even have to have a discussion about this? Is it because our uteruses will fall out? Hmmm…no, that’s not it. Is it because our breasts are too heavy and we keep falling over when we try to run downhill? (Well, maybe, in some cases). Is is because we keep getting lost in the woods because we are more into touchy, feely things rather than map reading?

It really should not be a mystery to anyone but MOST women are still working double duty. We have jobs AND do the majority of child care, house cleaning, cooking and emotional labor at home. Please don’t tell me ‘oh but this one elite runner ran 100 miles and nursed her baby along the way’. Yes, yes, I have read her story and I was nursing babies at marathon finish lines long before most people reading this probably laced up their shoes for the first time. Certainly there are people who can make it happen, but MOST women are just trying to make it through each fucking day without keeling over from mental and physical exhaustion.

Many women just do not have the time available or the physical or emotional energy to train for 100s. When my children were young, I could find time to train for a marathon. I could justify giving myself four hours alone each week, but I 1)did not have time to run more and 2) did not have the money to pay enough babysitters to train for a 100. This is not whining or complaining. It is simply the truth. I was ‘lucky’ that I could run marathons. Many women I know did not have time even for that. There is a reason why the most popular race distance for women is the half-marathon. You can run for 30-90 minutes a few days per week and be home, showered and ready to tackle the day by 7 am.

There are also reasons why most of the women I know who run 100s either a) do not have children b) do not work fulltime outside of the home if they DO have children or c) have children who are grown.

Yes, it can be done, but it depends upon many variables, including having a nonrunning spouse or the ability to pay for childcare so you can fit in running together. Because women do the majority of emotional lifting at home, too, we often feel that we are not entitled to take the time from our families to train. It is a multifaceted issue, for sure, and I am not blaming men, per se. Women carry the babies, women nurse the babies. Our bodies make things different for us. The division of labor at home, both physical and emotional, has evolved over time. Certainly men are doing more than ever, but it is not 50-50 for most couples yet.

Whether right or wrong, women are judged by their ability to mother, keep house, work and do many other things. I have known tons of men who have run numerous 100s, taking time from their families to train and race, and no one judges them. They don’t seem to think it makes them a worse parent. Women who are not available to their families ARE judged, by themselves, by other women and by society at large.

Many women still do not have access to quality, inexpensive day care just so they can work full-time while they raise their children.  Running 100s is pretty far down on the list of priorities for most women. Throw in safety concerns many women have about running alone and it is no wonder women do not make up 50% of 100 mile race fields.

Until women and men carry equal loads at work and at home, and until women feel safe out in the world alone, I do not expect there to be equal numbers represented at longer ultras. These are the real issues women face when it comes to running 100s.

I wanted to run a 100 since I started running at the age of 28. I wanted to push my boundaries. I like doing things that scare other people. I like doing things that not many other women do. It’s exciting and enjoy being an outlier. I did not have the time to train until I was 44. I waited not for the time to be perfect, but until it was manageable.

In 2013, at the age of 44, I finished as tenth female at the Vermont 100. For those who do not know my story, I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a couple of months after finishing Vermont. I took the year off from racing to undergo major, radical abdominal surgery followed by six months of chemotherapy. I ran the Bear Chase 50 mile race 3 months after finishing chemotherapy. I came in second at the Bryce 100 just shy of one year from finishing treatments. In 2016, I finished Run Rabbit Run 100. I had a torn labrum repaired in March 2017.

I don’t know what the future of running 100s is for me, but as I approach 49, menopause and all of the changes that brings with it, I know the clock is ticking. Maybe I have another 100 or two in my body, but maybe I do not. Either way, I do not have time to play the lottery game at this stage in my life. I made that decision last year, and while I was sad not to be playing lottery roulette this past weekend, there are lots of beautiful races out there. While I have would have loved to run WS or HR, I’ve overcome a metric shit ton of stuff just to finish a 100. If I have it in me physically to train for another 100, I will choose a different, beautiful race that wants me there, grey hair, wrinkles and all.

women 100 mile

With my super supportive husband who has crewed and paced me at all three hundreds I have finished.

 

 

 

 

We Were So Happy

“We were so happy,” she said as I hugged her and felt her tears fall on my shoulder.

It is a moment and a feeling I will carry with me for the rest of my life.

There are plenty of things I know nothing about, but one thing I know is love. Whenever I saw this couple together, I knew one thing: they were in love. I was not part of their ‘inner circle’ but we spent enough time together that I just knew. I could see it and I could feel it in the space they occupied together. There was an ease to the relationship between them and a mutual admiration that was refreshing. Their love was the real deal.

It was a second marriage for both, and as I know quite well myself, second marriages come along with a lot of complicated history. I do not presume to know anything about their relationship beyond what I, and others, could clearly see. All I can say is they shared similar interests and passions, and if I saw one, I was sure to see the other. Always together. Always smiling.

He passed away suddenly and unexpectedly, in his 40s.

All I could offer was, “He loved you so much.”  She confirmed what I knew, “We were so happy.” While I know she wanted to try to be strong and focus on how fortunate they were to have each other, that was something I could not bear.

“It’s not fucking fair,” I told her. Words I never allowed myself to think about my own plight as I faced pancreatic cancer….except when I thought about my own marriage. My second marriage. The one I came to later in life. The one I brought my broken self and my own baggage to. The one I felt loved in and cared for every day. When I found out I had pancreatic cancer and did not dare to think I might survive it, I thought about our love and thought, “It isn’t fair. We haven’t had enough time together!”

How many people can truthfully say about their ownn marriages, ‘We are so happy!’?

Many times over the 15.5 years Stephen and I have been together, I have thought, “I hope I die before my husband does, because I don’t know how I would ever make it through life without him by my side.” I did not know if long-term happiness in a marriage was even possible when we got together, but all of these years later, I know it is. I am still crazy about my husband.

Over the years, I have also frequently spent time feeling guilty about my divorce. I have analyzed what I contributed to the failure of my first marriage many times since we officially split. I have felt badly about our daughter not getting to grow up with both biological parents in the same house. While my second marriage has been a blessing, I have spent too much time anazlying my own ‘failures’ as a human being.

Stephen and I have faced a lot of hardship together. We have faced things together which would have torn many couples apart. But, yes, we are still happy together. We are happy in a different way from when we first met years ago, of course, but we still choose to spend our time together. We still make each other laugh. We still have the intimacy of a couple ‘in love’.

The one ‘gift’ of my divorce was that it allowed me to look critically at my own shortcomings as a human being and figure out how I could be a better partner the second time around. I express my needs clearly. If there is a problem or an issue, I will not allow it to fester. I probably drive my husband nuts at times, but I don’t want to waste time being angry at each other. We resolve problems quickly or just decide maybe the ‘problem’ isn’t worth spending energy on. Move on. Let the anger go.

While divorce is painful and difficult for all involved, I learned something from mine which, I hope, makes me a better person and a better spouse today.

Are you happy?

Life is hard. There are times when the world is going to hand you a lot of really challenging stuff you have to face. You may not always love your job, but you should always love your partner. Home should be the place where you are loved and cared for no matter what else is going on in the cruel, harsh world.

If you aren’t happy in your relationship, why not? Do you feel valued and respected? Do you make your spouse feel valued and respected? What can you BOTH do to improve your relationship? Is it fixable? Or is there too much anger for either of you to move beyond? Maybe what you wanted at 20 is just not what you realize you need at 40 or 50?

Either figure out a way to fix things or move on.

Before anyone accuses me of being cavalier about marriage, I assure you I am not. However, there is a point where everyone involved is losing, including the kids. I have witnessed many people going through the motions in their own marriages. I have also seen people stick it out even though it is clear everyone involved is miserable.

And I have seen a whole lot of happiness the second time around.

If I die tomorrow, I hope my husband tells everyone ‘We were so happy’. And I hope he tells people he was happy because I made him laugh, and took him on crazy adventures, and made him feel loved and sexy, and teased him about how obsessed he was with getting the garbage out on time, but that’s because I knew that was part of how he showed our family love…and I sincerely appreciated it.

And I know for the last few days, I have thought often about this couple who was so happy and I have cried and thought a million times about how my heart aches for her. I know many, many people will miss her husband, but none as much as she will. I hope everyone who knows her allows to her to be sad, and angry, and to say it isn’t fucking fair, because it isn’t. I hope she feels free to cry, scream, stomp her feet, break things or do whatever she needs to do to get through each day.

Because in a world where there is so much unhappiness, I cannot make any sense of why a couple who was so happy together has been denied the many more years of joy they should have had ahead of them. They were in love. They were happy. They made each other better people that second time around, because that’s what love does. It makes you better together.

Celebrate love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Six Months Post Op Goal: Rosa & Ohio Mike

Six months ago, I had surgery to repair a rather large tear my right labrum caused by cam and pincer impingement. I am not going to recount all of the details of the past six months because you can scroll through previous entries of my blog for that information.  Suffice it to say it has been a long recovery requiring a great deal of humor, patience, humor, help, humor, cake, love and more humor. In addition, I spent a lot of time swimming (hated it and hurt my shoulder), walking, hiking, riding my bike in front of documentaries on Netflix, doing my PT exercises, stairmilling, ellipticating and eventually working my way back to running.

Being a goal-oriented person, I soon needed to set a personal goal, a milestone I could attempt to achieve following my surgery. I did not want to sign up for a race because I knew I was not physically or mentally ready. I thought about it a few times, but I knew it was just a bad idea. After hip surgery is not the time to get caught up in race fever or any short-term goals. I needed to think of something challenging but attainable. Something that would not hurt my long-term success or health.

The Goal: Mount Rosa

I looked up at the mountains on our Colorado Front Range and decided I wanted to hike Mt. Rosa by my six-month surgical anniversary. Rosa is a peak that stands 11,500 feet tall and is the third tallest peak in our area. It is much less well-known than our local 14,115 foot Pikes Peak, but I kind of like it that way. I have hiked and run the trails up and down Rosa a few times before, and I always think it is beautiful. Some of the trails are pretty darned steep, making for a reasonable challenge. The loop would be about 15-16 miles, I estimated, so that was a decent amount of mileage.

Mount Rosa

Steve on top of Mount Rosa in 2016. We were last there in 2016 while I was training for Run Rabbit Run 100.

Climbing Rosa was not a ‘stretch’ of a goal. Or at least, it shouldn’t have been as long as I was careful and respectful of my body while I recovered. Too much running or high intensity work could set me back, but if I stayed on track, it was certainly within reach.

All summer and into early fall, I concentrated on two things: keeping up a good rehab protocol and exploring the trails. I promised myself that since I wasn’t training for any particular race, I would take more time hiking in new areas. I did some trails which were new to me and really enjoyed it.

Tonia and Willy

With my faithful companion, Willy

It’s Been a Long Six Months

For the most part, I was good about mentally focusing on the immediate issue at hand, which was simply to do the best job of rehabbing my injury as possible. When I started having some new medical issues, I really missed being able to relieve my stress through 20 mile runs in the mountains. That was hard. Long runs have been my coping mechanism for years and I have struggled with some depression in the last couple of months.

Fall in Colorado

My favorite time of year in Colorado!

Would You like Another Crap Sandwich?

How do you cope when you life hands you a crap sandwich while you are already sitting on top of a pile of crap? Runners cope by running. Distance runners cope by running stupid distances. But, I couldn’t run ridiculous distances. I was tired, my body was beat up and I had other symptoms and things to be concerned about. I had to just sit on top of the pile of crap that was already there, while holding my crap sandwich, hoping dessert would maybe turn out to be more appealing. (I have to say that I am using crap metaphorically here. There is no actual crap involved in my current situation, and that’s about all I want to say about it for now).

While I always thought Rosa was possible, I had about a month of physical issues which really made me doubt it was ever going to be within the realm of possibilities. There was one day we started going up a trail where I thought I was going to have to go back down and have Steve take me to the hospital. Another day we went up to 11,000 feet and the altitude kicked my butt. Moving slowly, sweating profusely and breathing hard, I doubted I could make it up the additional 500 foot climb to the top. As we descended the trail, I fell on my face, hard.  Steve was horrified, but I was just happy my hip seemed to be OK.

Still, I persevered. We chose a date where Steve and I could summit and where the weather looked like it would cooperate. It was going to be special! It was going to be a date! Just the two of us achieving my goal together.

Enter Ohio Mike.

We saw Mike getting dropped off in the parking lot as we set out on our path to Rosa. His mom and brother were in the car. Mike was already started off down Gold Camp Road as we gathered our stuff and headed out behind him. Mom rolled down the window and asked if her son would be safe out there alone. They were here from Ohio. Mike wanted to go on these unfamiliar trails and Mom was worried. I reassured her the trails were safe, but being a mom myself, I understood her worry. I told her we would probably see him on the trails and we would look out for him.

Steve and I started running up Gold Camp Road and there was Mike. I stopped and asked where he was headed. He told me Mt. Rosa and I said he we were also doing Rosa. Ohio Mike was going to do an out-and-back, but we told him we were doing it as a loop. I knew this was supposed to be a ‘special date’ with my husband. I knew Steve wanted it to be just us out alone for the day. But…Mike…and Mike’s worried mom. I couldn’t just pass by and leave. We spent the next seven hours showing Ohio Mike the beauty of our local trail and mountains.

Ohio mike scenic spot

The day started off for Steve and me as a way to celebrate the first six months of my physical recovery, but it turned into something else. I love our local trails. It brings me great joy to share Colorado’s beauty with people new to the area or just new to a particular trail. In fact, Steve calls me the Tour Guide. But I have gained so much happiness out on those trails and I want to share it with others.

I told Ohio Mike to text his mom that he was with company when he had a phone signal, because I did not want Mom worrying about him being eaten by bears. Soon I found myself sending Ohio Mike off onto some of my favorite photo spots so I could take his picture. I took pictures as he hit 9,000 for the first time in his life. And 10,000, and 11,000 and, of course, on the summit of Rosa.

Mike summit

And it wasn’t just me playing tour guide. I saw Steve call Ohio Mike over to scenic overlooks to point things out to him. I knew Steve had been looking forward to our time together, but when I saw him standing there pointing stuff out to this stranger we picked up along the trail, my heart got all squishy and I loved my husband even more.

Tonia Mount Rosa

Tonia, Steve & Ohio Mike at 11,000 feet.

Mike was quiet, but he kept up with us admirably well. He never complained. He was all smiles, even when I knew he was feeling the elevation. He was very well-prepared but he was carrying a very large pack with a lot of ‘stuff’, not traveling lightly as we were. He was being smart and cautious and I admire that, but I know it had to make climbing that much more difficult.

We stopped on top of the mountain for some photos and snacks. I told him this was my six month post hip surgery celebration. I gave Steve a hug and a kiss for always being my biggest cheerleader.

We came back down the mountain, enjoying the beautiful fall day and safely returned Ohio Mike to his family. On the way home, I thought, ‘Well, OK, I guess I checked off my goal’. But I didn’t really care. All that mattered was the sense of joy I felt from having shown Ohio Mike some trails and helping him celebrate a new experience. Sharing that happiness was what made the day special.

Mt Rosa

Ohio Mike with his tour guides

Ohio Mike would have made it to the top of the mountain, I am sure. But he wouldn’t have seen the cabin remains we showed him. He wouldn’t have seen the bridges we went over. He would’t have learned the names of some of the other mountains. And I would have missed out on the chance to tell the other hikers we passed about how ‘Mike is from Ohio and he is climbing Rosa!’ And everyone we saw was impressed, because dammit, that IS impressive.

Just thinking about it still makes me happy. Goals are wonderful and it feels good to reach goals, but not this time. Of course, it did not feel BAD to achieve my goal. It just felt irrelevant. I could not have cared less about MY goal, but I did care about Ohio Mike’s goal. All that mattered was sharing the beauty of our mountains with him and celebrating his success. I am thankful our paths crossed and I got be there to see him summit and return safely to his family. Thank you, Ohio Mike, for giving perfect strangers the opportunity to share a day and a goal, to enjoy some conversation, but also some peace and to celebrate the beauty of our world.

Finally, I am so thankful for my husband who knows and understands my heart…And for Willy, who never knows what the hell we will get him into but always goes along happily.

Supermodel Willy

Willy the Supermodel on Mt. Rosa.

 

 

 

Sophomore Year: It’s not about the Boots

Last year when I moved my older daughter, Riley, into her college dorm room for the first time, my feelings were too painful and raw to voice, let alone write about for a public blog. Months later, I touched on the topic briefly, when time and distance had dulled the feelings enough to make sharing them tolerable.

I foolishly thought bringing her to college would be easier this year, but it was not. In August, we drove Riley back to college and helped her move into her first apartment. Moving her into a dorm for the first time last year felt BIG but moving her into her own apartment felt monumental. This is it. She has to pay bills and be an adult. She has a lease. She needs to prepare meals for herself and shop for herself and do all of the fun and not-so-fun things adults do every day.

Even though I knew she was capable of succeeding on her own as a Freshman last year, there were still plenty of unknowns. Would she enjoy school? Would she make friends? Would she and her roommate get along? Would she be lonely? Would she want to stay for four years?

Sophomore Year Drop Off

Returning for Sophomore year, in theory, seemed like a piece of cake. Yes, we had to move her into her apartment, but she had a successful year of college under her belt and she was planning to live with people of her own choosing this year. And yet I couldn’t shake my conflicted emotions. There is never, ever enough time.

Sophomore year college

Riley happy to be returning to college for her Sophomore year

We hugged and said our goodbyes at the end of the day. Steve, Peyton and I descended the four flights of stairs and piled back into our now-empty van for the return trip home. As I sat silently in the passenger seat, I grappled with the realization that this summer was probably the final time Riley would ever really live in our home under our roof. As scenes from her childhood flashed through my mind like a movie, I panicked and thought, “Oh my God…I wonder if she has an umbrella? And what about rain boots?”

SERIOUSLY?

What. The. Hell. I kid you not. I was in a panic thinking she might not have an umbrella and rain boots. I fought back against my urge to cry and beg Steve to turn back towards the apartment building. Where did THOSE seemingly random thoughts come from? Of all of the things I could think about, why did an umbrella and rain boots seem suddenly critically important? I did not give voice to my internal storm because I knew I would sound insane and irrational. I also knew it wasn’t about the boots.

What’s the Big Idea?

We spend our whole lives trying to prepare our kids to exist on their own. If we do a ‘good enough’ job, we hope they will absorb enough information to become fully functional adults.

I also spent a lot of time conversing with my kids about ‘big picture’ things: love, marriage, sex, friends, drugs, career, war, equality, religion, and pretty much any controversial or important topic we can think of. Rather than dictating beliefs, I hoped to instill ethics and values and give them room to be thinking individuals who could seek information and make decisions in life.

Sometimes It’s the Little Things

Still, I wondered….had I done a good enough job? I covered as many big life topics as I could, but did I do a good enough job with the details, the mundane aspects of life, too? During the drive home, I silently held onto my pain, wishing for a few short hours that I could go back and cover safety lessons and proper attire for a variety of weather conditions and so I could assuage the guilt I was feeling for maybe not having covered all of the important little lessons she would need to know in life.

What I really wish for is a chance to go back for just a few moments in time…to hold and nurse my baby again….to read another bedtime story…to hold her hand and play games and walk her into school. As scenes from her childhood rolled through my brain, I regretted the times I was distracted or tired or impatient.

If Only I Knew then What I Know Now

At one time it seemed we had all the time in the world, and now I see how quickly it has passed by. At 28, as a new mom, I wondered how my mom seemed to have all of the patience in the world with my screaming newborn baby. I was exhausted and it felt like it would be forever before my baby could do anything for herself. Riley growing up and leaving home was a possibility I never pondered at that point.

But now, at 48, I understand that patience very clearly. It is funny how the passage of time gives us an entirely new perspective and what seemed like an eternity before is now truly just a very brief and fleeting moment in our lives. Don’t we all wish our younger selves knew what we know now?

So now, my daughter is off successfully navigating life as an adult and I am happy for her and proud of her. Like all of us, she will make mistakes and will have regrets. I hope she feels loved and confident in herself as she moves forward, knowing she has a mom at home who is proud of her and who thinks she is amazing.

And if she has questions about relationships, love, career, children, religion, politics, social justice….or what kind of umbrella to buy…I am here, just a phone call or text message away.

Sophomore year 2017

Riley at the Oval with Peyton in the background. Go forth and do Epic Shit, my darling!