A little while ago Kath signed up for the ULTRA festival online. Over Friday 30th April -Sunday 2nd May the festival offered 12 talks and a couple of films to watch online. Honestly, I was only vaguely interested because, you know, ultra… not likely to happen any time soon or ever for me. We haven’t watched everything yet and we didn’t watch everything ‘live’ but I have really enjoyed it. The first thing we watched was the first session Ultra running 101 – Why it’s for everyone. Initially we were a little irritated because the chat seemed to miss the fact that it was supposed to be basics. However, we very quickly settled in and as the conversation went on it hit the brief more and more and felt welcoming and inclusive. It was a nice introductory talk to the festival and really confirmed that running an ultra is basically having picnic while running a stupidly long way.

Then we watched ‘Training for the Long Haul’ with James Elson and Robbie Britton which I really liked because it was so much about how much of what works is so individual. Kit is individual, training is individual, food is. So much of training is about figuring out what works for you. I really liked the way both of the speakers talked about being careful of people who say there is only one right way of running, training, fuelling… Lots of what they were saying made sense and made me think about whether I should think about my running in terms of time rather than distance. So the training plan I use is based on time for 2 runs during the week and then the ‘long run’ is based on distance. But as I was listening to them I wondered if maybe I’m actually doing it the wrong way round and so I might try doing my long run based on time and think about the other sessions a bit differently. I am quite happy to have a little experiment and see what that does to my running.I also chuckled when they referred to running easy as a difficult thing to do and that it’s fine to run 14/15 minute miles. If anyone is struggling to run that slow, I can help. Just come and run/walk with me. If I hit more than one 13 minute mile in a row I am having a speedy day.

Listening to Shane Ohly talk about his Bob Graham round was also really interesting. I liked his take on the many debates about how these rounds should be done and what counts as supported or unsupported etc. He seemed content to do his thing and leave others to debate whether what he did was proper. I liked that. It seems a good place to be mentally – your run so your rules, others can figure out what means for them. My favourite talk though was ‘A Chat Between Friends – Nicky Spinks and Damian Hall’ which came across as really just that, a chat between friends. The ethos of trail running generally as well as just having a thing for going very long came across really nicely. It’s not about going fast, it’s about pushing yourself in other ways and enjoying the outdoors as you do it. Some of it is just about being smart and organised and good at navigating and good at preparing so you can keep going effectively when you don’t really want to. The same came through in the film ‘Wrath’ which followed Damian Hall and Beth Pascall on their successful FKT attempt on the Cape Wrath Trail a couple of years ago – 230 miles across what looked like stunning but difficult terrain in a Scottish winter. It was inspiring to watch and made me think about what my next impossible thing to do could be.

We’ve watched the talk on Sustainability in running yesterday evening which was also really good but also a bit scary. There is so much waste and often we just don’t think about it anywhere near enough. There is so much more we can all do here and I think it will probably make us think about things more in the future. We definitely do not need any more race t-shirts! Again I liked the realism of this talk, and the focus on each of us doing what we can, making small local changes that together begin to make a real difference. It resonated with what I have often told my students: To change the world you take small steps, bit by bit, little by little and it might not feel like much but it all adds up to making the world a better place. We all need to do more and I will try be more conscious of that.

The final talk we watched last night was the talk on mental resilience. I don’t like the term resilience but I think that’s because resilience is an overused phrase in my world and is often used to blame people who struggle to cope with unsustainable and awful conditions and situations and actually the problem is not them. Resilience is not a long term solution. It therefore took a little while to settle into the talk. However, in the talk, resilience was used in a more positive sense rather than as a way to shift blame for structures that are impossible to thrive in. It was about how you get through those tough bits of running long and while some of it was ultra specific – you have more time to go to the dark places when you run long and the physical exertion is on a different level so a different sort of mental strength is needed, much of what was said is also relevant for shorter runs I think. I quite like reframing the inner dialogue from inner demons to inner angels as a concepts – not sure I’d use angels because angels are bit freaky. But having a conversation with my younger non-running self about how amazingly well I am doing compared to what that younger me would have thought possible is a different sort of inner dialogue than the other little voice reminding me that by all objective measures I am a terrible runner. Reframing or constructing yourself differently, changing the way you think about what you are doing and/or why I think might also be a powerful tool. Certainly something to work with.

I’m looking forward to catching up with the remaining few talks and the film Via Alpina over the next few days but mostly I am excited to get back to running. I feel like I may be ready to step back out there. I might never go that long but I love the ethos of ultra running and trail running generally. I like the focus on being outside and in nature, of running your way, figuring out what works for you, fuelling right for you, not being afraid to walk, stopping for photos, not focusing on speed per se but focusing on challenging yourself, on racing – sure, but racing yourself or the terrain or simply the distance, not necessarily other people. It’s all my sort of running and I will try and focus on the joy of being outside, the joy of moving and the #MyRunMyRules mindset as I re-start my running journey once again. So Thank you ULTRA festival and I think I might well be checking out the ULTRA magazine.

Was it really May when I last posted? I had 8 started posts in the draft folder – all now pointless and irrelevant and thus binned. But May? Really? Well that tells you something about my running year. It wasn’t really. I started tracking my mileage in 2017. I ran 500 miles. I had my best ever year the year after with 810 miles. I will finish 2021 on about 108 miles. A long long long way off the #run1000miles ambition. But never mind. I was going to review some running highlights and reflect on some of the crappy stuff but somehow running just hasn’t really featured much in 2021. I have mostly just not been running. When I think back I can’t remember the runs. 2021 was not a running year. It wasn’t a fitness year either. Although it was the year I started the Body Coach App and worked fairly diligently through the first few cycles before stalling completely. I have renewed simply because when I am in the habit of doing it I both enjoy it and feel the benefits.

So what has 2021 been in running terms? A reminder that I want to run. Having run so little over the year, having struggled to try and start again again again – and failing has put into perspective that running is actually so much part of my life now that the idea of not doing it at all is just nonsense to me. The year has also highlighted how much I learned from marathon running – something I wrote about at the beginning of the year. Anyway, I could artificially try and pull out some positive platitudes from my year in runs but that would be meaningless. It wasn’t a running year. It was just a year with quite a lot of crap, with some great opportunities – some taken, some not, some real achievements and a good bit of change thrown in. All year though I have been ‘getting back to running’ or as it turns out, not quite getting back to running.

2022 might not be any different. I might spend the year starting again and then starting again and then starting again. However, for no real reason I feel really positive about my 2022 running. That positivity is certainly not evidence based but it’s there nonetheless. I have had 4 outings over the last week. Short little runs like the just under 2 miles on Christmas Day and my 30 minute plods out this week. I am aiming for a new year 3 miles to complete Week 1 of Half Marathon training. Yep, half marathon training. I briefly considered whether I should just aim for a May 10km instead but at heart I’m a distance runner. I want to run over 10 miles consistently and regularly and signing up for a 10k rather than the half just seemed like an excuse. Anyway, the plan is to run and write more regularly; to get back to that magic spot where running and writing about it supported each other and both were just things I do. Hopefully therefore this blog will become more regular again and obviously to have something to write about I will actually have to run. I’ll update on plans as I go. For now I really just want to wish you a Happy New Year.

I hope 2021 was kind to you, that you and yours stayed safe and well and that Covid impacts were mild. I hope 2022 is everything you want it to be. I am hoping for a calmer year, with fewer big changes, for time to breathe and time to think, for the peace of mind to read for fun, for time outside, for experiencing the total joy of movement a good run can bring and for the sense of satisfaction a hard run finished brings. Have a giggle and cake filled New Year, stay safe!

I have been meaning to blog for the last couple of weeks but I’ve been busy with work and life and general stuff. I have also been running. Yes, I am actually really pleased with how things are going really. As long as I don’t compare myself to Dopey fit Jess or the Jess Jess thinks Jess should be now… right here in the moment, now, it’s going well. Today is actually an example of that. I ran/walked 5 miles without any kind of drama on my part. I just did it. I ran the one minute segments where they fell, including the hills. I chose a route that had some pulls in so I don’t get used to just running on the flat. Nothing major but not flat flat. I was more than 3 miles in before I even really started to think about the one minute runs. I had a couple of little ‘oh I could turn off here and the route would be flatter’ moments and after the 3 miles I had a couple of ‘eek, I’m going to have to run that slope’ thoughts. I was also thinking about how I was quite slow really… but overall I was just out there doing my thing without really thinking about it. Without really thinking about anything at all. And then, at roughly 3.5 miles I was reminded that the world is full of arseholes and thing spiralled from there. So let me be clear, compared to so many other women I have been incredibly lucky. I have actually had very few comments while out running, I have had no really scary incidents, just one or two slightly uncomfortable ones and most of the abuse shouted at me over the years is so predictable it’s actually just boring. I also haven’t had any such incidents for ages and ages. But today they all came at once.

The first was actually well meaning I think. Misguided but well intentioned. 2 women, probably in their 20s ran past me. They were going a bit faster than me but not that much and they told me to keep going, the weight will drop off in no time and it will get easier. I honestly think they thought they were being helpful. But here’s the thing, it’s not helpful. Commenting on someone’s weight is never helpful. Assuming that someone is running to lose weight (I’m not) is never helpful. The whole comment was so full of assumptions – that I want to lose weight (not my focus, might happen with increased fitness, might not), that I’m new to running (nope), that I want to get faster (would be lovely but this wasn’t a speed session, so not my focus today), that I am struggling (I wasn’t really, I was happily doing my run/walk thing), that it gets easier (ahem, hmmm, nope – different maybe but not easier. I just go further as I get fitter and of course there are the glorious runs where everything comes togethers… but easier? Nope). Anyway, that bounced along and out of sight and I carried on mildly irritated.

The second one was also, I hope, well intentioned but oh so very very misguided. A male runner, anywhere between 20 and 30 was coming from behind me and as he reached me fell in step with me. Men, please don’t do this. Men, please especially don’t do this when the news is full of reports that less than 2 weeks ago a woman was murdered while out running along a canal in broad daylight. It’s actually just really scary. This guy informed me he was a PT (my university teaching brain tried to work out why he would be telling me that he is a personal tutor) and that he could help me. Running, he mansplained, would come easier with weight loss. I just said ‘I don’t need help’. And yes I was wondering whether I would be strong enough to push him into the canal if this whole PT business was nonsense. But as I muttered ‘Fuck off’ under my breath and fell into my walk break, he went on his way. I heard the 4 mile beep and was so tempted to stop and call it close enough but as I hadn’t taken any crap from my own silly brain so far and had kept the doubts at bay I really didn’t see why I should be de-railed by people who just need to learn to shut the fuck up.

So I carried on past the canal bridge and towards a couple in their late teen/early twenties. I could see them giggling and sniggering from a little way off. As I got in earshot, she said ‘I’d be so embarrassed if I looked like that’ (or something like that). He replied with something equally vile (or worse) about how we wouldn’t be with her if she looked like that. As I got level he said I should run in the dark because nobody wants to see ‘that’. I’m not quite sure what ‘that’ is and his hand gestures were unclear (wish mine hadn’t been). I didn’t react. I just went past them. I could hear them laughing as I ran on. I didn’t take the next walk break, afraid that if I did I might not be able to hold back the tears. How dare they. But then I remembered that they don’t matter. If they don’t want to see a fat lass running they can shut their eyes. As I plodded my remaining quarter mile or so I tried to put them out of my mind but I haven’t quite managed it. As so many have commented on my original facebook post about this, I shouldn’t give them another thought. And maybe once I have posted this, I won’t. Those comments won’t stop me running, or stop me running that route, or stop me running on my own. To me, at this point in my life and my running journey they are fairly inconsequential. They upset me a bit earlier, they made me a bit angry on behalf of all of us who just want to go for a run and be left to it and they have left me a bit bemused by this seemingly quite widespread need to comment on other people’s bodies and how we chose to move them. So now it’s my turn to give some unsolicited advice: If you feel the need to say anything other than a simple ‘well done’ when you see someone out running, swallow hard. Just concentrate on keeping your mouth shut and before you know it you will have overtaken them, or passed them or they will have passed you. Go on, you can do it. It gets easier.

Oh and you’ll note that none of the pictures of ‘that’ (me) out on runs this January are in the dark… because I don’t like running the dark. If that bothers you, you might want to try reading a different blog.

This weekend has been my belated birthday weekend with a trip to Birmingham to spend some time on our flat together and do nice city sort of things. We saw Animal Farm at the theatre last night which was just a brilliant production. It felt very weird being amongst people and we weren’t sure we would go right until the last minute. Honestly, I was disappointed at the lack of mask wearing overall but that’s a whole different blog post. We planned to get out for a run this morning and we woke up relatively early but had a lazy morning sipping coffee and watching gulls out of our apartment window. They still confuse me slightly, I associate gulls with seaside – and we’re in Birmingham.

Eventually we decided we would still do our planned run to have a look at the route and see what it’s like. It looked like a nice day outside and it seemed a real shame to miss the sunshine. We set off without any pre-set intervals for run/walking and I think I only ran for very short periods of time and annoyingly it wasn’t at all long before my feet started to be sore. Still, it was nice to be plodding along the canal. It was relatively busy with cyclists, runners and walkers but there is something familiar about canal running. After roughly 1.5 miles we crossed the canal and doubled back a little before heading off along the road up to Edgbaston Reservoir. My feet really hurt here and I got a bit grumpy. I was grumpy because it hurt, because I wanted to run (and felt like I could if it weren’t for my feet) and because this wasn’t what I had envisaged when we set off. It was tempting to just give up and turn round and go home. But I wanted to see the reservoir. I wanted to know whether this was a route worth persevering with and whether I can run it safely on my own.

We walked the road part until we found the route onto the path going round the reservoir. We watched some coots and ducks go about their Sunday and I played with my laces a bit to see if the would help my feet. Then we made our way clockwise round the reservoir. I ran a bit more on this part of our adventure and that felt good. We stopped every now and again to look at things and lingered for a while when we saw a heron. I was so glad that I didn’t just turn back, I would have missed the heron.

We plodded the rest of the loop with one or two walk breaks thrown in and then ran down the first stretch of road downhill. Then we walked home mostly. We did have one little jog towards the end because we couldn’t be bothered to stop to chat to the Canal and River Trust people (sorry) so it was easier to just run past and as it was all downhill, it was easy enough to just keep going. As we were running that last bit I suddenly remembered that I had joined a January strava challenge to do 10km and I hadn’t yet run or walked the distance. We therefore walked around the block a bit – it actually ended up being useful because the road locally is closed for a stretch and we were wondering where we needed to go when we drive home tomorrow. Now we know because we walked it.

We ended our adventure at Saint Kitchen where we grabbed a takeaway bagel and a brownie which we enjoyed with coffee at home. It might not have been the run I wanted and I do really need to sort my feet but it was a nice adventure and a route I will definitely run again and it was lovely to spend some time together in the city. We have had a lazy afternoon other than doing a few bits in the apartment. This evening we are going to see The Lost Words: Spellsongs at Symphony Hall which I am really looking forward to. It’s been a very good weekend in the city.

Running isn’t really happening in the way I wanted it to but this weekend was an 11 mile weekend. After what has been a slightly frustrating time that sort of comes as a relief. I have, so far this year, managed just one 5k run that felt good and where I didn’t struggle. Everything else has been shorter and incredibly slow and not exactly comfortable. There was one outing in Birmingham which was fun but not really a run as I mostly walked. As I was out on my run yesterday I thought about what I might blog, if I might blog and what the focus should be. I was thinking lots about my relationship with running at the moment. It’s complicated but maybe a little less complicated after this weekend, maybe.

Remember when 13 minute miles where forever pace? Remember when ‘only’ and ‘5km’ belonged in the same sentence? I have never been fast, ever. But before February 2020 working towards 5k in under 30 minutes wasn’t laughably impossible, running without walking for an hour or more wasn’t some pipe dream and a half marathon wasn’t actually a huge deal. My lungs worked, they got air in. My legs worked well and were strong and my feet held up well. I miss that. I remember at the time I still wanted to be stronger and fitter and faster but I was also happy with what I could do and I was itching to build on it. Instead I am building from what feels like nothing and it is going so so so slowly.

I set off yesterday thinking that I really needed to get in 6 miles if I am going to have any chance of attempting the half marathon on 1st May. I also set off knowing that I probably couldn’t do that. I have dropped my intervals to 30 seconds running and 30 seconds walking (from 1 minute running) and it is still ridiculously hard. The first mile was basically downhill and I still felt pretty much ready to quit. I had no idea of pace but recently I have got really down when seeing how slow I have been going and then I have just given up, so yesterday I deliberately didn’t look at my watch and changed the display so it wouldn’t show pace. As I plodded onto the canal towpath and into my second mile I tried to focus on now.

But now is quite hard. I am not running as consistently as I want to. I should be patient with myself. The world is still in a pandemic, Kath and I are getting used to living in 2 homes and not always the same one at the same time and I have been settling into a new job. Maybe it’s not that surprising that there has been little headspace or energy for running. Now, plodding along at what turned out to be about at 14 and a half minute miles, the whole running thing didn’t really feel doable or that there was much point. But the sun was shining, the birds were singing and in the scheme of things I was actually doing ok. 30 seconds/30 seconds just felt fairly methodical, harder than I thought it should, but ok. I tried really hard not to think about how far I had to go and thought that maybe if I made it to 2.5 miles I could turn and go back the same way and that would take me to 5 miles. But that would be a lot of going uphill. I just kept going and eventually the 3 mile beep came. Not that long after that I saw Kath coming the other way.

She asked if she could join me so we plodded what we call the farm loop together. It worked out well because we were on the loop before I’d remembered that I had thought about turning round at the bridge before. We saw lambs and listened to the birds and before I knew it really I was 4 and then 5 miles in. And then it got tough. My hips were getting sore and my feet were niggling a little bit. But by then we were heading for home and I had vague recollections of that last mile sort of feeling and the ‘only a mile’ sort of sense. So I made it to the finish line bridge we agreed on. 6.65 miles. Then my feet were in absolute agony walking home. As I lay on our living room floor trying to stretch I thought ‘well here we go, running is really not happening’ but as I stretched everything eased, the pain went away and didn’t come back and this morning I actually felt pretty good.

This morning we went to Bolton Abbey to have a little trot out. Same intervals, same slow but hard feel, same gorgeous sun, birdsong and cold air. It was a glorious 3.5 miles and even though it is so frustrating to be 2 minutes a mile slower trying really hard than I was pre February 2020 running easy, I am running. I can still be outside, I can enjoy the sun on my face. I just need to try and re-calibrate. Pre 2020 is no longer a useful benchmark, I need new ones. For today being within ‘Disney Pace’ was useful. That’s 16 minute miles and both weekend runs were early within that. That will have to do as a win, along with being out, seeing lambs and hearing curlews.

I have started again again again too many times to still use that phrase as a title. And I have not blogged for 18 months so that doesn’t feel like just starting again from where we left off. So let’s call it a re-launch. Isn’t that what we do when everything has got a bit shit and old and tired and is in need of new beginnings? Perhaps even to become something different, re-invent ourself and set out on new adventures? Well, running has certainly been a bit shit, there’s no denying I’m getting older (good job really!) and tired – well, yes, there has been lots of tired! Do I need new beginnings when it comes to running? Maybe, but there are certainly new beginnings on the horizon in career terms so that’s exciting and a good enough excuse to re-launch the blog, the running, the exercise and everything that makes me really (not) a runner. Let’s just launch ourselves head first into new (but kinda familiar) adventures.

So where are we with this putting one foot in front of the other business? Honestly, we are at zero. At least physically we are at zero. I cannot stress how unfit I am right now. And no this isn’t one of those where I say how crap I am so you tell me I am not or where I set up my immediate success by telling you how awful I am just to then suddenly actually be reasonably competent. No. I. Am. Unfit. Probably as unfit or even worse than when I first started running. Yes, that bad. There are all sorts of reasons for that and many many excuses but this is a re-launch not a moan about who I never really got going again after having Covid the first time and when I sort of did I got Covid a second time or about how busy I was, how I couldn’t be bothered, how I am heavier now than I was when I started running …. you know it all anyway. So for ages doing anything about this just seemed a bit pointless. Every time I tried something else, this 44 year old body of mine would break, disintegrate, refuse to work – so sitting on the sofa just seemed safer.

But of course things would break because I am impatient and because in my mind I am a much better runner than I actually am. Sitting on the sofa I can do it all, slowly, but all. So I am all or nothing, I don’t do patient and one run at a time and starting again at the beginning. So what’s different now? My re-launch is all about slowing down. I know that sounds idiotic given what I just outlined but stick with it. I am accepting (not very happily) that I am not going to go out and manage a 10 mile run/walk tomorrow, or even 10k or even 5k for that matter. I am also accepting (again not happily) that my ‘forever pace’ where I can plod along without much of a care is not 12.5 minutes a mile without walk breaks. I don’t have a forever pace currently. I have a ‘can walk like this for a good while’ pace but it’s annoyingly far from forever. Running doesn’t feature here. I am accepting (and trying to be happy about it) that I simply am where I am and this is where I start. I can’t start from somewhere I’m not at and I can’t force myself to be there or get there quickly. That’s not how this works.

My attempts to go slow, not overdo it, listen to my body (goodness it whinges)and just ease slowly back into actually moving haven’t been hugely successful so far – did I mention I was impatient? Couch to 5k just annoyed me. Doing 5k ish loops on run/walk was too much for my very bitchy left foot that insists on having tendinitis that won’t go away (well obviously it won’t go away if I keep making it run/walk 5k!). But just maybe this week has seen a tiny little breakthrough. I have started The RunDisney 5km training plan. When I first opened it I sneered at it. I don’t need that. Come on, a training plan for 5km? I’ll go do 5k now, what is this nonsense. But for once I paused for long enough to open the PDF file to take a proper look. I’d just come back from the osteopath having worked on my foot, I felt a bit woozy from the treatment and keenly aware of my foot. Maybe that’s what made me pause. Anyway, Week 1 read: 10 minutes, 13 minutes, 1.5 miles. Three runs, all done at run/walk following the Jeff Galloway method. I let that sink in for a little while.

Then Kath ran the Great North Run and I was support crew. As much as I enjoyed supporting Kath and was quite happy about not having to run in the heat and/or massive cloudburst seen at this year’s event, it felt like I was on the wrong side of it all. I wanted to be a runner not a spectator. So when we got back I picked the programme up again and had another look. Another set of treatment on the foot followed and it felt like it might entertain the idea of a short run. I was going to go out on Monday. But the thing about not having been out for ages is that I sort of knew it would be pretty awful so all the demons that keep me from going out went into overdrive. I spent Monday knowing it was pointless, worrying about how much it would hurt, planning another week of stretches and treatment on the foot, wondering what I could do to get fitter first, deciding I would lose a chunk of weight first and then come back to running. Well we all know Mondays are vile. Mondays should not be allowed to give their opinions on anything because Mondays give really bad advice!

Tuesday came and I ran out of excuses. 10 minutes. Run/Walk/Run. I used 30 second/30 second run/walk intervals. It was raining and it was glorious. It was also awful. I set off. 30 seconds running barely took me to the end of the road and as I was still wondering if I had always covered so little distance in 30 seconds my walk break was over and I was running again. The next 3 were fine – they were downhill. I had a warning twinge in my foot which made me swear out loud but otherwise, nothing much happened. Then I went uphill. Hahahahahahaha. My lungs just went ‘nope’. After 30 seconds of trying to move uphill it was clear that this running thing is not going to be fun for quite some time! Honestly, I think if I was starting out running for the first time I would have just turned back, walked home and taken up cross stitch. I used to run up that hill – continuously. I could have cried but it was time to run again. This was run 6 so I was turning round after this one (to allow for a slightly longer walk at the end to cool down). I turned half way through because I couldn’t actually go uphill any longer. I huffed and puffed my way to the end. My heart rate went way too high for such a short run. The pace, oh my god the fucking pace. I mean what pace. There was no pace…. And yet when I got back I felt calm, like I was back, like I was doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing.

Wednesday was a deliberate and planned day off running but I actually had to stop myself from going out again. Thursday and Friday were a mix of excuses and trying to work out whether my foot hurt or not. Saturday I had decided it did not. Run 2. 13 minutes. Same route, same bastard hills. Same huffing and puffing, same awfulness. I also felt very very self-conscious out there running. I didn’t feel like I belonged. I noticed that I was bracing for comments as I ran past the pub (none came). I felt awkward and clumsy and slow. Well, I was slow. But I also hadn’t pushed the pace on the runs at all. I wanted to avoid the warning pain I had last time and running slower did the trick. The run was awful but it was pain free and a pain free, completed run is a win. Yay for pain free 15 minute mile pace. And I am trying to say that without any hint of sarcasm. Trying to.

Today (Sunday) I woke up early because our latest addition to the family – Storm cat – has learned to pull my hair to get my attention. So by 7ish I’d had coffee and sufficient time to wake up and unconfuse myself (confused is my normal in the morning). Kath suggested coming with me and doing my 1.5 miles together. I was skeptical because I am sooooo slow but there was also something very nice about not having to do it on my own. So off we went. 0.75 miles one way and then back. I’ve got nothing in the tank on even the slightest incline. It feels like wading through treacle with burning lungs. It’s horrible and hard and just no – but do you know what else it is? -Done. It’s done. I have ticked off all 3 runs this week, I have run the intervals wherever they fell on the hills, I have not opted for flat or downhill only routes and I just have to trust that it will come together eventually. I could run the hills once. That means it’s possible. So it’s time to get good at doing ‘hard’ again. Bring on week 2.

It’s week 2 of the plan. I am supposed to go out for 16 minutes, 19 minutes and 30 minutes this week. It’s Friday evening and I have done the 16 minute and 19 minute runs. I had a rest day on Monday. I was a bit creaky. On Tuesday I procrastinated a bit. I really did not want to run the same out and back as I had all last week. Leave the house, turn right, turn left down the hill, turn right up the hill, turn round and come back….booooring. I was sort of resigned to that just being the route from here though. I mean I could turn right at the end of the road but that’s basically 2.5 miles of pure up so not likely. Then I remembered that we do actually have a footpath that goes along the back of our house and opens into fields. Following that path should be fine for a 16 minute out and back.

I put my trail shoes on with some excitement. I was going to run off road. Yay. I went out the back gate and carefully trotted along the path, squeezed my arse through the gap at the end and headed into the first field. Cows. There were cows. Of course there were cows. They weren’t actually in that first field but that opens into a long line of fields which are always open to livestock – I am not even sure all the gaps in walls have gates in them and some of the walls are a little non-wall like. So running that way wasn’t an option. I turned round as I was being watched by a black fluffy young cow and headed back to the snicket. Oh well. By the time I emerged at the other end and back onto the road, I had probably had about 5 minutes off road. Better than nothing. I trotted down the road, sulking. Because I was sulking I don’t really remember running down the road. I do remember coming back up though because it felt bloody impossible. In fact it was impossible and for the last 30 second run I just turned round and ran back downhill because that seemed better than giving up. I wasn’t happy but I was done.

I was then going to run on Wednesday morning. Kath was heading to London early so I dropped her off at the station just before 6am. Then I went back to bed. I woke up over 2 hours later and about in time to get myself organised to go and have my flu jab. It’s not as bad as last year but it has made my arm hurt. I felt pretty rubbish so ended up just watching episodes of Buffy and pottering about the house until it was time to pick Kath up again. Yesterday I felt very tired – I assume flu jab – and my shoulder, upper arm and collarbone felt really bruised. So I decided not to run. Today I just didn’t want to. We went for a short walk in Grassington and had a look round the village and then had a lazy day at home. I did not want to go out into the wind and try move my backside for 19 minutes. But I didn’t really have an excuse either. So off I went. 19 minutes meant that a loop was sort of worth it! It was exciting not to do an out and back. Somehow a loop feels far less pointless than running to a specific point just to turn round and run back. So running to the end of the road, turning left down the hill and right up the hill felt less boring because I didn’t turn round. I carried on. I turned left at the top of the hill and sloped down before turning left again and going downhill. There was a lot of downhill in this run so I didn’t take the walk breaks as I went down the big hill. After about 16 minutes I turned left again up into what we call ‘the little estate’. So I was finishing on uphill. I barely made he last run segment because I didn’t want to enough. I was probably fine but I just could not be bothered to force myself to do it. I half heartedly walked slightly faster.

Today’s outing felt a bit more normal though. Still hard, harder than it should be and I still completely died on the uphill but overall it felt a bit better. I felt a bit better being out there, less self-conscious. It’s hard to explain but I’ll take that. It seemed to take me forever to walk back home though and I don’t remember this snicket being as steep or long as it felt!

30 minutes next and that seems like a big ask right now. I’ll let you know!

I’m not one to bury the lede, so I’m just gonna say it: 2022 wasn’t my favorite.

To be fair, 2022 wasn’t the worst either. Most of the world hates 2020 very most, but I’m still super pissed about what went down in 2019 and my outrage and shock (yes, accident-related things do still shock me) take up a lot of space and energy. I physically feel my creative juices shriveling up, more arid than the Atacama desert. Eight years running now, I’ve lacked the motivation even to create a Christmas card, and I used to loooooove sending Christmas cards. Used to, you’ll notice the past tense verb there. I do loooooove receiving them, so if you’ve sent me tidings of great joy, know that I love and appreciate being included in your holiday celebration.

I woke today with, I’m not sure what, besides a full body-wracking cough, I woke with. Guilt? Energy? Duty? Creativity? A desire to creep out from the hole where I’ve insulated myself this year?? Sure, that. OK, not really that–I think I’m well-suited to the life I’ve created living under my rock and acclimating to it better by the day.

Lots of people assemble year-end lists. Their best-of *insert city*, their successes, their collections of must-read, must-do, must-eat, must-see experiences. Me, I’m aiming at an arc much lower than the stars, muuuuuuch lower than the stars: my life. This year-end compendium contains a photo that captures a moment from each month of this year. It’s no best of show, more like a day in the life with a nod toward some pretty good days in the life.

I’m no ray of sunshine ever, but I’d be a fool not to acknowledge that the sun does shine upon my world, my family, my friends, and me. I took 1,081 photos in 2022. Here’s proof that even the Grinchiest, Scroogeiest of nay-sayers (she raises her hand) is able to acknowledge the gifts 2022 bestowed upon her.

January

My little guy got his braces off in January. I took a personal day from work and shopped while his orthodontist performed his magical finale. Little guy and I went out for lunch together to celebrate and he even allowed a photograph of said million dollar smile that evening. You can see how excited Caleb the Wonderdog, whose dental/oral hygiene needs far surpass my willingness to invest in them, was to share in the experience by his dignified stance here.

February

Winters are long, cold, and confusing here in Wisconsin. One day it’s skies are blue -8 degrees with a wind chill and “real feel” temperature of -40. One day it’s 42 degrees under a blanket of clouds. One day you barely notice is somewhere in the middle but you do notice you’ve been inside way too dang long so you drag your child to a nearby state park to hike in the snow and melty ice and he plays along for the selfie. Wow, that was a long sentence.

March

Thank stars some things approached semi-normal in 2022. My older son got to participate in his senior year Competition Drumline contest. The Huskies positively brought down the house in their second round, crushing perennial winner and cross-town rival, Rufus King High School. Much to everyone’s chagrin (well, not to King’s obviously), a mid-contest rules change, YES, MID-CONTEST, meant the Huskies came up short by less than one point overall, and brought home the second place trophy. Pro tip for the new district music coordinator: How about you announce rules changes before the competition? Whatever. Our kids were freakin’ amazing and deserved the win. Everyone knows it, and to quote someone in the know: Mistakes were made.

A spontaneous jam between our kids and the kids from Riverside High School was a moment I’m glad to have witnessed and heard after the trophies were awarded. Thanks to Diane for this fun March photo. I sure wish you could hear it. You can’t here, but you can view them crush their second round performance by clicking this link here.

April

Another piece of evidence proving the world was returning to normal-ish was the 2022 Reagan High School Junior/Senior Prom. Our district held out virtually and with greater, longer-standing COVID restrictions than almost every any other so prom itself wasn’t even a given. Once it was confirmed and with just a bit of prodding from the parents, my son and his dudes all got fitted for their tuxes for the late-April soiree. Prom night, afternoon actually, threatened significant rain that never materialized, so the kids gathered for photos indoors. I love ALL the photos that were taken, one especially that my kid would crucify me for if I shared, so I’ve settled on this one, taken prior to his leave. I thought my kid looked so handsome, clad in grey and blue (Go, Huskies!) and I cleaned up OK too, I think. We gave him the “good” car to drive and my son and his friends had an absolute blast at the event, held late after hours at the Milwaukee Public Museum.

May

I’ve written previously about my son’s high school graduation but it’s my year-end recognition so I elect to relive this moment. My kid looked so. dang. happy. during and after the ceremony and I, entirely convinced I’d sob from the opening note of Pomp and Circumstance all the way through to the last chord of the recessional couldn’t have been more wrong. I was prepared for a somber evening but got instead a street party in downtown Milwaukee. As the kids recessed from the Arena and onto Kilbourn Avenue, it truly felt like a party, families literally hanging out in the streets downtown. It was physically impossible to cry amid the celebratory atmosphere–nothing but happiness and light emanated from those 300+ kids who marched across the stage that evening. It was his moment but I felt I had a hand in making something special happen as well.

June

Baseball season began in the snow and culminated on a college diamond on one of the most perfect early summer evenings. My #16 had himself a season! The quietest kid in the dugout found himself atop his team’s offensive statistics consistently throughout the spring. He had the highest batting average going into the last game (ended up second) and experienced his very own hero moment with a walk-off single late in the season. He was honored as a first team all-conference selection as a sophomore. It was my great joy to watch him play and to talk with him about not only the game, but his game. Photo credit to Thomas Markowski, Milwaukee City Conference.

July

This front row center photo of my best friend and me was snapped July 1. Tickets for Barenaked Ladies’ Last Summer on Earth tour were purchased in 2019, long before anyone outside the CDC dreamt how our very existence could become closed off and isolated by the pandemic nightmare. Tour tickets got bumped for next year and again for the next which meant that I’d at last be able to stake my claim on the best seats in the house in 2022. I was only able to score second row for the Chicago show (sorry, Ann, I know it’s so hard to see from way back there) but with a little help from our friends, we both lucked into a place at the Chicago soundcheck and let me tell you how absolutely ridiculous your reaction is when your musical heroes call you out in the audience. It’s super, insanely ridiculous. Beyond happy ridiculous.

Given the span of years between the ticket purchase and actual concert, events in our real lives meant my BNL bestie Nikki couldn’t attend as we’d originally planned. The incredible good fortune/good travel gods smiled upon us, and Deb flew to MKE. We then road tripped it to Indianapolis for that 95-degree evening show. Deb’s not a BNL weirdo like I am and maybe flying somewhere to drive somewhere else sounds inconvenient and logistically nuts to you, but we had the best time. You could totally tell how much Tyler, Ed, Jim, and Kevin missed me. You know I had to say it. . . In seriousness, the temps dropped just before Barenaked Ladies took the stage and the concert was magic. Home.

Yeah, that dress got a lot of play last summer. Graduation AND concert wear. So very versatile.

Also July

It’s my story, so I’ll tell it in my usual don’t-stick-to-the-formula style. July was a month of reunions, the aforementioned road trip and the one featured below with my college friends.

In 2018, we five joined forces in New York City, for our kinda 50th birthday-ish celebrations. This summer we were a foursome, with Julie attending the birth of her first grandson, who arrived pretty much the moment she was to have arrived in Holland, Michigan with the rest of us. Because my friends are amazing, they’d accepted my trepidation related to traveling too far home in light of my husband’s accident and agreed to stay close to home. Well, close to MY home anyway, definitely not Sue’s. We spent three nights on the Lake Michigan shore opposite mine, walking, talking, sipping fine beverages, and dining from only the most beautiful charcuterie boards. The ladies of BS Travel never disappoint, and if you feel like you wish you had friends like mine, you totally do. Who’d have thought that a bunch of hard-working girls thrown together at Monitor Hall in 1985 would be hanging out still more than 30 years after graduation? Look at these beauties to my left, captured at the Red House last summer!

August

My older son matriculated at the University of Minnesota Twin Cities in August. Our leaving him at his dorm prompted the fastest I’ve almost-run in a decade–I could not get to my car fast enough after our goodbye. Abandoning him there at The U, believing I’d just committed a grave, grave error literally hurt my heart. Like most parents delivering their most precious cargo to their stinky college residence halls, I came to learn and even believe that my child would carve his path and make a way. He proved me right at parents’ weekend and again at Thanksgiving when he arranged transportation to and from Minneapolis, my credit card number being the only support he needed. I snapped this photo on Huron Street en route to the freeway entrance ramp as we headed out of town at the end of August. *sigh*

September

September sucked a real lot, but there was this radiant spot. My baby’s football season opened with a crushing loss then a dominating win, then he was sidelined for two games with COVID. Generous, sharing kind of kid he is, he shared the dreaded virus with me. The exhaustion and brain fog are for reals and 4 days off from work did not feel like enough! I believe that were it not for my vaccinations, I’d have been one of those individuals hospitalized or worse as a result of the coronavirus. Man, was I sick! Zero stars.

Anyway, this picture of my sweet/badass boy and his grandmas was taken right after the Huskies’ homecoming victory. Shortly after this W, he sustained a season-ending injury, tearing his left labrum in two places. He was somehow able to avoid surgery and is recovering through physical therapy and youth and vigor. He missed half the season, but was still recognized as a second team all-conference outside linebacker! When he asked his coach how the hell that happened, his coach replied, “They know who you are.” If my heart could have melted, it would have.

October

My hubby couldn’t have scripted a more picture-perfect day for our now-annual circumnavigation of Geneva Lake. This was our group early in the AM and five of us were still in the picture around 5:30 in the evening as we closed the circle of approximately 23 miles. When you consider that my husband almost died three years ago, this is a pretty remarkable feat. When you consider how stinking old I feel most days, 23 or so miles is a pretty remarkable feat.

November

I chose this Snap to represent November because my part-time employer required I submit a photo for their tracking and payroll, I had a sufficiently good hair day, and to showcase the magic of Snapchat filters. I haven’t looked this good since, well, really ever, but I tend not to think terribly well about what I see in the mirror. I’ll take this graphically-altered one. This year I took on a side hustle, working for a local company that coordinates land logistics for cruise lines sailing the Great Lakes and assembling/shipping Advent boxes representing specialty snacks from a number of Midwestern states. It’s fun work with fun coworkers and I almost never get yelled at or take work home with me.

December

It’s the phone call you never want to receive: “Mom, I was in a car accident.”

I’m not gonna make you wait around for it, yes, my son is OK. He walked away with some abrasions, a couple cuts and bumps, and an intriguing puncture wound. But that was it. Somehow, those minor contusions were the extent of his injuries. The car is totaled.

When he initially called, I didn’t hear my son’s voice, but I heard in the background a woman shouting “Are you a student at Reagan? Get out of the intersection, honey.” Words like that anyway. Once I got as much of the story as I needed to know I had to get there immediately, I bolted from my office, racing (as safely as I could possibly drive) across town, my mind whirring exactly as I remembered it feeling immediately after my husband’s accident.

Driving back to the south side, I was able to connect with my kid’s best friend. His mom, my friend Moriah, relieved the mom whose name I’ll never know, the Reagan High School mom who stayed with my boy in the immediate aftermath. Moriah took over and stayed with my boy until I got there. Actually she stayed with us both until the police arrived because apparently I was trembling pretty significantly and probably didn’t seem to have my shit together, which makes sense because I definitely did not have my shit together.

The car was stranded in the middle of the major intersection nearest his high school and I went jelly seeing it. But then I saw my son and my friend together on 20th Street. Moriah hugged us both and I strung together a lot of words that may or may not have made too much sense. I cannot say enough in gratitude and thanks to her for dropping her agenda to sit with my son. She and I joke about being the other’s baby daddy and she was that and more for me that morning. With the few details my kid recalled from his conversation with the first mom on the scene, I hit up the school office asking if they might know who this student was. I wanted to relay a message of thanks to that mom, who did for my kid what I’d have done for hers or any other child who’d just been clipped by a large, flatbed truck. Thanks to Reagan’s head secretary, I was able to thank Mystery Mom.

I learned from my son’s MD diagnosis, later from the aftermath of my husband’s accident, and again from my son’s car accident experience that people show up with their best when you’re at your worst. This mom. Moriah. The random guy who stopped to put orange cones around my kid’s car and sweep debris from the intersection while we waited for the police. The officers on-site. They all helped when they wouldn’t have had to. The Best. Man, am I tired of being at my worst though!

December had already been a major B-word with some major BS-word related to my husband’s injury and workers compensation. If you think an accident ends with hospital discharge, you are woefully and naively mistaken. That’s all I can say about that situation. I will add however, that if I seem distant or distracted or just not as nice as I used to be, I am, I am, and I’m not. Your observations are accurate. I want to be better, and I’ve got a plan to start feeling better. Maybe it’s more like a plan to plan to start feeling better, but that gossamer thread is more than nothing at all.

Vince Lombardi said something like it doesn’t matter how many times you get knocked down, but how many times you get back up. 2022 is closing with me coughing nonstop and violently, so maybe I’ll lean into the Lombardi logic as we cross the threshold of a new year. Happy 2023 to you all. Sorry I didn’t send a card. May your random collection of photographic moments evoke the contentment (most of) mine have brought me.

January 21 remains one of my least favorite calendar days. Eight years ago was my big kid’s d-day, diagnosis day. I thought I’d never be OK again after his appointment that morning, but reality is that time and life just keep marching. Eight years?? I still can’t rid myself of the dress I wore to the neurology clinic that day. That’s probably not healthy, right? Kinda weird, at any rate, I’ll grant that.

Great things happen. Terrible things happen. Most of what happens day to day though is mostly just noise, just a kid and his mom living their lives. We go to school and work, hurriedly wolf down meals before we shuttle from one rehearsal or sports practice to another. We celebrate birthdays, attend concerts, scrub the kitchen floor, walk the dog. Of course it’s not all bland and insignificant, but neither is it all supernovas and trenches. I’m glad to know this.

As it relates to his diagnosis and growth from a child to a young man with a degenerative neuromuscular disease, what I’ve come to believe is that now, it’s nothing to do with me. In the beginning it was ALL me, or at least that’s how I felt. For the first several years after THAT January 21, being an MD mom defined me. It ranked high on the list of descriptors I used to frame my identity anyway. I wrote these little stories that helped me fit MD into the vision I had for that once blue-eyed baby.

So many more great and terrible things have happened since that day. And of course, there’s been a lot of noise.

My kid eclipsed what I’d believed possible for him on that January 21. He, not I, must now shoulder responsibility for his self-care, medical care, physical fitness, nutrition, sleep, all of it. . . And that’s nothing to do with me. Maybe because he’s not living with me presently, this anniversary hits less directly. It’s not like I forgot–I mean, I’m writing this post, proof that my kid is on my mind–but the eighth anniversary, the bronze and pottery anniversary for the traditionalists, feels less paralyzing. Out of sight, out of mind? No, not that.

A different vision that matches the different stage of life he’s living and experiencing? Maybe that. Yeah, growth. That.

I’m writing a book. How do you like my working title? I bet you think that running a person over, leaving him bleeding out on the street, crushing his skull in three places and breaking six other bones, tearing off part of his face and one ear leaving him with a massive head injury, facial paralysis, and other sequelae is the worst thing your employer can do to you. You’d be wrong though.

You all know I’m a “Why use two words when sixty-two will do?” kind of writer, but even I understand that the title of my upcoming memoir could use some tidying up.

Obviously I’m not writing a book. I’m not even really writing a blog much anymore.

I can’t go into detail here (or anywhere right now) so the vehicle that had been driving my stress management and supporting my mental health–writing out my stories here on WordPress–is unavailable to me. Writing has been my lifelong companion, eons before the blog format came into being. Throughout my life, I’ve found comfort and clarity in writing. Writing the random thoughts pinging around my brain always helped me organize and label my feelings. Prior to the blog thing, I’d not been much for journaling and that has held. Never a diarist, I would instead write letters to other people. I’d never had intention to actually mail those letters, but the act of writing with a specific reader or listener in mind, of watching my jumbled thoughts coalesce into an organized narrative provided a finality of a sort. “Yes, this is how I feel.” And this is what propelled me into this blog in the first place. After my kid’s neurological disease diagnosis, I struggled with words in person. I cried a lot. Writing allowed me to say to my friends and family, “Here, read this” when I couldn’t express myself verbally.

These days in the real human interaction world, I’m expressing little other than rage. For everyone else’s benefit I’m keeping a little quieter than usual these days–no really, I am. When I’m outraged, I’m loud and rant-y, and I really dislike that when I’ve been wronged, I cry. Not sob-cry, but my eyes sting with bitter tears. I don’t like the idea that my tears are mistaken for sadness or considered a weakness. I am sad, but it’s more than that. Rage stemming from feeling wronged stars center stage these days but there’s no shortage of frustration, confusion, and shock in their supporting roles. I suppose I should be grateful that I’ve lived this many years before truly experiencing injustice firsthand and I am.

Aargh! I want not to be vague and veiled, but the time for me to hit publish on this chapter has yet to be determined. What I will say is this: Laws are written for the rich guys whose donations pad the pockets of politicians whose votes favor the employer, not the worker. There’s no room for the average Joe (or his wife) at the table. Your employer can create and enact policies designed to beat you down and knock you out and it’s perfectly within the law.

If you believe that institutions will necessarily act with fairness and compassion, take it from me and please stop believing it. Representatives of those institutions, even the really, really good ones, even the very best ones, will fall on the side of maintaining their status and pay grade, not yours. When the bad things happen, believe in your people, your people, the ones who have stuck and will stick with you even when you’re prickly and a little out of touch because being quiet is easier than talking about how exhausting and overwhelming everything feels right now. That’s where you place your faith. Thank you for sticking with me.

It’s me. Hi. I’m the problem, it’s me. I am the one who needs to calm down!

I remember the good old days when my concert ticket buying freakouts were limited to Barenaked Ladies shows. Their music has been my constant companion for more than half my life, which, based on the way my bones are aching these days, is quite a long time. *sprained ankle still smarts four years post, rotator cuff reminds me daily it’ll never fully cooperate again, knees screaming at me that running one more step in my life will occur only again if and only if I am actually on fire or being chased*

I’ve been fortunate to have had the best seats in the house for several of my favorite band’s concerts. I’d be a fool not to acknowledge that run of good luck. I’ve also spent a sizable chunks of change on those tickets–it’s not like the good seats come for free. Any concert is made up of more than the musicians singing and playing for you in that moment–sure, they’re performing, but they’re not doing it alone. Off-stage, it’s technicians and roadies, it’s hotels and merchandise managers, it’s logistics and tour managers, set design, dancers, lighting riggers, drivers, sound engineers, and a million more details concert-goers don’t think about when the artist steps into the spotlight. Then there’s f’ing Ticketmaster, monopoly overlord of all, whose fees add, oh I don’t know, 25% and up from the base ticket price?? Grrr. . . This is to say concerts don’t come cheap and I am willing to support the musicians that bring me happiness.

I need some happiness right now, but more than needing it for me, I desperately want it for my younger son. Maybe it’s closer to accurate to say that I need it for him. My baby doesn’t ask for a single thing. He’s not into clothes, he never goes out with friends, he can barely even accept new sports equipment when it’s needed, worrying over its cost, saying he doesn’t need it, whatever “it” is in a given situation. Listen, kid, we’re not so broke we can’t afford a baseball bat to replace the one you’ve had since seventh grade, OK? We can afford to buy you new jeans or a hoodie a couple times a year, geez.

Our family has been going through some stuff, a whole new shitstorm of stuff these last few months. My husband’s accident and his employer’s shocking cruelty in its aftermath have beaten us down. I will write about it when I can, but jumping the gun here before the lawyers sort it out is neither advantageous nor strategic. It is beyond my comprehension to say or write “our lawyer,” but that’s how far this has devolved. *ahem* My younger son, the only one home with my husband and me these days, hears and overhears a lot. Too much.

Taylor Swift is to my son what BNL is to me. I was shut out of the ticket-buying lottery when tickets for The Eras tour went on sale. I asked my kid if he wanted to go, and in typical fashion, he mumbled, “I don’t have to.”

“But do you want to go?”

Quietly, “Well, yeah.”

The years before and immediately following the accident were my kid’s travel baseball years. I hold close the fondest memories of my little one–he was actually still little(ish) then!–sitting shotgun, phone plugged into the car stereo, choosing that early morning’s pregame playlist. All Taylor. All the time. Naturally I’d become a fan too, though embarrassingly out of her target demographic! But a good song is a good song, and the woman can write a song! I admire Taylor Swift and I LOVE her for being part of my relationship and connection with my son. So TS ticketing has become a research project. It’s all I think about, getting my long-time Swiftie to one of Taylor Swift’s Midwest shows this summer.

This research project. . . It’s harder than graduate school, I swear! My research is layered–each week I’m monitoring multiple ticket outlets/secondary vendors the day of each show, seeking patterns in pricing in the various cities she’s performing, reading all kinds of online forums, following social media accounts about scammers, hoping against hope when I do click purchase–and that’s if I even can click purchase because right now, tickets are going for about a semester’s worth of college tuition!–I don’t get scammed. Like research papers did in grad school, my current research project is consuming my thoughts. Which honestly? Might provide a nice diversion from the everyday doom and gloom of my depressed brain. It’s why I had to write this post —I had to read my thoughts on paper, so to speak, see them to then organize them in my brain. Except. . .

I’ve joined a number of social media groups/pages geared to fans and ticket hopefuls and initially set up notifications because I didn’t want to miss an opportunity. I’ve come to learn however that these notifications, these frequent distractions are not good for my mental health. Because I want this so badly for my son, I’m checking and checking and checking and worrying and fearing and what-if-ing and what if NOT-ing. I have to stop–not the ticketing effort but the barrage of updates. It’s a weird and inappropriate kind of empathy I’ve got–I’m so there with these frustrated ticket-buyers, wanting a seat, fearing they’ve been scammed. I feel their anxiety in my bones. I do not need to be borrowing anyone else’s anxiety however. I could use a bump of their energy, but losing sleep over it this early in the game is not helpful for the cause or to myself. I’ll get tickets or I won’t.

My son knows his mom is nuts. He knows I desperately want this for him. He knows I GET how much he loves Taylor Swift, as you can see below even if he is giving his mama some shit (this kid is simply the best BEST!). And even though it evokes major cringe, he even knows I have my own favorite Taylor Swift song (Treacherous though that may be tied with Sparks Fly and I Did Something Bad) and album (Lover) apart from his. But he is also a realist and knows I’m more likely than not to fail in this endeavor, so I work not to reveal my ticket-buying obsession with him. If I fail, he will say it’s OK and won’t voice a whisper of disappointment to me, but I sure hope not to disappoint him. It IS me. I AM the problem!

Crying over concert ticket access and pricing is a first world kind of problem, yep. People have endured worse fates than not getting the hottest concert ticket in town and gone on to live fully productive lives. People receive terrible medical diagnoses, people sustain life-threatening injuries, ending up maimed and paralyzed under the wheels of their employer–these are real problems and I know from real problems. Maybe sitting out Taylor Swift’s The Eras tour isn’t one of them, but right now, today, it matters to me because it matters to my teenager.

Gotta keep my mouth shut and my fingers crossed. But maybe, maybe, maybe this time karma is MY boyfriend. . .