13e.1ieve in Yourself

My body hadn't fully recovered from running my first half marathon in April when I was already scouring the internet for my next race.

Outer Banks Southern Fried Half Marathon...November...click, boom, bam...registered.

Being that I didn't die or injury myself running the Flying Pirate, I felt confident that the race in November would be a breeze. At least, not rougher than my first...right? 

Between the summer heat and summer schedules, training quickly fell off my calendar. I managed to get in a few miles every week or so...most runs motivating me for the next.

Cut to the end of October...crunch time.

"I'm doing it...I can do it," I told my husband.

Having a positive attitude is half the running battle. If you let your brain tell your body you can quit, you will never make it out of the driveway. #nevergivein

I hit the pavement while Little Miss was at play practice, running a few new routes. I learned quickly that running in Nags Head vs. Wanchese offered two obstacles 1) restaurant food to smell 2) pools...lots of pools to consider trespassing/diving into. #itwashotandiwashungry The struggle was really real on my beach road runs. 

Between weather, migraines, and training solo...it could've been so easy to say eff-it and hop on the couch to train for a Netflix marathon instead. But I didn't give in to the temptation. I ran in the rain. I ran with a migraine. My determination kicked into high gear.

Friday, two days before the race, my excitement (or adrenaline) started to kick in. I thought back to the previous race- which I ran in honor of Daddy. A mix of anger and sadness stole my excitement.

"Fuck cancer," I whispered to myself.

A light bulb went off in my head. I immediately grabbed my phone and typed in those words. I found a few ideas that I liked...but, knowing our Southern community...I wasn't sure how a runner with "F Cancer" on her back would be received.

Later in the day, I picked my packet up and mentioned my idea to one of the vendors at the race expo.

"My daughter wears a headband with that on it...she is 12. It's well-received. Cancer is the offensive word there," she said.

"I agree...does your daughter have cancer?" I asked.

"Yes, for 10 years now. She recently opted out of treatments."

My heart stopped for the mother standing in front of me. I couldn't imagine her pain, her worry...her every day life. 

"Wear that shirt proud," she winked at me.

Saturday morning I woke up with the beginnings of a cold. I tried to keep myself busy designing my race shirt and planning for the following morning. 

"That cold is just trying to distract you...you're going to kill it!" my race partner from the previous race texted. #shewasright

At 4am, I popped out of bed like it was Christmas morning. #whodoesthat? Breakfast. Yoga. Immodium. (#seriouslyworstfear) Hydrate.Hydrate.Hydrate. Out the door.

It seemed like I blinked and the timer began. I ran the first 3 miles feeling great. Then someone must've attached concrete blocks to my feet and poured baby powder down my throat. I was dying of thirst and felt like I couldn't- for the life of me- pick up my feet to run.

Push through it...mind over matter...I can do this...why did I sign up to do this?!...and alone...that was dumb...I will never do another race again....I can do it...just 9.5 more miles.

I talked myself through each time I felt like I couldn't do it. I reminded myself that my battle was nothing to complain about. I reminded myself why I had those two special names on my shoulders and F-CANCER on my back. I played little mind games with myself- set short goals and met each one. Before long, I was feeling great about my running once again. 

Mile 9. Washington Baum Bridge. Holy freaking incline-that-never-ends.

From this point to the finish, I don't remember much but everything hurt and I was just trying to make it to the finish to collapse into my family's arms. (Although I do remember getting passed by a few full-marathon runners...that added a little boost to my confidence. #lies)

But I made it! (And I beat my previous time!) All the thoughts I had of never racing again, were gone as soon as I crossed the finish line.

I'm so thankful I believed in myself. I'm thankful I had two heroic names on my shoulders to remind me to never give up. And today, I'll be thankful for the moment my shins quit throbbing so I can run again. #crazymotherrunner #fucancer

Mom So Hard

It's a thing those gangsta moms say- we 'mom so hard' b/c you know...we do.

But we also 'wife so hard'...and 'cleaning lady so hard' and 'chef so hard'....I, personally, juggle about 8,023,759 things around on my plate. You guys, I do a lot of shit. (And sometimes, it actually involves literally shoveling shit.)

Here's the thing- I love to be busy. I love helping people- and hate asking for help myself. I rarely say "I'm sorry, I can't do that"...I'll just toss it into the mix of my schedule and hope for the best.

Cut to midnight one evening...I'm sobbing in my bed because I'm so overwhelmed and exhausted that I can't breathe. My husband is looking at me like I have lost my damn mind and my dog has belly-crawled his way into the hallway and covered his ears.

"I'm just f*cking everything up. I can't seem to do anything right!"

My husband stares at me blankly. We both know my statement isn't true...but in the moment, I felt like I sucked as a mom, wife, friend, daughter, etc.

"Well stop doing so much!" he says. (An utterly ridiculous statement that will never happen- not for lack of him trying.)

When I get overwhelmed I can't focus on anything positive...which is not at all who I typically am. I am the person who 95% of the time sees the glass half full...and if it's half empty- it's only because whatever was in it was so delicious that I had to drink it down in one gulp. (I know...it even annoys me sometimes.)

But on this particular evening, in my sobbing state of complete irrationality- the only thing I could focus on was that I wasn't even doing a good job at being positive. I couldn't even find my glass to see if it was half empty or full.

I was no busier than I was the previous week. Nothing monumental had changed in my life...was it hormones? The moon? Football season? I wasn't even sure exactly what I needed to pull me out of the quicksand of negativity I was stuck in...but I knew I needed my husband to lasso me out.

My mind swirled after my tears had long dried on my pillow and I wondered...why do I need someone else to pull me out of this? No one got me here but myself...and the reality of the metaphorical place I was in was no-more real than a monster in a fairy tale.

I searched for the positive...and there it was in the clearing like a rainbow after the storm.

My husband.
Our family.
Our home.

Yes, life is busy...but life is wonderful.

I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

The following morning, I climbed out of bed ready to take on the world. I was ready to mom/wife/photog/legal-assistant/chef/taxi/cleaning-lady SO freaking hard...and there wasn't a grain of quicksand in sight.

What Dreams Are Made Of...

A few months ago, I had one of the most realistic nightmares of my life. It was so real that I thought parts of the dream had actually happened the following morning.

In the dream I had just woken up. My room was dark and in the darkness, I felt someone looking at me. I looked over and saw a young man sitting next to my bed with a hooded sweatshirt on. I couldn't see his face or recognize any of his characteristics as someone I knew.

Terrified, I grabbed for my husband and yelled "Who is that!? Who is that!?"

"Who is who? What are you talking about, babe?!" he replied.

Confused, I told him I must've been dreaming.

The following day, I asked him if he remembered me waking him up.

"No, I don't think you woke me up," he said.

I didn't think much of it. While I typically remember my dreams and whether or not I wake up in the middle of the night and eat a half gallon of ice cream (hypothetically), the hubs? I could have a 15 minute conversation with him mid-sleep and he won't remember a word of it.

A few weeks later, I had a similar dream- but this time a middle aged man stood next to my bed as I opened my eyes.

I gasped for air and reached for Kirk.

Again, the next day I asked if I woke him up and he said I didn't.

Two nights ago, I dreamed I opened my eyes and the light in my bedroom was on. I turned to Kirk and saw an older man sitting on the bed. This man bared no resemblance to anyone in my daily life.

"Who are you?! What do you want!?" I yelled in my dream.

He starred at me. He didn't look angry or threatening. But nonetheless, a stranger was in my room.

I woke up talking in my sleep...with my husband asking me what I was saying. Then I jumped.

I woke up...for real. My heart was racing as I sat up in my bed and looked around the room. The lights were off and my husband was snoring next to me.

Had I actually dreamed I'd woken up in each of these dreams? What is causing this recurring nightmare? Is it because I had caffeine before bed?! Does it have to do with my dad? Is it a spirit? (Does that make me sound like a hippy!?)

So seriously...what are dreams made of?

No Kidding...Well, Maybe a Little.

Back in April, Little Miss joined me on a photoshoot in a neighboring county. I knew she would enjoy watching the shoot- since it was a 4H livestock shoot...however, I had no idea that she would have the opportunity to bottle feed a baby goat! {Yes, I was jealous.}

The 2 hour drive home was spent with her trying to convince me that we needed goats, plural, because they are herd animals, she said. {like she needed to convince me, it was her BooPa who we needed to work on}

I mentioned it to him several times to no avail. I received mostly grumbles of 'don't need more pets' as a response. I was not deterred. These wouldn't be just pets...they would be farm animals- milk producers- and snuggle givers...I mean, milk producers. 

A few months later, some friends of ours mentioned they were getting dwarf goats. I buckled down and got serious with my persuasion....

 

Those little dots went on for quite sometime....so long that I was a bit concerned that I had sent my husband into cardiac arrest just by asking a simple question.

The response wasn't exactly a yes...but it also wasn't an outright no. I quickly decided I was doing this OJ style- that shadow of a doubt (or ignorance) that got him acquitted? Well it was getting me baby goats.

I continued to correspond with the breeder I found on craigslist- asking every question imaginable about goat care. As he was texting me about their parents personalities and bloodlines, etc. he casually mentioned their names...

"The father of both these goats...his name is Donald. The little white one's mama is named Lenora...you probably think it's strange but we name them after our relatives," he explained.

I almost dropped the phone. 

"No. It isn't strange. I lost two very special people to me last year...my daddy's name was Donald, Don...and my aunt was Selma Lenora..."

It was all the sign in the world that I needed...and I wasn't even looking for it.

One week later, while stuffing hay into a dog kennel to bring home our new babies, it occurred to me that I could be meeting some kind of craigslist killer who had lured me to his goat farm with fake photos of cute babies only to chop me up and serve me with fava beans.

"Oh well...that's the chance I'm willing to take," I thought as I shoved the kennel into the backseat of my car.

{Yes, I picked them up in my car. I may have risked my life to pick up the goats but I was doing it in my fuel efficient Camry vs. the dodge dually!}

Before I knew it, we were almost home and these two had snoozed the whole way.

We got them home and acclimated to their new living situation. Since they are still tiny, we are keeping them in one of the horse's stalls. (Which created quite the scene...Tristan is certain they are going to turn attack him and serve him with fava beans.)

Meet Mochaccino bon Feefee {Mocha} and Leche Lenora {Leche}...

 {Who is that teenage-looking kid in the adorable goat tank? #mybabyisgrowinupmakeitstop}

They aren't exactly used to human-snuggles...but they seem to be quite content in their new bedroom! Welcome to the fam, gals!

PS- Thanks, Boo!! You have some happy girls!! <3

A(ddi)CTION: The Story of a Recovering Addict

No two addiction tales are the same. While many have similar paths, the addict determines how the tale ends.

This is the story of recovering addict, Taryn Daniels...

I spoke with Taryn after she shared my post on Emerson Gardner on Facebook. She wrote a bit about her own struggle with addiction- which prompted me to ask permission to ask some more in depth questions about her journey. She, too, was very open with what she went through.

"Of course it all started with snorting pills. My {now} ex-boyfriend introduced me to heroin. He actually held me down and shot me up for the first time. I was terrified and didn't want to but once I felt that rush I was in love. I was 16."

It only took that one time to hook another American sweetheart.

Taryn started smoking and drinking when she was 14 but snorted pills for the first time mostly because her friends were doing it and she wanted to see what all the fuss was about. She liked how it made her feel...until she realized she was addicted.

Heroin quickly went from 'a way to get high' to 'a way to avoid withdrawals'. She describes being "dope sick" as the worst flu imaginable, times a thousand. This isn't a party drug- not that any truly are once you become addicted- this is a lifestyle drug.

"Doing heroin was like my dance with the devil. He comes to steal, kill, and destroy. And that is exactly what it does."

Taryn drove to Virginia one to two times daily to get heroin. Every penny she made she spent on drugs. She admits she doesn't know how she kept a job during that time, but somehow she did. 

It took felony drug charges and over a year in a Teen Challenge rehabilitation facility to shake Taryn to the core.

"I got to come home on a 7 month pass and I still wanted to get high. When I went back is when it clicked- I've got to change or I'm gonna die, I can't continue to live like this."

She credits God, the power of prayer, a supportive community and Teen Challenge for being able to get clean and stay clean. {I also give a HUGE credit her wanting to get clean and stay clean.}

She says the time she spent at Teen Challenge helped her clear her mind and focus on herself. The constant drug use left her brain in a fog- only wanting to focus on chasing that first high. {Which as most addicts say, is only attainable that first time.}

Most of Taryn's friends that she used with are either still using or dead- only a few tried to come back into her life when she returned from Teen Challenge. However, when they realized she was serious about staying sober- they didn't continue. The urge to use again used to be something she dealt with daily, but thankfully today...that is a thing of the past.

"I don't have urges to get high anymore. At this point, I never wanna do it or be that person again. My heart breaks for my friends and everyone in active addiction because I know it is possible to live a healthy, happy, drug free life. I am living proof. I am 100% drug free! No suboxone or anything. But I also know I can't put myself around it."

Taryn is currently a stay-at-home mom to a lovely 8 month old little boy. Up until his birth, she worked three jobs in order to purchase a car and get back on her feet. (Heroin literally took everything she had away from her.)  She goes to church regularly and says her relationship with her family is better than ever.

I'm thankful to be able to share her story. While heroin pushed her to rock bottom, she didn't let hold her there. She fought back!! It IS possible. Sobriety IS attainable!

*Sidenote: I am very pleased to congratulate Emerson on 60+ days clean. She checked into a detox facility shortly after I wrote her story. From there, she went into a treatment home. Emerson said reading her story helped her to realize how badly she needed help.

Please continue to discuss addiction with your families to raise awareness in the awful truths of addiction. #talkittodeath


**I plan to continue sharing stories of addiction here. Following my initial post, I received fantastic feedback & some inquiries of other folks who have stories (some similar, some not) of addiction they would like me to help them share. If you have dealt with addiction & would like to share your story, email me at edenhsaunders@gmail.com. Your stories DO help others!**

Life's Blessings

Life changes without our permission...it is our attitude that determines the ride.

This was one of my daddy's favorite sayings. Maybe not always- I certainly got my stubbornness from him- my ability to hold a grudge- my ability to be a hard-headed jackass...all proudly from my daddy. But in recent years, he had my mom put this quote on their refrigerator to remind him that life can change and the only part that is truly up to us is how we handle it.

A few years ago, I was looking for a new job. Photography used to be my love- but I was totally resenting it more and more with each click of my shutter. I wanted something completely different.

"Hey...is your restaurant hiring? Maybe I could just wait tables at lunch...even though I've never done that before," I said to my best gay friend #ofalltime.

"I do NOT see you slinging food, boo...you need to work at a law firm or something. Heels and pencils skirts- not aprons," he said with all the attitude you would expect. #obxdiva

At the time, I didn't even know any attorneys...except for one whose family I'd photographed a couple years earlier. I was trying to handle my own divorce- with only google as my counsel. Apparently, my diva thought this imaginary law-job was just going to fall from the sky.

Always trust your gay...they have crystal balls. #punintended 

In the blink of an eye, I was shopping for said pencil skirts and heels for my new position at a law firm. (I'm still not sure if it was my photography skills or my hip hop knowledge that landed me the position!)

"Like you needed any reason to perfect your arguing..." my sweet mama told me, while shopping.

"I OBJECT!"

"My point exactly, dear."

So life changed...and it was an exciting and welcomed change. I learned how to walk in heels again- I learned that getting myself out of a speeding ticket has nothing to do with crying- and I learned how to get divorced, with the help of my bossman. (The speeding & divorce part...not walking in heels.)

"I'm so proud of you, sugar...you have a career now. Well...another career," Daddy said one day, when he dropped off pimento and cheese to me at work.

After he passed away, I would stand in the spot that he said those words to me, close my eyes and see him standing there. I would hear him say those words, clear as a bell. Something about seeing him walk into the door at my office, made it tough to make the move to a new office.

Last month, my boss opened his own firm in Kitty Hawk. The first morning I drove to our new place of business, I took the beach road. Daddy always told me it was just as fast- and I, for once, wasn't in a huge hurry. I got to the Kitty Hawk line and could see the ocean- it was calm and breathtaking. I turned the radio up and heard Chris Stapleton's voice bellowing out a song that always seems to play when I am already thinking about my daddy. {Daddy Don't Pray Anymore}

As I rounded the curve by the Kitty Hawk Pier, I got chills as a memory struck me. My Daddy spent summers in Kitty Hawk when he was little. His grandparents had a house in Southern Shores- one of the only houses there back then. I wiped away the tears I had tried desperately to fight back as I thought of a young Don Spencer, running in the sand...fishing on the shoreline...telling stories with his grandparents.

Our attitude definitely determines our ride. My new office is filled with memories of my daddy that I bring with me each day. And my rides to work? Well, they're filled with ocean views and chats with my favorite angel. #blessingsindisguise 

Ready, Set, A(ddi)CTION

Addiction. Heroin. Overdose.

Three words that swirl around in conversation in today's world- but somehow don't rock our youth the way they should.

We always spoke candidly about addiction in my house when I was growing up. My cousin was and is an addict. Looking back, I'm so thankful that addiction wasn't brushed under the rug in my family. Learning the ugly truths and reality of it at a young age scared me to death. I was a total band geek, but seeing first hand how drugs ruined lives killed any curiosity I might've had.

Today, kids aren't afraid of anything. Society tells us not to punish them- let them get their feelings hurt or God forbid, let them lose at something. Our children are growing up thinking that anything they do can be undone and that nothing they do is ever really wrong. That, my friends, is bullshit.

Kids today aren't just smoking pot by the tennis courts- they are skipping school and shooting heroin in hotel rooms...and dying. There is no 'undo' when you die. This is real life and real death. This is happening right now and I feel like most parents are completely ignoring the giant, purple elephant in the room.

My child would never do that...

God bless. I hope not. But if we don't talk about these issues with our babies- they won't know the real truth about addiction. Hell, maybe we all need to be educated a bit on addiction.

Allow me to enlighten and horrify you, all at the same time...

A young girl I've known since she was around 11 years old is now a 19 year old heroin addict. Her name is Emerson Gardner. She has overdosed a half-dozen times- the most recent time almost dying. It took three Narcan shots to bring her back.

I argue with myself over the use of Narcan. Yes, it saves lives and that is incredible. If it was my baby laying there overdosing, I would want sell my soul to the devil to save her. But how many times can you push 'undo'? 

Once discharged from the hospital, Emerson went back to her dealer, purchased more heroin and shot up, yet again. Today her current routine is to wake up, get high, go about her day, get high, then go to bed. More often than not, she sleeps all day and stays up all night getting high.

In answering my questions, Emerson hopes young kids and curious adults will hear her story and understand how serious this drug is. She wants to help others...but she isn't ready to help herself. {Maybe reading her own story in my words will help her, too.}

"I started with just snorting pills when I was about 14, but as I started doing it more and more, I slowly started getting introduced to more and more people who then introduced me to heroin... it was cheaper & easier to get... I switched from snorting to shooting 5 days before my 15th birthday. I remember it like it was yesterday"

My heart stopped. When I was 15, I was scared to put eyeliner on my waterline, much less a needle into my body! 

When Emerson was 16, she lost her father. But admittedly, this only gave her one more excuse to go further down the heroin rabbit hole.

Now I know what you're thinking. Well, she lost her father...what was her home life like? How did she grow up? And again...this wouldn't happen to my child because I'm not raising them like that,

But I can promise you- you are. Addiction doesn't discriminate- it can choose your son, your sister or your neighborhood best friend. This young girl didn't grow up all that different that I did. {Except she was a cheerleader and I was a band nerd.} Emerson didn't want for much but wasn't a trust fund child either. She grew up with a loving mother who instilled a work ethic in all of her children. A mother who was there at her kids' games, teacher conferences, etc. She was there for them when they needed her. Emerson had a horse- she played sports- did well in school...she was the girl next door- who is addicted to heroin. To look at her, even during her second or third year as an addict, if you didn't know you wouldn't have had a clue that this beautiful, curly haired teenager was putting needles into her veins and filling her body with poison.

What is her mother doing now? Has she tried to get her help?

She is doing everything she can to save her daughter's life. The problem with addicts is that unless he or she wants saving...there is almost nothing we can do to help them. We can provide them with knowledge- provide them with detox and rehab- but unless they want it and are willing to fight for it not against it, it won't work.

Emerson says she wants help- but can't handle the withdraws. However, she has had help. She has been in detox/rehab programs and gotten through the withdraws but still couldn't kick heroin out of her life. Her mother provided a car for her to work and return to school. {She recently allowed her dealer access to her car in exchange for heroin- he totaled it.} Her mother put her on a weekly budget- to make it that much more difficult for her to make the purchase. But again- if the addict doesn't want to quit, they won't...no matter how many roadblocks we toss in their path. 

What can we do?

Truly, I have no idea. But talking about it is a start. #talkittodeath 

It doesn't matter how old your babies are- communication is a beautiful thing. {Your children are not to young. This poison is in our middle schools, not just high school.} Teach your babies about the scary, scary truths. Put a face on addiction and help them to understand that one time, one try can ruin the rest of their lives.

My hope is to help at least one person. Maybe reading this will help one addict realize that they can fight this...or maybe it will help one parent realize they need to talk with their children about addiction...or maybe it will deter one teenager from trying a drug their friends have been using. 

Please take a moment & talk about addiction with your family- don't let this topic get brushed under the rug! 

Stitches & Giggles

{Disclaimer: If you don't like talking about gross stuff & stitches, skip this one}

I know that is an odd way to start a post- but I don't want to make anyone pass out at their desk. I'm far from squeamish. Growing up, I always accompanied my animals, big and small, into surgery. I was once thrilled to aid an ER doctor in draining a cyst on my dad's back. (Seriously, if you're squirming now- stop reading.) I've helped stitch, passed the scalpel & uttered the words "Oh my God, her bone is totally exposed!" without flinching. 

With that said, it is no surprise that I actually googled how to remove a knot behind my knee myself. I know, I know...all ten of you just panicked. This knot has been around for about 12 years. When I first went to the doctor, it was biopsied to death and doctors were a little unsure of what it was, except that it was NOT cancerous. I had been kicked in this particular leg a handful of times, so I truly didn't have much feeling in the 'knot' area. Scar tissue? Sebaceous cyst? A combination of the two? At that time, no doctor wanted to remove it for whatever reason. 

For years, it didn't bother me. Granted, a few years after it moved into my life, I became a mommy- so my focus was definitely not on myself. Cut to {pun intended} a few months ago when I started training for the half-marathon...and it started feeling weird so off to the doctor I went.

"It's a cyst...we can get you an appointment to get that out- no problem at all!" the doctor said.

The appointment was made and a few weeks later- it was removal day. I purposely wore a long dress, so I wouldn't have to put on an awful gown- knowing it would be about 10 below in the office. The doctor came in & I began chatting it up. #giftofgab

"So can I sit up and watch you cut it out?!" I asked...probably too excitedly.

"Um, sure..." he said.

"I googled how to do it myself. I figured if you couldn't get me in, I could probably just pop that sucker out on my own!" I giggled, realizing that I was not only making the doctor really uncomfortable, but I was doing exactly what my dad would do in such situations. 

He didn't reply...or laugh. This guy has no personality.

"Okay, I've numbed the area. You shouldn't feel anything but if you do, please let me know," he said, as he put the scalpel to my skin.

"OH MY GOD!" I yelped, "Just kidding...don't feel a thing," I said with a very proud smile on my face.

Again, he did not think I was funny. But I knew that my daddy was laughing his tail off because that is exactly what he would've done.

Only in Wanchese

"I'm going for a run, honey!"

"I really don't like you running at night...at least take Tuff with you," my sweet husband told me.

Mind you, Tuff is far from the definition of his name. He is 70lbs worth of white lab snuggles. So I chuckled to myself when it was suggested that I bring him along.

It was a quiet night. Missy Elliott and I were totally flipping it and reversing it when out of nowhere, a chocolate lab appears. I jump out of my skin because naturally, I didn't hear him coming. #thanksdrdre Tuff, being startled by my squeal...barked, scared himself and dove in between my legs.

The chocolate lab seemed harmless. He was wagging his tail and very excited to see company at 9 something at night. I tried to shoo him away so we could carry on...right about the time that Tuff decided he must defend his mother's honor & jumped at said chocolate lab. As luck would have it, I also went flying towards the chocolate lab, since at some point, the leash had gotten wrapped around my legs. I landed head first, feet and legs in the air, in the middle of the lab-argument. #fantastic

They both stopped and looked at me wide-eyed. Tuff braced for impact, knowing he was getting ready to get in big trouble. However, I couldn't sufficiently scold him because not only was I tangled in the leash, but I was also tangled my dang headphone cord. I looked like a calf that had been roped in a rodeo!

I finally got to my feet and the damn chocolate lab was still there...bouncing like bunny rabbit, I'm assuming singing "where are we going?! what are we doing?! are you my mommy?!" Again, I tried to shoo him...nothing. I picked up a stick & threw it, thinking he would chase it. No, he jumped up and caught it midair. #impressive Finally, I decided we would just run for it, assuming that eventually he would get tired of running and stop.

Except labs never get tired...of anything...ever.

He ran all the way home with us, trying to race/play with Tuff the entire time. When we strolled into the driveway, he joined us...like "So this is where we live...cooooool!" I yelled go home- and off he went.

My upper body certainly wishes I would've thought of that sooner. Shew! Next time, I'll opt for my pepper spray instead of my lab! #thanksbabe

Nothing Runs Like A Deere, But I Try!

I watched the posts rolling in the day of the Outer Banks Marathon. I was particularly excited to see one special runner cross the finish line and post a photo with her mama. She ran for her daddy, who she lost the year before to cancer.

A few days later, I sent her a message...

I'm so proud of you! You inspired me...maybe next year I will run with you!

She replied, "Yes!! FYI there is a half in April!"

I looked up the Flying Pirate online immediately. Although I've started 'couch to 5k' about 10 times and quit when it got tough, something in me was really excited about trying again...and you know, trying for 13.1 miles and not just a little over 3.

April 23...I read it and started to cry. I started typing my reply...

I just googled it...it's the first anniversary of Daddy's diagnosis. It's meant to be!

She replied, "Perfect! We will run in your daddy's honor!"

I knew I would have to start training soon- otherwise, I would never make it. The next weekend I broke out my running shoes and hit the pavement. I ran to the end of my road and back- running one minute, walking the next and so on...it was a little less than 2 miles and I cussed, when I wasn't gasping for air, the entire 30 minutes. My lungs hurt. I felt like I was going to cough up a blood clot and possibly die. At one point I looked at the sky, in true Fred Sanford form and whispered, "I might see ya soon, Daddy!" 

When I made it home, I collapsed on the couch and didn't move for the rest of the day. As the shock wore off, so did the pain that I thought I was in. My muscles forgave me and I realized something...I did it. I took the first step and nothing bad happened. 

The next morning I got up and did it again. This time, trying some of the breathing tips I read about during my post-run couch-coma, I didn't think I was going to die...not one single time.

That was in November and I'm still going strong. I alternate using the Couch to 5k app with other apps for running. (Couch to 5k builds you up from walk/run to running. Each day you run a little more, walk a little less.) When one run seems rough, I do that same run again the next day. I started not only tolerating my runs, but enjoying them...even looking forward and depending on them!

I never thought I would be a 'runner' (granted I run slower than a turtle in peanut butter) but I think I am. It resets my mind and gives me peace. I have found that I need my runs more than I need coffee in the morning. (And that is saying something.) I don't stick with just mornings or just evenings- I switch back and forth. Sometimes, if I have a really stressful day, I do both...not for my body or for training, necessarily, but for my sanity and the safety of others. 

Knowing that I'm running for my daddy gave me the drive to try it, again- and stick with it this time. In the still of my early morning and late evening meetings with the asphalt, I feel his spirit with me. I hear him telling me to take it easy, bud...but don't give up. 

So Don Deere...on April 23 I'm going to do my best to run like a deere. ;-)