The Why

By: Mimi Albert

Re-post from my June 2017 Runner’s World piece.

In 2008 my then-boyfriend ran the New York City Half Marathon. He’d train after work, running anywhere from three to ten miles along the East River path. I thought he was nuts. I’d been a runner since high school, but had never run more than three miles at a time. Why would anyone ever run more than three miles?

I was so disinterested in his half marathon attempt that I didn’t even go to the race to cheer him on or meet him at the finish line. I chose to sleep in, instead—that seemed like the sane choice.

While training for—and subsequently running—the half marathon, my boyfriend was also a (somewhat) functioning alcoholic. I wonder, now, how many of his “runs” were really to the bar or liquor store. About a year after the race, his drinking spiraled completely out of control. He was forced into a rehab program by his work, and mandated to continue outpatient treatment. He’d insist he was sober, but I could smell the alcohol seeping through his skin, and I’d find mini vodka bottles stuffed into the couch.

Eventually he had to move back to California, where we both were from. I moved back to Morningside Heights, where I had lived in college. I started a new job, and at the same time started graduate school and nursed a broken heart. Deep down I knew, however, it was for the best. Taking care of his problems helped me avoid my own, of which there were plenty. Without someone else’s issues to deal with, my own resurfaced: I had been diagnosed with depression and anxiety when I was 16. I developed an eating disorder in high school, recovered for a few years, but relapsed my sophomore year of college.

In 2009, when we broke up, I had been in recovery for four years. But now, so much felt, once again, out of my control. How could I pay back my student loans? What if I’d never find love again? What if I didn’t get a job that paid enough after graduate school? What if… what if… what if?

I decided to save as much money as possible. I wouldn’t shop or go out, and I would spend as little as possible on food per day. Trying to control my food budget became a concealed exercise in restricting my eating—an excuse to do so. And since I couldn’t afford a $30 spin class, I decided to run for exercise. Running, after-all, was free, and it would help me shed those stubborn pounds that I felt like I “desperately” needed to lose.

I started with about two miles at a time through Riverside Park where I ran in college. Soon I was running three miles, then four, and then six. I discovered that the more I ran, the better I felt. When I ran, I wasn’t thinking about loans, or work, or love. When I ran, I solved all the world’s problems in my head. I would come up with ideas and think about goals I could set for myself. My mind and my body felt free. For the first time I noticed definition in my abs and my arms. Running (and restricting my diet) seemed to be working. I felt like I looked great! But when those two miles jumped to 10 and then to 13, my diet didn’t change. Slowly but steadily I began to disappear. I stopped hanging out with friends or doing any social activities. I wanted to save my energy for running, because if I was running then I wasn’t thinking, and if I wasn’t thinking, I wasn’t feeling.

I noticed something else happened when I began to run more. I was fast(ish). I knew that if I raced, I would probably do well. But, I didn’t want to race because it cost money, and I knew that I would have to train properly—and fuel properly. Besides, any decent training program would include some tapering, and that was out of the question. So I just ran.

I ran through negative temperatures and the oppressive NYC summer humidity. I ran through aches, pains, and screams from my body, begging me to stop. I ignored signs of injury, exhaustion, malnutrition, and dehydration. I told myself I was stronger than that. I ignored the concern of my coworkers and roommates. If I just kept running I figured maybe I would finally get somewhere.

The day before my 27th birthday I went for a celebratory run. Armed only with my iPod Nano and my apartment key, I set out for 13 miles. Around mile eight, my knee started to hurt (spoiler alert, it was IT band syndrome), and every stride was excruciating. By mile 10, I knew my run was over, but I was still three miles from home. I had no money for a cab and I had left my MetroCard at home. My only choice was to walk, which at the time felt like failure. And then, if on cue, it started to rain. I returned home drenched, in pain, and completely defeated. There was nothing to do but cry.

So after 99 of the longest minutes of my life on the elliptical, I met my brother at the theater. Halfway through the movie I had to go outside because I couldn’t breathe. I bought an apple from a cart on the street because it was the only thing I felt ok to eat. I went back to the theater and told my brother I was fine, but I wasn’t.

When I got home that night I thought I was going to die. I could feel my heart shutting down and I had to make a decision: Did I want to continue like this and end up in the hospital or dead, or did I want to live? I thought about what I loved, what gave me joy, and the only thing I could think about was running. I decided that night that if I wanted to run then I needed to live. And if I wanted to run and live then I needed to eat. I decided then that if I was going to keep living to run then I was going to see what I could do when I set goals.

On July 25, 2011, sometime around 10 p.m. I decided that running was worth living for.

Since then, I’ve run countless half marathons (I even won one!), 10Ks, trail races, and Ragnar Relays. I started to set my sights on the Boston Marathon. My dad is a native Bostonian and when I chose running, we started talking about how, when I ran the Boston Marathon he’d come with me. Marathon Monday was always one of his favorite days of the year.

I qualified for the Boston marathon on my home turf in Los Angeles on Valentine’s Day, 2016, and, though I had moved to Northern California in 2012, I made a triumphant return to New York to run the NYC Marathon in November, 2016.

On April 17, 2017, I ran the Boston Marathon. As soon as I made it to the top of Heartbreak Hill, I spotted my dad. I was exhausted, but a rush of adrenaline ran through me, and I sprinted to him and gave him the biggest hug I could muster. In that moment, I had never felt more alive. My heart had never felt so full or so strong, and I knew I had made the right choice.

Every run—and especially every race—teaches me something new. Boston wasn’t a perfect race, far from it. But it was perfect for what I needed that day. Running takes patience, adaptability, and resilience. There have been times (more than I’d like) that I have been injured, and so I have to seek the solace I find from running elsewhere.

That discipline and pursuit has allowed me to be better at everything I do. It’s changed the way I approach challenges and opportunities. It’s taught me to be grateful for what I have. It’s taught me how to live.