When it’s Hard to Let Go   

I didn’t intend for 2020 to become the Year of Trying Things I’ve Always Been Afraid to Try Before.

But apparently, it has become just that. (Among other things, which we will forgo discussing in this post.)

Last week, I wrote about how my daughter who loves to run managed to get me running outside on the trail at least once or twice week. She’s quite persuasive, and a great coach.

Truth be told, though, I didn’t really have a choice. I mean, I’ve devoted a significant amount of words over the years to encouraging her to persevere and stick with hard stuff and not give up when she gets frustrated.

It would be kind of hypocritical if I refused to try something hard and gave up the first (or 789^th) time my joints creaked or my muscles ached during a run.

So, while I’m still waiting for that elusive feeling of God’s pleasure when I run (or is that only for Olympic athletes who won’t race on Sundays?) I’m doing my best to persevere.

I look up now when I run. It was hard at first, but I got used to it.

What I didn’t realize was that my outside running lessons would spill over to my form (or lack thereof) on the treadmill. But my dear coach noticed a connection I failed to see.

“You’ve got to stop hanging on to the treadmill when you run, Mom,” she said.

I was aware that I held on to the arms of the treadmill. I’ve been doing it for years, maybe even decades. Really, though—how much difference could it make?

I tried letting go one day, and I couldn’t believe how hard it was. Not hard as in fighting cancer or running a marathon or Navy SEAL training, of course. But for this almost-50-year-old woman who had previously thought she was in pretty good shape, it was tough.

Turns out, I had no idea how much I had depended on the arms of my treadmill to hold me up when I was running.

I held onto them. I leaned on them. I pretty much used them as a crutch. And because I had always done it, I didn’t realize how much it was hampering me.

It even affected even the way I was holding my hands when I ran outside (though I didn’t realize this until Molly took pictures of Lilly and me on one of our runs).

I knew if I was going to make any progress in my running, I would have to stop holding on. But I didn’t want to stop. I know it sounds silly and dramatic, but with everything in me, I wanted to keep hanging on.

Before I started running outside, I had been using the incline on the treadmill quite a bit and running at a pretty quick pace for a good part of my workouts. I knew if I didn’t hold on, I probably wouldn’t be able to do this as much.

It felt like regression to me, but also a case of not being able to move forward unless you go back. So I slowed down and stopped using the incline. Bit by bit, I’m adding in minutes of not holding on.

At first, my hands naturally gravitated back to the bars, almost as if they had a will of their own. Now, I can go for much longer without holding on, but when I rest my hands on the bars for a moment or too, I still can’t believe how much easier it is.

This whole thing is making me wonder. What else am I hanging on to?

A few weeks ago, I wrote about holding things loosely. I’m working on that, but what do I need to let go of entirely? And how about you?

Maybe it’s clothes we don’t wear, and never will. Documents we will never need. Home décor we used to love but have since packed away. Kitchen gadgets collecting dust on the top shelf. Expired medication.

Or perhaps we’re hanging on to unhealthy friendships, unforgiveness, resentments, fears or our expectations for other people.

Hanging on to one thing can affect other things, as I discovered when I saw the pictures of myself running. Sometimes the fix is as simple as remembering to run with my hands in fists, rather than splayed all over the place.