I Started Because I Could

On running, painting, and learning to begin again

I ran the Chicago Marathon when I was four months pregnant with Oliver. It wasn’t my intent to run a marathon pregnant–Why would anyone do that? Do you know how often you have to stop at porta potties along the course?–but I was training for a new PR. When I found out I was pregnant, I had a 17-mile run the weekend before.

“I just ran 17 miles over the weekend,” I told the doctor at that initial appointment.

“It’s okay. Your body is used to it.”

“So I can keep running?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said, in a way that felt almost dismissive.

So I continued to run. 5Ks, 10Ks, even placing in my age group. I ran a half marathon in St. Louis that was supposed to be a training run, but since I was pregnant, I approached it with a different focus–just run it, listen to your body, and don’t worry about the time. I wrote ‘baby on board’ on the back of my tank and received more than a few negative comments from other runners.

Later, I decided they were just salty that a pregnant woman had passed them.

It goes without saying that I didn’t set a new PR in Chicago. It was my slowest marathon, but I finished, and that felt like enough.

When I share that story now, it sounds like I’ve always been a crazed runner.

But I didn’t start that way.

I began running in junior high after not making the volleyball and basketball teams, cheerleading, and the flag squad.

I ran track because you didn’t have to try out. They took everyone.

I was slow, so I became an 800 runner, which is an arguably brutal race. I think the logic was she’s slow, so maybe it’s better if she’s slow over a longer distance. Eventually, I picked up the mile, too.

I hadn’t planned to run in high school, but a senior approached me in study hall and told me they needed runners in cross country. She intimidated me just enough that I said I’d join.

I wasn’t fast. But somewhere along the way, I grew to love running. And I kept going. I ran regularly in college and became that crazed runner after having Emma. My time dropped with every race, and that was enough to hook me. How fast can I get?

The morning of my first marathon.

These days, I’m more of a 5K runner, though I still want to get back to a place where a 10K feels easy. It’s my favorite distance. There’s no better feeling than pounding out 10.2 miles and realizing you maintained a pace that surprises you at the finish line.

But when I started, none of that mattered.

There’s a beauty in the openness that comes from youth. You try things simply because they’re there. No overthinking. Just—why not?

Somewhere along the way, that changes.

We start researching instead of doing. Planning instead of beginning. Thinking. Overthinking.

For nearly a year, I wanted to take an African dance class in Mexico City. Every week, I looked up the schedule. Every week, I didn’t go. I even emailed once to ask about payment, had a friend who agreed to go with me, only to not ever go.

I watched the videos instead. Sometimes they brought in drummers, and it looked like so much fun.

I wanted to start flamenco, too. I visited a studio, where I met a student from Málaga. She gave me the teacher’s number, and when I messaged, I learned that I couldn’t start classes on my birthday as I had planned, that I’d have to wait till January.

Then I went to Paris. Life moved on, but the desire stayed.

I just wanted a creative outlet beyond writing.

And then, one day in Paris, I walked into an art shop and bought watercolors, paper, and brushes.

This doesn’t seem like a big deal, but I have no visual art talent. I love art and can spend hours in a museum, but when it comes to putting something on paper, it’s a mess. Even my handwriting is mostly illegible.

When I taught high school, I advised a social justice club, and we made posters to hang in the hallways. My students’ signs looked like art–the lettering, the spacing, the drawings. When I held mine up, one of them said politely, “Let’s just say you have other talents.” We all laughed, mostly because she was right.

My grandma was a professional artist, and every summer my sister and I would go to her house for what she called art camp. She’d set up still life bouquets of flowers, arrange easels in the shade of her backyard, and teach us how to paint.

My flowers were flat. Basic. Circles with petals. Eventually, she focused her attention on my sister.

And yet, here I am in my 40s, learning how to mix colors and thin paint with water, wishing she were here, just to show me again.

Just like those early laps around the track that weren’t pretty, I’ve realized they don’t have to be.

I didn’t start because I was good at it.

I started because I could.