Ability

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The video was my husband’s idea, and in hindsight, I’m so glad he “pulled over” trailside and took it, because otherwise, I’d have precious few visuals to use with this post. True, it’s a poor representation of the lovely images flashing through my memory of our late Valentine’s date at Elk Mountain Ski Resort. But despite how nonchalant I might seem transitioning between the “Mahican” and “Schuylkill” runs, I was far too focused on staying upright, injury-free, and warm, to go through the trouble of digging out my phone and snapping photos of my own.

The views at Elk were breathtaking, and I mean that literally. In the moments I felt controlled enough to look up and out, I found myself gasping, yelling, “Look at that!” to no one in particular, and smiling so widely and for so long that my face froze, painfully joker-esque. 🤡

Outdoor activities always seem to morph me into a jubilant little kid; I don’t need to be an expert schussing down black diamonds to feel the intoxicating rush of the purest “natural high.” Skiing offers a potent cocktail of freedom, empowerment, possibility, and connection to all that’s “right” with the world.

I mean, when I was an actual little kid tagging along with the ski club at my aunt’s school back in the Midwest, I remember spending entire outings tugging on the tow rope and snowplowing down the bunny slope and feeling the same exhilaration.

Skiing reminds me that the mere ability to move, regardless of skill level, or how I look, is a precious gift. A celebration of life.

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Movement is life for me, and always has been, but somewhere along the line, I lost the celebratory aspect of the plot. I imposed stifling boundaries on that boundless joy I felt as a young girl learning to ski on humble hills in southern Wisconsin, and I’m just now learning to tear them down/get it back.

I was blissfully ignorant, back then, of both my body shape and size and the impermanence of youthful advantage: flexibility, energy, mental/emotional/hormonal stability, the absence of real-world responsibility…

I was ignorant, too, of my privilege, taking for granted an able body, access to safe, open spaces, and the opportunity to go out and play, to participate freely in any activity that tickled my fancy. From skiing with Aunt Barb to camping and hiking with the Girl Scouts to four-wheeling around Grandma and Grandpa’s farm to competing in community and school sports every season of the year…my family wasn’t rich, but our lifestyle afforded me a wealth of experiences.

Looking back, the only real limits on my athletic adventures were self-imposed. Somewhere along the line, I learned to equate my ability with my worth as a human and see my activities primarily as a pathway to external validation — which, I know now, was my first addictive drug. Enter perfectionism, fear of failure, and a “fixed mindset” that kept me from trying anything I might not be instantly good at — and thus, missing the whole point of being alive.

Oh, what a waste, to go on believing your body is meant to perform and present for other people’s pleasure!

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The 7th of every month is significant in our house, marked on the kitchen calendar as another month of alcohol-free living (July 7, 2019 –> March 7, 2025 = 69….nice!). Over all this time, my sobriety has become about much more than just giving up booze; it’s about finally beginning to respect my body after decades of self-abuse.

My adult approach to physical activity has mostly been punitive, rigid, fueled by insecurity and a false sense of purpose I never stopped to question. I decided in my late teens/20s that movement was nonnegotiably necessary to keep me thin, or “lean,” or preferably make me smaller. I believed I was required to go out there every day and perform to a certain standard for a certain length of time/number of “reps,” on certain types of athletic tasks, and “win,” or “succeed” in some kind of competition, even if it was only made up in my head.

And at the end of each day, I would incessantly inspect and pick myself apart in the mirror — with my third or fourth drink in hand — concluding most often that, no, I hadn’t done nearly enough.

For who, for what? Hell if I knew!

It’s been one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, unpacking and unlearning “diet culture” and “hustle culture” and all the “cultures” that spring from patriarchal, capitalist systems and profit from starving, shrinking and beating ourselves into a preoccupied, submissive pulp.

Freeing my mind and spirit from the trap of alcoholism has opened my eyes to the ways I still keep my physical body in bondage, and it’s clear that breaking that habit is the necessary next step in my recovery journey.

I simply do not want to live another day not loving myself fully. Part of that is accepting changes in my body and physical abilities as I ride the rogue wave of perimenopause toward my 47th birthday on the 7th of next month. …

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Another part of that is understanding that I, as a human being, am so much more than my physical being. How much I weigh, what size pants I wear, how much weight I’m lifting or the speed I’m running…none of that has anything to do with how I show up and attend to my therapy clients. The whole point of this work is to get out of my own headspace and hold space, be present, for other people.

My physical fitness is not irrelevant to my overall wellbeing and quality of life, but to weaponize it in the service of perfectionism is “not it” for a mature(ing) adult woman who’s committed to growth in recovery. To allow body dissatisfaction to continue to intrude upon my true purpose, getting into my head and distracting me or shaping my mood, is flat-out disrespectful to the woman who worked her ass off to stay sober and reinvent herself in midlife.

(If it wasn’t clear, that woman is me.)

I believe strongly in practicing what I preach as a therapist; how can I call myself Person-Centered or advertise “self-esteem” as a specialty without removing the conditions from my own self-love and treating myself with positive regard?

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I’ve had to cut down on my running this season, given how wrecked my hips, hamstrings and lower back feel after 45 minutes expending energy on the trail and then 5-6 hours absorbing it in a too-soft therapist’s chair.

I just started doing this job on a full-time basis nine months ago, and I need to get it through my head now that caring for the body of a 46-going-on-47-year-old, mostly sedentary helping professional looks a lot different than whatever I used to do — or not do — as a 20/30-something sports reporter.

So, twice a week is the most you’ll catch me out cruising the state parks.

Well, actually, make that singular — park — because the last time I was at the Delaware Canal, I saw flocks of geese doing their (ahem) mating routine, and I ain’t chancing an attack by one of those nasty f*ckers 😱.

I’m gonna miss this view ⬇️, but if you’ve ever happened upon a goose that’s protecting its nest, you understand that taking a break is for the best…

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I’m sticking to Tyler for the foreseeable future, which might mean cutting down to once a week. Running at Tyler means pounding on pavement, and up multiple hills, and depending on the day, it can be 😰 or 🥵 or 😵 (<— that one’s apparently supposed to mean “dead”), but it rarely feels….😎.

The Old Me would make the struggle mean something negative — You’re so fat and out of shape! You’ve really let yourself go! — but The New Me feels proud to keep getting up and at it, taking on the challenge, come what may, and using it until I lose it. I’m satisfied with my effort and deeply grateful for my ability to even try.

Yeah, gotta admit it kinda sucks that The New Me is, in fact, getting old. Some of you reading this might understand the frustration; you finally get your shit together mentally and emotionally while your body hits the skids, turning into some “Twilight Zone” version of the creature you thought you knew and presenting with some fresh hellishness every day…

My husband and I were just talking about what it’s like to age and having to make peace with inevitable changes in our bodies. We were on one of our twice-weekly morning walks, a regimen we started back in November to distract ourselves from election drama. And I’m laughing now, because I didn’t even count this a few paragraphs ago when I wrote about spending time in Tyler State. But yeah, there are days when a leisurely walk in the park with my partner is the only exercise I get…and this has become second nature. I’m perfectly OK with it.

Getting sober and getting busy with the real work of recovery will, and does, lead to a new, broader perspective on “good health,” and a reprioritization of what’s important — e.g., the strength of your relationships > the strength of your core.

Our ability to get outside and experience great beauty, real joy and authentic connection together is the real 💪🏻, and it’s exactly as 🥳 as it looks!