Bravery in Running.
I come from a family of runners.
Not sprinters or joggers or marathon enthusiasts, but runners. Or at least I think I do.
I don’t really know my extended family members. In fact, I was never really given a chance to meet them and decide for myself if I wanted to know them. My parents made the decision for me. My parents- the runners.
When I was a child and I met my dad for the first time, I remember wondering how on earth he and my mom stood in a room long enough to even talk to each other, let alone make offspring. Nothing about them seemed to organically fit together in any kind of way. They each felt like the jagged edges of broken glass bottles forced together in a Kevorkian-esq experiment that should never have happened in the first place. My mom and my dad being my parents made no sense in my little brain but now, as I’ve experienced more things in life, I’ve realized one thing they had in common: running.
My parents were both from the South Side of Chicago, but wouldn’t meet until their fates crossed at an Army base in Germany. While my mother is not alive to tell her side of the story, I know for a fact that my dad enlisted into the military to evade the street life that had come knocking on his front door. My mother, demonstrated with her actions the disdain she had for home, by making sure to never take us back there. Both parents would, at separate times, relay the harrowing tales of violence and trauma they each endured as children. They would use their pasts as a form of discipline, often dangling the threat of their hometowns over the heads of my siblings and I as a form of punishment should any of us continue to misbehave.
It’s because of this that my brother and I don’t know either side of our family very well. It was directly and indirectly drilled into us that anyone beyond our immediate family bubble should be considered the types of people we really shouldn’t want to get to know- and so we didn’t. And as adults, we’ve continued on with the legacy of running that our parents started for us.
It’s an interesting word “running”.
Depending on the perspective, the idea can have good and bad connotations. My it was clear that my parents felt the need to run away from their pasts. To some this can feel like cowardice, to others it can feel like bravery and survival. Unlike my parents however, the impetus to run for me centers on moving towards a more promising future that aligns with the vision I have for my life.
My “running” gene is strong. It informs my incessant need to change my life as often as necessary to ensure I that, while I am on this earth and in this body, I live up to my potential by creating the most fulfilled existence possible. Any time I’ve felt like moving, enrolling in higher education, changing jobs, shifting life goals or taking on new life projects, I’ve done so without haste.
In a conversation with a friend recently it shocked me to learn that she viewed an upcoming transition in her life as running away from her past. While I viewed her transition as running toward the next chapter in her life, she associated it with failure. She believed she’d be running away from what she felt was unfinished business, and by doing so, she was admitting defeat.
I can understand her viewpoint. It can be said that, similar to my parents, I ran away from my hometown in Virginia because I didn’t see a life for me there or that I ran away from Chicago, because it was not everything I had hoped it would be. But with everything I’ve gained in all of my “running”, it’s difficult for me to see my decisions as anything but beneficial at every touch point.
The importance of perspective.
For whatever reason, I am a critical optimist- I see the best in things and people, and I believe the best is yet to come for me most of the time. But I also am able to take into consideration the way things could potentially not work in my favor- but this, what I call doubt, is rarely present in how I think of my life. The faith I have in the universe’s plan for me is unmatched. I just kind of inherently know I will always be taken care of as long as I do my part.
It took a while for me to understand that bravery is also a part of this equation. The ability to leave an environment you know and are comfortable with can be a paralyzing and terrifying situation to consider. I think because the military kept my parents active and moving to new bases the fear that is often associated with such transitions is, quite simply not present within me. For me, fear lies in the idea of never trying and living with regret. It has never donned on me however, the potential hesitations my parents may have felt after growing up in a segregated town like Chicago and choosing to leave it for the promise of whatever may lie ahead. I imagine that for them, the fear of staying was heavier than the fear of escaping.
Finding the fire inside.
I wish more people could have the same fire within them as I do to chase the things they know are waiting for them. What a world it would be if more of us had the ability to replace our fear with critical optimism, and lean into the fact that we know the world is not out to get us as long as we follow the paths that come our way.
Running, depending on how you frame it could be the difference in fulfilling life well-lived and a life never fully realized. Knowing when to leave, and when to fight to stay is hard. But when the lists are made and the pros and cons are weighed, if the only thing holding you back is fear of the unknown, perhaps taking a chance and trying would be better than not trying at all.
The choice is really, up to you.