#*the exception being my actually very well-founded fears for my mum's health in the weeks before her brain tumour diagnosis

[sealochs]

Hey girl! How does the evidence for evidence against exercise work? Would love to try it on my own anxiety lol

hello! so the evidence for evidence against exercise is like taking your anxiety to court. put her on trial! cross-examine her! she's a liar, your honour!

on the face of it, it's very simple, like it's so simple i can't believe it works so well; it makes me feel simple every time it works. i will say that it does sort of rely on you focusing on one (1) fear, on one main thing that's causing you to be anxious; but there's nothing to stop you doing it multiple times for multiple anxieties, one by one, if you find it hard to separate or identify a principal cause. although, even the act of doing that can help; what are you principally anxious about, & which extra anxieties are you recruiting to that cause? i often find my seemingly generalised anxiety is actually a pretty specific one when i sit down & force myself to be honest on paper, but that doesn't mean that's true for everyone!

when you have your one (1) fear, you basically sit & you write a list of evidence for that fear coming true; a list of evidence for your anxiety being entirely reasonable and founded in a rational reading of reality. when you do this, & i think it helps to do it by hand, you realise you have much less hard evidence than your brain has led you to believe. last night, i discovered a lot of mine were starting with the word 'maybe', & what followed was just wild conjecture. objection, your honour! sustained! strike that last from the record!

then, you write a list of evidence against. this might be a list of actions or words from someone that would indicate that they do not, in fact, hate you. or a list of previous achievements that would indicate that you are not, in fact, doomed to fail the challenge you're currently facing. or a list of facts about a situation that act as alternative explanations for something bad having happened, and so indicate that it was not, in fact, all your fault. this list might also include reasons why things on your 'for' list may not, actually, constitute hard evidence. the jury are nodding their heads, they're murmuring approval, they're casting nasty glances at your anxiety in the witness box.

you can stop there, but i've found that writing that second list of evidence against often turns into a general free writing exercise where i start to explore the thing that's making me anxious from a far more rational perspective; i've found it works as a way into empathy, into generously & in good faith imagining what another person might really think, might really feel, or how a situation might really turn out, without the ultimately self-centred & distortive lens of anxiety blinding me. i am literally always stunned when it works in this way, when my brain - which was just one hour ago already spiralling into a grief process for something that hasn't happened yet - manages to do a complete one-eighty & see the situation entirely differently.

which is probably the final thing to note: i've often found that doing this exercise is in itself a terrifying prospect, & i've often put it off or simply not done it, & Suffered instead. because it's like: but what if i prove myself right? what if i do actually come up with a lot of hard evidence that this thing that i am deeply anxious about is, in fact, something i have due cause to be deeply anxious about?

& yet, with one glaring exception*, i have never yet proven myself right with this exercise. i haven't always definitively proven myself wrong, but i've always been able at least to realise that there are many alternative explanations or possibilities for something beyond the one worst case scenario that my anxiety has decided is the most likely, & to temper my anxiety with an acceptance of those.

this got weirdly long, but i hope it helps somewhat! i'm sending you love <3

[longstoriesfaraway]

A Year in Retrospect

Man, a blink of the eye and 2 years pass me by.

2016 was without doubt the worst year of my life. So it doesn’t really come as a surprise that 2017 was better, to say the least. But still, if you had asked me whether it was a good year, I’d still be hard-pressed to say that it was.

I encountered so many people and I tried my best to branch out, investing considerable time, effort and money to do so. But the return? It feels almost negligible. I feel like I’ve taken more harm than good. If you want me to talk about the postive highlights of my year, they’re pretty much all when friend from the UK came to visit me. That’s crazy.

I joined a church for a bit. A friend invited me along thinking that when I did this back in my second year of university, after the first year which, at that time, had been my worst year, it did wonders for me, so that this should be like that too, right? Man, I felt like I was connecting for a while. Then the differences in culture began to diverge. Or maybe it was just their church way. In any cases, it became extremely suppressing instead and I left, though not without upsetting my group leader, to whom I bore an almost malicious disrespect. Though I think I still spend time with some of the church members from time to time, I doubt I’ll return to that church again.

Church should really be a place where you can culture and mature yourself. Put too many rules and strictures in place and you’ll soon find yourself constricted - unable or unwilling to do certain things for fear of dying by condemnation and judgement of your peers. I felt like a number and not an individual and, truth be told quite frankly, language barrier simply proved too much. On my way out, I fear I may have damaged relationships that I would have found valuable along my life, with very little short of returning to that church able to repair such damage. So therein my first endeavour of the year to network and enrich my life failed.

Trying to find a date is a goddamn disaster. If you’re not white or handsome or rich or have some other outstanding feature, you’re practically invisible. Then, there’s the whole culture of women not starting dating until they’ve established a career at the age of ~30. And by God, do I know how to choose them. Those very few that I might by chance happen to meet and take an interest in, either they’re not interested in dating (for aforementioned reason) or they already have a SO. It takes so much out of me to ask someone on a date, take the time to build the relationship up, find out about them. Then, if ever I do pop the question, they never talk to me again. Like, I don’t mind staying friends, ladies. I just move on to someone else and try my luck elsewhere. This just kills me every time. Just for once, I’d really like it if someone I liked took the effort to ask me out. I’m all suckered out for this; I feel lilke I lose a bit of my soul each time I try. The universe just does not give me a goddamn break on this one.

Comfort. Oh boy. Been thinking about this one for some time. Korea just does not do physical contact, which includes the most simple and soothing mental health aid - hugging. I can’t hug ANYONE. Foreigner friends aside (who I see few and far between anyway), Koreans just don’t do skinship. They’re like bloody children, thinking you’ll get lurgies or something if you make physical contact with someone of the opposite sex. When people say goodbye, it’s not with hugs and fist bumps, but a bow or nod of the head, formal goodbyes and a-dropping my heart on the goddamn floor because it feels like no-one gives a crap. I’m not sure I feel close to anyone in particular. Guys are nice enough and all bro-like, but it’s definitely not the same as getting a hug from a female friend from time to time and knowing AND feeling like someone gives a damn about you. As it is, everyone often feels like an acquaintance and not actually a friend. Which transitions into my next problem.

Managing emotional stress. I’m all cried out. Pretty much. Today I cried whilst in the shower for once. Can you guess why? I cried because I have been unable to cry ever since before I came to Korea. And it upsets me. I couldn’t cry because it felt futile. Like crying would do no good. I didn’t even cry when my girlfriend broke up with me in 2016. Because a part of me already felt like some crap was about due in my life and I had already grieved its coming and going. I cried because I thought seriously about when I had last properly cried (I’m not counting superficial instances with dramas/movies/etc) and I remembered. Summer 2015. I had just moved to Macau. I screwed up bad then. I was with a friend and due to bring them to a dinner date with my parents who had taken the effort to reserve an extremely well-known bistro on the other side of the island. Due to a misunderstanding of the meeting time, as well running into traffic, I ended up never being able to make it there with my friend and I returned home with her to wait. My dad was furious to say the least and didn’t talk to me when he got home. Mum told me just to take my friend to a good restaurant nearby to have dinner, since we hadn’t eaten yet. Before leaving, I told my friend to wait by the elevator while I apologised to dad. He kind of acknowledged I said something, but otherwise we didn’t talk until the end of the night before we went to sleep where we had our reconcilatory talk. As I walked to the elevator and got in, my friend saw my expression and knew that I was the furthest thing from alright. I felt like I had failed everyone that night and someone I cared intensely for saw witness to it and the absolute wrath my father could bring to display. My soul was laid bare and I had no choice but to cry.

I thought about how that was how long it had been since I properly cried LIKE THAT and lamented my own soul. The thought of becoming devoid of my soul, my emotions, my ability to CARE, this terrified me. I want to care. I want someone to care. I was so upset as I came to the realisation that I was becoming sick and tired of becoming sick and tired of being upset and being able to express it to no avail, with no one to comfort me except my comfort toys. Inanimate soft toys that aren’t even big enough to cuddle properly.

I have been jumping so much between “God helps those who help themselves, so get my ass in gear and take control!” and “Well, I am a piece of crap anyway and nothing I do is going to change that...”. I just don’t know what to do any more. I don’t have the answers, I’m not even sure I have the questions. I’m not even sure I have the words to say anything any more. Well, I guess that’s ironic given how much I’ve written to this point.

It’s not all been bad. Though the bad does seem to outweigh what little good I seem to have in this year. I have been blessed with at least some consistent friends. Some who do take time out of their lives to spend their time with me weekly, studying. I owe a great thanks to the 2-3 that did this for any period of time. It did, in part, stop me from simply stagnating at home.

And school. Oh boy. What a fantastic place. I’m very lucky to have had this school. It gives me a lot of freedom, but grounds me enough to keep me consistent and, somewhat, professional. It gives me things to do. And I see wondrous things from the children, week in and week out. I reckon if I didn’t have my job this whole time, I’d probably have given it all up by now, hope and all. But work gave me some consistent purpose; grounding and no time to dwell too much on bad things. The children are bright young sparks to whom I share their emotions vicariously.

But children are just children and not a suitable replacement for someone who can actually understand the depth of your emotions and accept them. They are brilliant, fantastical and nothing short of amazing. I am not as they are.

But, well, as long as I am alive, tomorrow may bring something new. Maybe this year is the year.

[theclaravoyant]

Yay! So happy you're doing the Pride prompts again! I've been saving this one for it. I know you've written trans* Fitz, so I would like to prompt non-binary Fitz who uses they/them pronouns and goes by Fitz because it's gender-neutral.

AN ~ So, turns out my favourite Fitz cardigan style (in my head anyway, I think he’s worn it like maaaybe once in canon) is a potential Nonbinary Icon :P This was fun! It got a little angstier than I had originally planned, because I was Feeling Some Things, but it all sorts out in the end.

Rated T for some vague but angsty references to his past/his father and for some brief internalised transphobia.

Academy era, FitzSimmons, brotp or otp I don’t mind :)

Read on AO3 (~2500wd)

Less Travelled By

“Jemma?” Fitz asked. “What’s being a girl like?”

He was lying on her bed, playing with some kind of beanie toy – a hacky sack, perhaps. He tossed it into the air and caught it, completely unfazed by the fact that she’d only just arrived in her own dorm room.

“Well, I don’t know,” Jemma offered, thoughtful and just as unfazed as she divested herself of her bags and coat. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it. Except for- well you know, all the bleeding, and the catcalling, and the side-eyes a sixteen-year-old doctoral candidate inevitably gets. But that’s not what you’re talking about, is it?”

“No,” Fitz agreed. “I mean really. In your heart. In your soul. What’s it like?”

“That, I don’t know. If it helps, I don’t think anyone really does. There’s a lot we don’t know, about genes, about gender, about the bottom of the ocean… we scientists aren’t going to run out of work any time soon.”

“We’ll just run out of funds first.” Fitz snorted, but his mind was elsewhere. He’d stopped tossing the hacky sack now, and was instead kneading it in his hands. Curious, Jemma put the kettle on, and pulled the leftovers of her lunch from her bag to finish off at the little multipurpose table halfway between the bench (that ambitiously called itself a kitchenette) and the bed. She watched Fitz silently ruminate for a while as she ate, but when the kettle had finished boiling, he sat up.

“Why d’you ask?” Jemma wondered. “They haven’t still got you doing core units in public health or something have they?”

“Nah.” Fitz shrugged, but Jemma got the sense that he was avoiding her eyes on purpose. “This is more for, um. Personal research.”

“Okay.” She poured the tea as unassumingly as possible. “What’s being a boy like then?”

Fitz shifted in his seat as if she’d just said something uncomfortable. Jemma frowned. Fitz sighed, and the frustrations that had been hovering below the surface became suddenly more evident in his voice and body language. Muscles tense, Fitz clenched the hacky sack, and tried to explain – to it, rather than to her.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think about it much either, usually, but recently I have been and I think maybe – I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t even really feel… I mean, I know I’m different from a lot of guys around. But not all guys are aggressive, testosterone-fuelled, overcompetitive dingbats are they? There must be some normal guys out there.”

“There are,” Jemma assured him. “Though unfortunately for the both of us, they tend to be older. Hormones are powerful things.”

Fitz grimaced. Jemma grimaced back, in sympathy. Then,

“You said you feel different?” she asked. “How so?”

“Well, you know, I’m… softer, I guess, than most guys.”

“That’s not a bad thing, Fitz.”

Fitz shifted again, and waved her off, his whole body wringing. That was another conversation, another time, another life he didn’t like to think about.

“It’s not that. It’s not gender roles or anything, that’s not what I mean. I mean – what I mean is,” he struggled to stay on track; to separate the one from the other, the past from the present, the questions from the expectations. “I just don’t relate to any of the guys. I’ve tried talking to engineering, to the AV guys, even the sport guys – I’m actually not half bad at football. Most of the time we get along alright but I just… don’t really relate.”

“Maybe it’s just because they hate talking about their feelings,” Jemma suggested. Fitz scowled, but when he spoke, his voice was raw.

“Don’t make fun. I’m serious. I feel really – really alone, and I’m trying, and the harder I try the more it feels like there’s something… wrong. With me. Like I don’t fit, somehow. It’s like homesickness all over again. It’s been weeks and weeks and I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Jemma hummed in sympathy.

“Why don’t you come have lunch with me and Pen and Clarissa on Monday? They do physics, I’m sure they’d love to talk rockets or something with you. Maybe this particular cohort of guy friends just aren’t for you.”

“That’s another thing though, isn’t it?” Fitz objected. “If all my closest friends are girls, what does that say about me?”

“Ugh, Fitz.” Jemma snorted, offended, and not entirely faking it.

Fitz hung his head. Of course, he hadn’t meant to devalue her by it, but it was a difficult and confusing reality to face. Men did not like him. He was not one of them. It wasn’t just this cohort; it was, apparently, every man he’d ever known with any degree of intimacy. All of them seemed to rub him the wrong way, or else he did them. Was it still his father on his mind? Fitz had spent hours wondering over it. After all these years, did he still have alarm bells set up in every cell of his being, to warn him that every man would judge him the same way? Was he doomed to forever be alone and distrustful and stuck in his past? It certainly felt like it, at times like these.

Lost in his thoughts, Fitz stared absently down at the hackey sack, still clenched in his fist. After a while, Jemma came to sit by him on the bed. She replaced his fierce grip on the hacky sack with a warmer, lighter touch on a mug of tea. He took a deep breath, pulling himself back into the room.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was thinking about Dad.”

“That’s okay,” Jemma assured him, “just don’t let him get to you. This whole thing, this self exploration? It’s perfectly natural, Fitz. Even if nothing comes of it in the end. We’re young adults; we’re becoming ourselves. Questioning what that means is very normal. Stressing about it, unfortunately, is quite normal too.”

“I know,” Fitz muttered.

“And if do you want to – to look into some things about unconventional gender experiences, I’d be happy to help you,” Jemma added.

Fitz recoiled instantly.

“No, there’s nothing wrong with me,” he insisted, shoving the thought away. He sprung to his feet, pacing away from her, waving Jemma’s gaze off his back with more desperation than anything else. “I’m not like that, I’m not going to let – him leaving mess me up like that. I’m fine. I’m not less of a man because of my Mum. She’s only ever done good for me. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Still sitting on the bed where he had left her, but a little more forlorn, Jemma whispered,

“I never said there was.”

Fitz stopped in his tracks, a few feet away. He took note of his body; shoulders tense, breath short, arms crossed defensively. He took note of the words that had just passed his lips, and of the blinding fear and rage that had taken a hold of him and made him speak them.

“Sorry,” he whispered, his voice gravelled. “I know that.”

He wanted to say I didn’t mean that, but he knew he did. In some round about way, some part of him hated it. Hated the thought that he could be different. Hated himself. His arms uncrossed, and wrapped around himself instead. Heat flushed his face and tears of frustration, fear and vulnerability tried to force their way out. Jemma got up at last, and crossed over to him, and rested her own hand gently on his protective arms.

“I want you to know that you’re safe with me, Fitz,” she assured him. “I’ll keep your secrets and I’ll support you and I’ll be here for you, no matter what. I’m not going to hurt you or abandon you. I’m with you. Okay?”

Fitz, stuck for words, nodded. Jemma smiled gently.

“Would you like a hug?”

He nodded again, and she embraced him, cradling him gently in her arms. Eventually, he took a deep breath and let it go, and they both felt some of the weight of the room lift.

“Do you want to keep talking about it?” Jemma offered.

“D’you think it’ll help?” Fitz responded meekly.

“Yes I do,” Jemma said. “I think that finding an answer, even if it’s not the right one yet, will help you clear some of that confusion.”

Will get his hold off of you, was what she wanted to say, her blood boiling at the thought of how pervasive his father’s control truly was, but in the greater mission of turning Fitz’s thoughts away from his past wherever possible, she decided not to add that on.

“Okay,” Fitz agreed. “What do you think is the answer, then?”

Jemma smiled.

“That, I think I do know. Obviously, I can’t read your mind, but here, have a look at this. Hang on.” She pulled her laptop out of its bag, and searched, and flicked through a few pages before she found what she’d been looking for. By the time she handed it over to Fitz, there were several tabs open, labelled things like, Beyond the Binary, Non-Western Genders, Agender, and Which Non-Binary Are You? Scanning through them, Fitz’s jaw dropped.

“What? How did you find all these?”

“I did a Queer Studies class in university. The terminology is changing all the time, and the possibilities are expanding rapidly since I did it, but the principles are largely the same. Thousands of people – hundreds of thousands, perhaps even millions around the world - don’t relate to the typical binary experience, Fitz. You’re not alone.”

“But… surely,” Fitz wondered, “it must be something to do with how I was raised, right? It’s not - you know, a real thing. Surely.”

Jemma shrugged.

“Isn’t everything to do with how we were raised? Our accents, the way we dress, what we’ve studied? In fact, it’s plausible that being raised in such a…” violent, aggressive, she pushed past them “- strictly enforced binary world like you were could have actually had the opposite effect. It wouldn’t be unheard of. For example, the majority of people raised in a strictly religious household change religions or become atheistic once no longer bound by that household. It may be that your sense of ‘maleness’ and ‘femaleness’ is so strongly associated with gender roles that you may not relate to a less categorical gender experience. It’s quite logical really. As, by your own understanding, you fall outside of those categories, your brain is telling you that you’re not either one of them. The only option then is to find a third, or opt out of the system altogether.”

Fitz nodded, slowly.

“That… makes sense,” he acknowledged. “I didn’t expect so much of a Nurture argument out of you, though, Miss Biologist.”

“Bio­-chemist,” she corrected, “but I can give you a few nature arguments if you like. The most likely of which, of course, is that you were born this way – whatever way that is - and just haven’t had a chance to start properly exploring it until now. Maybe your unconventional upbringing feeds into it, or maybe it is simply a confusing coincidence on top of an unconventional, internal, and independent gender situation. Either way, in my opinion, it’s something worth looking into.”

“Worth looking into?” Fitz repeated, his eyes drawn back to the treasure trove of answers she’d laid out before him. Curiosity and an insatiable sense of rightness were drowning out his fears, and his father’s control. “This is incredible.”

Entranced, he returned to Jemma’s bed and set himself up, scrolling and reading and occasionally commenting as he stumbled across phrases he liked or puzzled over. Jemma struggled to keep her smile restrained in its radiance. She hadn’t been expecting this much of a turnaround in Fitz’s mood, but she supposed it was the insecurity that got to him most of all. Learning that his experiences were not isolated, not faked, not hollow, had him riding a high of self-validation that memories of his father could not, in this moment, touch. Jemma set about some busywork – eating, cleaning, and reading – while Fitz explored, until finally he closed the lid of her laptop with a satisfied, somewhat declaratory sigh.

“Amazing,” he said, before Jemma’s words made it out:

“What did you think?”

“It’s a lot to think about, but it feels right.” The sweetness of victory could be heard in his voice; seen in his eyes. “Thank you so much for showing me all this, Jemma.”

“I just opened a door,” Jemma objected. “You were the one who walked through it.”

“But I wouldn’t have done,” Fitz insisted, “without you.”

He blushed a little, and so did she. As close as they were, they didn’t often share explicit personal feelings.

“So,” Jemma said, pushing on. “Have you decided anything yet?”

“That Leopold is a terrible name?” Fitz replied. “I like Fitz. It’s just better, but it’s also gender neutral, which I like. Although, I think this whole ‘FitzSimmons’ business could get confusing.”

“Well, I hardly think ‘Jemmapold’ was going to take off anyway, now was it,” Jemma remarked. Fitz grinned.

“The rest, I guess,” he continued. “I’ll take it as it comes. Although, I wouldn’t mind investing in some of those loose-knit cardigans.”

“I have a giftcard,” Jemma offered. “I’ll set you up. And – what about pronouns? Do you have a preference?”

His/their hands looked for something to fiddle with, and his/their face twisted around the words a little. It still felt a little radical. But radically himself. Themself? They took a deep breath.

“Yeah, you know, actually,” they stammered, their voice squeaking a little. “I think I prefer neutral pronouns. They/their. It sort of – it reduces that pressure I feel? To conform?”

To Fitz’s relief, Jemma nodded.

“Sure. I’ll do my best to use them instead, then. Around other people, too?”

“I mean, if it’s not too hard?” they requested. “Use your discretion, I guess.”

“Of course,” Jemma agreed. “Now, is there anything else you wanted to tell me?”

Fitz cleared their throat, steadying their voice against the strain of puberty and nerves.

“No,” they said, once they were sure they’d pulled themself together. “No, I think that’s it for now. Thanks, Jemma.”

“Existential crises are all in a day’s work,” she assured them, beaming gently. “If anything else comes up, you just let me know, okay?”

Fitz groaned – a long, melodramatic groan. Jemma hesitated.

“What?” she asked.

“I forgot to hand in that bloody grant application!” they lamented. “Ah well, I’ll just have to go in early tomorrow.”

“Or we could go right now,” Jemma suggested. “We could use the walk, it would be good to get some fresh air.”

Fitz looked unconvinced, until she added:

“… and I think that new donut place has opened up on the corner.”

Fitz sprung to their feet, and Jemma almost laughed. Whether it was their age or innate Fitz-ness or both, they had the lanky awkwardness of movement of a baby giraffe. Same old Fitz. She kept this to herself, in case Fitz took it as implying they’d ever been anything but the same old Fitz, and followed them out the door, purse and keys in hand.

[lalorrunningclub]

The O’Keefe Challenge - Half Marathon Recap by Kate Dull

They say that the event is the culmination of a lot of hard work and dedication during the training phase. This is very true. Every marathon, half marathon and other big event (50kms, Trailwalker etc) I’ve done, have been exactly that.

It’s also hard to understand exactly how an event can mean so much to someone without understanding the backstory and there’s quite a backstory to this one, probably my 25th or 30th half marathon. If you’d rather cut to the chase of the actual event, please scroll down, otherwise, sit tight and I’ll walk you through some of what it took me to get to the start line in the first place…

The O’Keefe Challenge is an event that is special to those at LRC, being the first event where the members took part wearing their new club shirts in 2017. Held on the O’Keefe Rail Trail from Bendigo to Heathcote, it consists of various distances from marathon down to a kids’ dash and also includes a 7 person ‘Ekiden’ marathon relay. In 2018, I was fortunate enough to take join in one of the LRC Ekiden relay teams but chose the shortest leg as I had just found out that I was pregnant with our first child. Even though I only ran about 3km in the second last leg of the relay that day, Chantell and I had great fun helping ferry and cheer on participants of all the LRC teams at the start and along the way at the various changeover points before it was our turn to run. It was a great atmosphere and I was hooked. So much so, that my husband I returned to Bendigo to ride the entire O’Keefe Rail Trail on our bikes when I was 25 weeks pregnant!

Fast forward to 2019 and I now have a baby boy of a few months. I’m sure most new parents will relate but it hasn’t been an easy road. Despite running up until and including the day I was induced (hello Studley parkrun in the rain at a time of 41:01 and at 41 weeks and 1 day pregnant) unfortunately my recovery wasn’t as smooth sailing as the gestation. I’d returned to parkrun at 13 days postpartum, walking it in 44mins [??] and then set out for another walk the next day…but something ‘went’ in my pelvis. I couldn’t walk without sharp pain for the following fortnight. The physio (Adam) said it was pelvic girdle pain but that I had a good outlook with the right management. Being immobilised and unable to be the active mum I had thought I would be had me asking “why me?”; I thought life as I knew it was over! But, I did my rehab, hoped for the best and things seemed to improve, slowly.

A couple of weeks later, I found out that I’d got into the Chicago Marathon in October. That same day, I had an assessment for things that didn’t feel quite right and also found out that I had a bladder prolapse. Everything Dr Google returned said that prolapses didn’t get better and it was incompatible with running (amongst other things). My world crumbled.

Thankfully, I sought a second opinion than the original ob/gyn who assessed it as being quite bad. It wasn’t going to be easy and there were certainly no guarantees, but my women’s health physio (Hillary) was confident that I would be able to return to what I loved. I was now back at my regular twice weekly clinical Pilates classes and had a great team around me in support.

I took a few months off (as much as one can with a newborn) and focussed on getting me back together – no more than 5km walking at a time (this killed me), a small amount of bike riding to get around (I don’t drive), clinical Pilates and lots of pelvic floor exercises.

After 3 months, Hillary fitted me with a pessary (think of this as an ankle brace for females to keep their organs in place) and I was given the green light to start working through the Couch to 5km (C25K). Adam was happy with how my pelvic girdle pain had progressed with all the rehab and said to go for it but if I was in agony, stop and reassess.

I kicked it off with the long course of the Pink Tri – I was not match fit (except for the bike riding) but I was so happy to be back! I continued to progress through the C25K and was feeling good. My confidence grew. I re-engaged with the running community. With parkrun. With everything activity related. I started to believe that maybe my world wasn’t as broken as I thought it was. My mood continued to improve. I had already entered in Sharpy’s Beer Run 10km before all of this had happened but I now began entering other races again for motivation, starting with the Sole Motive Sunset Series.

O’Keefe? Wasn’t this about O’Keefe?

Yes, hold tight.

My husband and I were set to travel to the UK in May to take our son around to meet his family – this is where I am currently typing this (finally!). There’s a half marathon in Liverpool that’s a part of the Rock’n’Roll series that I had aimed to do in previous years. It was at the end of May. Could I really be up for a half marathon by then? I decided to go for it and entered before the price rise. I put together my training plan and noticed that I needed to do a half marathon distance long run about the time that O’Keefe was on. I toyed with the idea of playing it conservatively by entering the 10km but the 10km route didn’t seem to be run on the actual rail trail that I was keen to run on, so, after some consultation with my husband, I decided to enter the half and we’d make a weekend of it.

Training was going well; I was gaining confidence and feeling good. The prolapse was staying put, Hillary was happy and my pelvis hadn’t bothered me at all – Adam had discharged me from my physio as my Pilates was keeping everything as it should be. But then it all changed. A few weeks prior to O’Keefe, I went back to work, we were both stressing out about getting everything done before O’Keefe and flying to the UK (we hadn’t realised when we’d booked our flights to the UK that we’d booked to fly out just a couple of days after our weekend away in Heathcote!) and then I developed pelvic girdle pain in the other hip! I was barely running or walking at all for fear of making it worse (although I managed to do the long course of Run for the Kids and pulled up ok) and felt like everything was starting to slip away. Thankfully, some myotherapy got me back on track. I needed to move, so, a fortnight out, I managed four runs in just under a week, including a 10km in the heat on the Sunday one week before the event. The following morning, I woke up at 3am feeling terrible, including a shocking headache, pain and lumps in my left breast and the chills – mastitis. It wasn’t too bad yet, but it has a reputation for turning nasty very quickly, sometimes requiring hospitalisation. Talk about timing – half marathon on the weekend, work and packing to be done and then 24 hours of flying with a 6-month-old in just over a week. Could this get any worse?

The time to travel to Heathcote arrived and I’d managed to avoid having to take antibiotics through several visits to a women’s health physio for ultrasound treatment along with many home remedies. This also meant that I was bra-free for most of the week and definitely not wearing my super compressive sports bra that I suspected may have contributed to the mastitis! I felt like I dodged a bullet and that maybe, just maybe, I might be able to pull it off, although I feared that this might be at a cost.

I opted to walk, rather than run, Bendigo parkrun on the Saturday morning with my husband and our 6-month-old, meeting Paula and Jim there for a chat before and after. Things were feeling good.

Race morning finally arrived and although I was feeling a bit anxious about how the day might pan out, things were mostly pretty relaxed given the later start at 8:30am. We were all fed, baby included, and then we piled into the car to drive to the start at Knowsley. I then got wind from Sarah that there had been some incident with a bus going to the marathon start which was delaying everything. Upon arriving at Knowsley, it was soon revealed that we would now be starting at 8:50am instead. We milled about with Milly and co, killing time. This gave me even more time to deliberate on how I was going to approach the run. I had been toying with different Jeffing intervals lately, as well as running non-stop, but eventually decided on doing 4min run:1min walk (which had served me well on other half marathons when I was pregnant) and just taking it easy to keep the bigger picture – UK trip and Liverpool Rock'n'Roll half marathon – in mind. BUT, if it looked like I could come in under 2hrs 25mins then I thought I’d just go for it and finally qualify for the 20km Wonderland Run in the Grampians later this year (now that they have lifted the qualifying standard from 2:15 to 2:25).

Finally, it was race briefing time…and then, just like that, we were off!

Rather than run directly to Heathcote along the rail trail, we were to first run 2.3km towards Bendigo, turn around and then run back through Knowsley before continuing onto Heathcote. I’m not keen on out and backs (hence the appeal of running from A to B on the rail trail) but at least it wasn’t too far.

I started off well and was feeling good. It wasn’t a super busy race (only around 800 in total across all the events I think) and I was enjoying the countryside. I was also on pace to run sub 2:25, bonus. Hit the turn around point and was on my way back when I saw a lady (Christine) sat on the side of the trail around the 3km mark – she didn’t look so good. I sung out to her, “Are you ok?”, to which I heard back, “No”. I plonked down beside her and asked what was going on. She wasn't doing so good – dizzy, felt sick and had the sweats. This was despite her having been well prepared, fuelled, feeling well in the lead up and having completed several other similar events previously. 

I called for help and stayed with her while we waited. I also thought to call my husband who was waiting with our 6-month-old at Knowsley, ready to cheer me on, to let him know that I’d be a while and that everything was ok …and not to panic!

A couple of other runners came by and offered water, as did Milissa, who joined us while we waited. The water seemed to help Christine and she felt like walking, so we set off towards Knowsley before we eventually met the first aiders and they took over.

I resumed my Jeffing but qualifying for Wonderland was now out of reach. I was disappointed and the mental battle was real. I knew I had to snap out of it. There was no way I’d have left Christine on the side of the trail! I instead focussed on enjoying myself and my surrounds in what was to be my longest run since my son was born, reminding myself of how far I'd come since I developed all the postpartum issues and how well I'd done to even make the start line!

I passed through Knowsley and was cheered on by my husband and our 6-month-old. My husband even acted as my personal photographer! As the event went on, there were many drive-bys along the McIvor Highway (hooting loudly) and they met me along the trail with support and supplies at several locations, even walking with me a couple of times. This, along with the support I received when passing through the various changeover points which all seemed to be manned by other members of LRC supporting the Ekiden relay members or waiting to run their legs, made the kilometres just tick on by!

I had looked forward to running past Lake Eppalock and having an awesome running photo such as Vula’s from last year but unfortunately, when I got there, there wasn’t a lot of water to be seen. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the downhill on the approach and marvelled at the big dry that has been gripping Victoria this year.

Along the way, I also enjoyed running and chatting with a lady (Amelia) for a good while – she was local and using today as her training for the Adelaide Marathon in 4 weeks. I’m not sure how long we ran together, but it had to be quite a few kilometres!

Having ridden the trail on my bike last year, parts of it were familiar. The outskirts of Heathcote were nearing…and my watch was on around 17km! I did a mental re-take – had I just run 17km and I was still feeling ‘fine’?! I started to feel quite proud of myself. The longest run I’d done since my son was born was Run for the Kids at 12.7km. Then, my husband and son popped out. At all the other times, my son had been quite content but this time he was not happy…and then he saw me – he was hungry (probably partly as a result of the delayed start) and wanted boobie. Except, I still had the last part of the half marathon to finish and I couldn’t feed him in my sports bra. My husband pushed him alongside me in the pram for a while but the tears were increasing, so he peeled off and said he’d meet me at the finishing line.

Typically, those last few kilometres seemed to take forever! Except the part where a helicopter towing a giant round thing (wtf?!) went overhead…talk about distractions. I was now in town and headed for Barrack Reserve. I couldn’t remember which way we’d approach it and this part seemed to take forever. Perhaps mentally, I was now flagging. I felt like I was under pressure to finish because the baby needed feeding, so I stepped it up a notch.

When I finally entered Barrack Reserve, I reeled in the person in front and easily overtook them to fly across the finishing line to cheers and high fives from fellow LRC members. I’d done it! I was handed a medal, bottle of water, SIS gel and banana.

Now, where’s that baby?

Before I could stretch, eat the banana or even drink any water, I pulled my LRC shirt off, pulled the bra over my head (supposedly hidden by my husband’s coat but I actually ended up flashing some poor bloke behind him – the expression on his face was hilarious!) replaced the LRC shirt and sat cross-legged feeding our son on the ground while chatting with Julia and John. Everyone was happy.

I ended up coming in around 2:45. Did my time matter? Of course not. This was a training run for Liverpool. But it was also much more than that. It was a huge confidence boost because it felt relatively easy. Oh, and for the record, Christine finished, as did Milly, who, despite stopping to assist, ended up taking 5mins off her PB!

Once all the other LRCers had finished and the presentations were over, it was off to the Commercial where Ciaran had booked out the pub for some much-needed nourishment and chin-wagging.

Completing the event was one thing but my recovery over the following days was another…and I’m pleased to say that I pulled up really well, which was hugely reassuring.

Can’t wait to come back and do it all again next year!