Sunday, November 27, 2016


Yoga has never really been my thing. Sure I've had stints of semi-regular attendance, and I have practiced with some truly incredible teachers, but if given the choice I will almost always choose something else.

Sorry, yoga--it's not you, it's me.

But while I am still (slowly) recovering from a broken ankle and needing something to pass the time, yoga has re-entered my life.

It should also be mentioned that yoga, to me, has always been about flexibility. Maybe a light sweat, perhaps a bit of a detox. But it has never been a spiritual place. I don't come to my mat to work shit out. And I don't meditate.

Until a few months ago.

Before you (I) get all judge-y and skeptical, I came to mediation as a desperate attempt to work through the insomnia that's been chasing me this past year. I figured that if maybe I listened to someone tell me to breathe instead of listening to the dizzying swirl of thoughts in my own head, I could get some relief. And let me tell you, that shit works.

But even so, it was always guided. A podcast or an app lulling me to sleep. Someone telling me what to think instead of me trying not to think. And it wasn't spiritual. NOPE.

Until today.

Normally I'm a post-run Yin kind of girl. Maybe a Vinyassa class, if I have no other classes. But somehow today I found myself at a Ashtanga Vinyassa class, and let me tell you, it was incredible. New fav, for sure. And as that class wrapped up, the teacher invited us to stay for his 30-minute mediation class to follow.

30 minutes of meditation? No f-ing way.

But I stayed. The studio was cozy, I was feeling the vibe, and I just wasn't ready to start my day quite yet.

Now normally it's all I can do to make it through a 5-minute, un-guided, meditation without getting antsy. And yes, I have straight up fallen asleep during more than once. But today felt different. I was able to calm my 'monkey mind' and just breath.

Midway through the meditation, the intention shifted from internal to external as we focused on metta. (I realize this shit is getting abstract, but hang with me.) Metta means benevolence or loving-kindness, and is the Buddhist virtue of kindness, and metta meditation is the idea of sending out love and kindness and well wishes into the world. It's the practice of taking in the kindness and energy you need (breathe in), and sending out kindness and well wishes that you can (breathe out). 

The shift in energy was real.

We all know when we're around someone who seems to suck the energy out of us. That person that enters the room and seems to change the flow of things. Well, this was the opposite. You could feel the positivity and kindness radiating in the room. As out there as that seems, it was palpable. Something that I hope everyone can experience.

As I was leaving the studio, and reconnecting with (the sometimes overwhelming) social media and 37 different ways I communicate with people, I got a text from a sweet friend of mine. It was random and unexpected and oozing with kind words and love. It was metta.

Yoga. Meditation. Metta.

Who the fuck knew this was so legit.

Thursday, February 18, 2016


Today was my first day back at crossfit in...six months? Maybe longer? And the months leading up to that leave of absence were sporadic, at best. I mean, it's hard to keep up with a regular workout routine when you're traveling for work, falling in to bed exhausted after ridiculously long days, spending days trying to refill your energy tank, only to do it all over again. This is not to say I regret the adventures that life handed me in 2015. In fact, I embraced every ridiculous, exhausting, moment of it, and if given the chance would do it all again. This is merely to say that my WOD'ing and workouts have not been regular.

So back at it.

Not gonna lie, it was intimidating as fuck to walk into the gym today. Not knowing who would be there, if I would know anyone, if I could manage the workout. It (almost) felt like being brand new again. Which is why I put it off for soooo long. But sure enough, it was like coming home to family (full disclosure, I made sure I was going to my favorite coaches class, and that she would be there, and I made a workout date with a friend to have a safety net). Familiar faces, and new faces, same space, same routine. And people seem genuinely happy to see me. Hugs were given, catching up and gossip happened, and I worked out (kind of).

Speaking of workouts, and going back to where this post began, today was a serious kick in the pants. It was a workout I had done before. A favorite of mine, actually. One that I not only RX'd last time I did it, but I did really well at it. Lifting heavy shit used to be my jam. Today? Nope. Not so much. My cardio and endurance came to play, because I haven't actually (just) been sitting around eating french fries, but the muscles and strength I used to have? GONE. My defined quads and Kardashian booty? Not there. Sure, the form and muscle memory were there, but the strength was MIA. No, not MIA. I know exactly where it went--it's just not there.

It was beyond humbling to have the coach talk about how I'm a coach there and am super strong (because I'm not anymore). It was almost embarrassing to see my name on the PR board for lifting some seriously heavy shit (because I can't anymore).

It felt good to be back and everything else will come back, or not. But that's okay. Because life happens and goals change. It's all part of the journey.

But in the meantime, I am going to be over here, being humble.

Wednesday, February 10, 2016


Would you believe that I managed to injury myself sitting? 

Literally. I spent almost three months, sitting on my ass, driving a giant monster truck across the country, and what do I have to show for it? Besides a serious lack of fitness and loss of all muscle tone. 

A bum hip.

Somehow sitting on my ass for days at a time exacerbated some bad shit in my glute, hamstring, quad, and has reared it's ugly head in the form of a really painful hip. Bursitis, tendonitis, tendonopathy, etc.  Sitting is the WORST. Followed closely by laying on that side, which given my opposite shoulder still has some issues, makes sleeping kind of miserable. Biking isn't bad, as long as I'm not torquing down to climb hills or sprint. Running is...manageable for a few miles at a time, but as soon as I stop moving? Woof. 

I've thrown everything I know at this situation. Chiropractic care, Graston & cupping, massage, traditional acupuncture, a cortisone shot (never again), and am now 6+ weeks into PT and dry needling. So far the relief has been minimal, if any. And rest doesn't seem to help at all (sitting, if you recall is the worst of the worst).

I had big goals of running my first trail 50k this year. I recruited one of my coworkers to help coach me through this. I picked an event. I've researched shoes and gear and nutrition. And now here I am, wondering how to get from A to B.

The first test of my trail fortitude was to be a spring 25k. I have two races in April in mind. So far I'm hitting my long runs, but my overall volume isn't anywhere near what it should be, and the recovery between runs is loooong and feels awful. I am fairly confident that even with my parred-down training, I can survive the 25k, but will this set me up to successfully dive into 50k training? I don't know.

I'm to stubborn to give up just yet. But I'm just smart enough to know that what I'm putting my body through probably isn't the best either. But good god do I want this. Need this.

Consider this another setback. One of many. 

Wednesday, February 3, 2016

Je ne regret rien

I've heard it said that if you have no regrets then you haven't learned from your mistakes. But I would beg to differ. I have no regrets because despite it all--the good, the bad, the ugly--I have learned something. I've learned a lot.

I've lived big, played hard, laughed out loud, and ugly cried. I've hurt and been hurt. I've been incredible places, acquired unbelievable stories, tested my moral fiber, and been rocked to core. I've said what I meant, and followed my heart. Quit jobs, watched tv in my stretchy pants, ate gluten and dairy and fried food and sugar. I've probably drank too much and said incredibly offense things (both sober and...not), but that's all been part of the adventure.

As cliche as it may be, I regret nothing. Not even the Mandarin character I have tramp-stamped on my lower back. My life has molded me and made me who I am. In some cases, like the tattoo, not everyone needed to see the proof (what's up, grandma). But that doesn't make it any less meaningful to me, to my story. And given time, there's a chance that I will permanently emblazon my body with these very words, je ne regret rien, because they mean something to me.

Just this past weekend I found myself sitting at a table enjoying a beer with relative strangers. Wonderful people, each with their own story to tell, and yet they wanted to know mine. They were fascinated by my scars, my adventures, my je ne said quoi. As much as I shy away from the spotlight and do my best to deflect attention, I found myself sharing parts my story with them. Owning it. Being okay with where I am in this moment. And then changing the subject, to them, to anything but me. But in that moment, that scary, attention-holding moment, I put myself out there. Broken bones and all. It probably didn't hurt that I had consumed more than my fair share of Fireball and Rumchatta and champagne prior to this, but I'm choosing not to split hairs. 

Sometimes I wonder how I've ended up where I am. Like I've lived more than someone my age should have. And yet, I haven't lived enough. This is just the start of my story. Hold the fuck on, because I can promise you that this will be one hell of a ride, wherever it may go.

Wednesday, January 27, 2016

Find a penny, pick it up...

Today as I was hightailing it across the fine state of Iowa*, I found myself at a truck stop in Floyd, IA. As I stood there at the pump, contemplating the assortment of pickled things and fried chicken giblets available inside, I glanced down to see a gleaming penny, heads up, in a slush puddle nearby. 

With absolutely no hesitation, I plucked Lincoln out of that puddle and put him in my pocket.

Two plus hours later, after unloading my car at my storage unit, I found myself using the (questionable) bathroom at the self-store. And would you believe that as I adjusted my jeans, and the toilet flushed, out fell my lucky penny directly into the swirling waters? Because that's exactly what fucking happened. 

If that isn't a sign, I don't know what is.

*Iowa, not that nice. Always  windy AF. Worst gas mileage ever. But they have cheap gas and will sell me booze at the gas station, so we'll agree to disagree.