The Race I Won But Didn’t Run

I turned over the heavy plaque in my hands, reading the inscription.  Half marathon relay.  First place.  I wasn’t sure I’d ever won first place in my life.  Except…I didn’t run that day.

The race kicked off that morning at 8am, at a nearby park.  I was new to running and I had been invited to run the first leg of a three-person relay by a friend.  She was one of the first friends I had made when I moved to town…and she was an accomplished marathon runner.  I was honored that she asked me, a rather slow novice runner, to join her team.  I didn’t want to let her down…but as many miles as I had jogged, I knew I really didn’t like running.  But I agreed anyway.  The third member of our team had recently completed her second Boston Marathon.  No pressure.

This wasn’t a big race, but it benefited a local charity and it was the focus of the small town’s energy that weekend.  I didn’t sleep well the night before.  I had laid out my clothes, stared at my New Balance shoes, then tossed and turned in my bed.  By morning I was more than a little nauseous, couldn’t eat a bite, and it felt like my throat was closing up.  I can’t do this, thought.  I can’t let them down…but if I run, I’ll embarrass my team and myself.  

Swallowing hard, I texted my friend:  “So so sorry.  Woke up super sick.  Can’t run this am.”
“R u sure?” The response came.

“Yeah–can’t even get out of bed.” I lied.

“That sucks!  Hang in there.  We’ll be fine.” She responded.

I went back to bed.  And laid there, hating myself.  Imposter syndrome is a “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” sort of scenario.  You feel like a fake if you go ahead with the task.  But if you back out?  Shame.  Shame all around.  

A few hours later came a knock at my door.  Still in pjs, but having made a miraculous medical recovery, I answered.  There stood my friend.  She handed me a wooden plaque.  “We won.  I ran your leg and mine together.”  She smiled graciously and I accepted the award, feeling about two inches tall.  

I had thought that maybe if I didn’t show up, it would all disappear.  But here was a reminder, shiny with brass and solid with wood.  The shame I felt cut deep.  Even now, years later, it’s hard to tell the story.

I don’t know about you, but starting lines make me nervous.  Excited sometimes, but usually shaking with fear.  Starting something new always comes with the potential for failure…and its twin brothers, self-sabotage and shame.  I’ve had the same stomach-ache before starting a new degree program or launching a new ministry or even motherhood.  Imposter syndrome sets in and I hear “Who do you think you are?” rattling around in my brain.  I expect failure, giving up before I’ve even begun.

The decision to homeschool has brought back all of those feelings.  Reading books about the Montessori method (to hopefully offer a bridge from her previous year at a Montessori preschool), prepping curriculum, ordering materials, requesting library books.  I started out at full speed, but then the same feelings returned.  Who did I think I was?  This was doomed to fail.  Why even try?  I slowed my pace…leaving materials in the Amazon boxes they arrived in, handing my daughter random crafts instead of structuring our day, saying, “We’ll start tomorrow” or “We’ll kick things off after Labor Day.”

Who do I think I am?  

The day after my ill-fated race, I came home after work and changed into shorts and a tank top.  I laced up my sneakers, stretched my tight hamstrings, and began walking down the block.  Crossing the street, I picked up my pace and started to jog.  My face flushed and my knees began to complain, but I told myself, “Just one more block.”  I crossed the next street.  “Just one more block.”  Again and again until I was done.  I didn’t fail.  I ran my route that day.  I was a runner, slow or not, I was a runner and I could run that route.  

How do you answer the shame-laced accusations that come from imposter syndrome?  Imposter syndrome is a bully and we stand up to bullies.  Who am I?  I am the mom of two fantastic little girls.  I have a master’s degree.  I have taught pre-teens and teenagers, as a youth pastor, college kids as a professor, and adults as their minister.  I can read books and blogs and make plans.  I can set out craft materials and read picture books and play counting games.  I can educate my child.  Do I want to homeschool her for the next ten years?  No.  But with a pandemic and an uncertain few months ahead, this is the route we have chosen.  And I will lace up my proverbial running shoes and run my route.