Earlier this evening, I was putting off searching for jobs/sprucing up my cover letters and paroozing the interwebs when a friend of mine posted this link on Facebook.
The Facebook share has been posted for about an hour, and there have been a variety of comments made. Some thanking my friend for sharing the “powerful” article, others criticizing the writer for referring to the tragedy in Boston as a “white” tragedy and insinuating that the writer is over-reacting to to societal racism and the significant lack of untold stories of non-whites in the media (side note: every single commentator on this Facebook post was white).
May 6th, 2012, 10:30 AM. I didn’t think it was possible to simultaneously dry heave, smile, and cry, but it happened when I crossed the finish line of the 2012 Broad Street Run. In that moment, I had conquered 10 miles, considered myself a runner and never looked back. In the 11 months that followed, running became much more than my recreational sport of choice. It became my most adaptive coping skill. Pissed off? Sprints. Elated? Tempo run. Too much on my mind? The long slow distance run gave me time to get it together. The saying held true for me: running is cheaper than therapy, and there was nothing that couldn’t be solved with a solid run.
And then April 15th, 2013 happened.