365

Starting in 2017, each year I complete a “run streak” where I run at least 1 mile from Thanksgiving to New Year’s Day. It started after I trained for and ran my first marathon. One thing about a marathon training block that I love and hate is the schedule, but then it’s over and you’re kind of like…what do I do now? The run streak game was fun and gave me something to do.

Last year, I set out to do the run streak like usual, starting on accident a couple days before Thanksgiving because I just happened to run those days too. And then, I just never stopped (Forrest Gump references welcome). Not going to sugar coat it, I was struggling a bit mentally. I had been laid off from my job in November and I didn’t always have much else to do other than incessantly check email and scour the internet for jobs. 

I guess that explains why I ran through January, February…and then March. Then, I started a new job and had to travel quite a bit, which would certainly have been a good time to stop. But I didn’t.

Today marks 365 days. Many days I ran more than a mile, in fact I averaged about 2.3 miles per day over 365 days. I have run many more miles in other years, but I have never run more than 6 weeks or so daily.

A few thoughts as I look back on the year:

- Most of the time, I didn’t want to run. I did it anyway. Motivation was never a prerequisite.

- I can talk myself into running a mile in almost any physical condition, including throwing my back out, bad colds, fevers, jet lag, depression, a few hangovers, etc. The contrast is that it makes it really hard to not run when you just aren’t feeling it. See point above.

- I can talk myself into running a mile in a lot of different places too, like:

• California
• Florida
• North Dakota (usually laps around a Walmart, but once in -20 real feel in the dark)
• Colorado (at 11,000 feet of elevation, with a cold)
• Canada (Saskatchewan, Manitoba, Quebec)
• Sweden
• Germany
• Netherlands (through the airport to my gate)

-      The hardest times to get going:

• Jet lag is the worst. Last week after flying overnight to Amsterdam and then to Hanover, I found out I couldn’t check into my hotel for 5 more hours. I sat in the lobby for a while, and then I started exploring, found the workout room, found a bathroom, opened my suitcase, got changed, and jumped on the treadmill. Changed again, went to the venue, worked for 7 hours. Yes, I was tired. 
• When I was really, really, really (yes I’m adding a third) depressed. The first few months, yes, I was unemployed and could’ve run all day, but I just couldn’t. Sometimes I could barely get out of bed, let alone think about putting my running shoes on. Alas, depression hates a moving target, and getting going was the hardest part.
• The day after I started a new job, in a strange city, no treadmill in the hotel, and -20 real feel temps. It was dark, I was alone, I was pissed off, and I used socks for mittens.

The biggest question I got during the streak was: how do you do it? Now I feel like...how do I not do it after that many days in a row? The question I get now is: when will you stop? I don’t know, but certainly not on day 366 or day 367...I’m signed up for a Turkey Trot 5k!

The Messy Middle

I usually write about significant events in my life. I don't always share what I write, but when I do, I've noticed that I only share it after everything is "over" and tied up in a nice little bow. This way, it can appear that I've overcome some obstacle and therefore I can present myself as strong and as someone who can learn from mistakes or challenges. 

Well folks, I'm not always strong. It's more accurate to say I am rarely strong. When I am hurt or I feel like I've failed, I avoid friends and family, I hide in my bedroom, I cry, I have anxiety attacks, I shut down. So, when I was laid off in November from what I thought was my dream job, it was devastating. I gave things up for this job, I poured myself into it, I was good at it, and in the blink of an eye, I was dismissed. 

I've been employed my entire adult life. Yes, I worked for companies where my job was eliminated or the company restructured, but I always had something lined up before I left, giving me short intervals between jobs that were just a bridge to the next thing.

In my line of work (surprise, I work in Communications) I was often part of the team executing the restructure or job eliminations. I am a strategic thinker. Some would call it pessimism, but I like to call it realism. I am good at seeing the writing on the wall, which makes me good at my job. I would often guess which departments and jobs would be eliminated before it happened, sometimes even guessing correctly that I'd be on the chopping block eventually. For example: I worked for a company for 8 years right after college and within days of the company being purchased, a few of my colleagues and I were able to guess which departments would eventually be eliminated. We wrote our guesses on a whiteboard in secret because at the time we were being asked to be "optimistic" about the future of the company. Every guess we made eventually became reality.

This time was different. I was working 60+ hour weeks for months prepping for these eliminations, and I had no clue that I was on the list. I am not even sure my boss knew until the last few days, but either way, it was a shock. I eventually learned that I was the only one in Communications who was let go. There were reasons for it that had nothing to do with my work, in fact, I had just been given much more responsibility, but it sure felt personal. It felt like my world was imploding, and most of all, it felt shameful. Shame is scary, it is isolating, it will pull you into the shadows, and it will reinforce every bad thought you've ever had about yourself. 

As I write this, it has been 3 months, and while I plan to wait to share this until I am ready and probably employed again, I wanted to write some of this while I DON'T have it all figured out. As I start this, I'm still very much unemployed, but I have learned a few things along the way. While I'm still here in the messy middle of this process, I thought I'd write them down.

1) Show up for your unemployed friends...and not just to get the scoop on the dirty details.

I am not accusing anyone, because for real: I didn't do this before either. Contacting my unemployed friends felt a little like I was slowing down for a car accident. I figured unless I had a lead on a job for them, there was no reason to reach out. Besides, wouldn't we all like to have a few days off? Lucky bastards. Never mind that you are scared every day that goes by you won't find a job. It's not like a vacation, it's like slowly driving your car towards a cliff hoping something stops you first. 

It is so isolating. No one wants to catch the unemployed virus, no one wants to think about how it could happen to them too, so you end up very alone with lots (and lots) of time on your hands. The people who checked in with me by just sending a text or calling me on a regular basis were angels. I would not always answer the phone or the text, but they kept trying. When I did respond, they endured the crying, the doubts, and the incessant insecurity and fear I shared. The ones who just listened, distracted me, made me laugh - you know who you are. You've taught me about showing up and I will carry that with me.

2) Setting deadlines and goals when you have no control over the outcome is stupid.

Telling yourself I will have a job by x date after applying for 80 jobs online (I did this) is not productive. Hustling and reaching out to people who work at the places you want to work is better, but all things being equal, getting a job takes a lot of luck and is not totally within your control. You can be the ripest peach on the tree, but some people just aren't going to like peaches, especially the bots that are scanning your resume along with 4,000 other people. To go from a place of control, where I was managing several departments and making big decisions every 15 minutes to a place where I felt like I was just floating in the wind of someone else's whims was terrifying.

3) This is super cliché, but worrying about tomorrow robs you of the joy of the moment.

I have NEVER been good at this, even in the best of times. Going from 60-hour weeks where I was on work calls at the mall, in the grocery store parking lot, while brushing my teeth even, it was hard to just look around, slow the fuck down, and not spend all that extra time worrying about the future. Driving Claire to school every day (not on a conference call!) and listening to her talk about her life or join her in belting out 9-5 by Dolly Parton (her choice) gave me a reason to get out of bed every morning. Taking off for a mid-morning run just because the snow was really pretty on the trees that day? I got to do that, more than once. Driving to Austin to see my mom last minute and enjoying an early morning run and cup of coffee with a dear friend during the week? When will I be able to do that again? The answer is the same whether I was employed or not: we don't know. We don't get time back. Every time you do something could be the last time. Everyone I love was healthy, so was I, and I had a little time to spend with them that I wouldn't normally have. 

4) Don't wait.

I refused to travel out of state and barely left my house for months. For what? Partly because I was worried about saving money, partly because I was petrified to plan anything because I was worried I needed to be available for interviews or if they wanted me to start working in a few weeks or what people would think of me or JESUS. Just stop. It's still your life. Time waits for no one. When in my adult life will I be off for months at a time again? I booked a flight and felt better immediately. I was making a choice for myself, and making plans that were more than 2 days into the future made me feel like I had control over something. Yes, people judged me. Yes, I was losing my mind and needed a break. Fuck it.

5) Be grateful for that job you have.

You get to go to work every day. You get to have normalcy that many people crave. I know sometimes that sucks, but it's a privilege to have a job. I found out I really like working. I missed my laptop (of all things) and I really missed being needed for my brain. I helped my friend with a work presentation one day and it was so joyful (for real). In all my time in this career, I never had enough time away from it to really miss it. It's just like my soapbox speech about exercise: we get to do this. Never take it for granted.

Epilogue (written after the job offer finally came):

6) Depression hates a moving target. To say that I met the criteria for clinical depression is an understatement. I have been hospitalized before for depression and I felt the darkness creeping up around me along with that shame I talked about earlier. I made a promise to myself that I would move my body every day. Sometimes in the beginning when it was still nice out, that meant a 6-mile walk in the woods (that's what I did the day after, raging and crying into the void). By Thanksgiving, I was running at least a mile a day. I've done run streaks before, usually from Thanksgiving through New Year's Day, but this year, it was my lifeline. There were days I did nothing else but will myself to run a single mile, which sometimes turned into a lot more. I cried from the effort of lacing up my shoes. I cried during, after, leading up to it. But I did it and I always, always, always felt better when it was done. I didn't stop on January 1 this time and I'm still going, through a bad cold and throwing my back out a few weeks ago. I'm not sure when I'll stop.

6) Believe in yourself.

You're worthy, you're talented, and you're more than an auto-generated rejection email (I received SO MANY). You're more than a line item on a budget that needs to be cut. Someday soon, someone will notice. The job I finally got? It wasn't even posted, and I didn't even apply for it. I was recruited by an executive search firm who found me on LinkedIn. Imagine if, instead of worrying, applying for 80 jobs, and living in shame, I had just switched my LinkedIn status to "open to work" and walked away to live my life? The outcome would've been the same, but I would have enjoyed the mess in the middle a lot more. 

7) Put it into perspective. 

Money is a big deal in this life, yes. A job gives you the ability to plan for income in the future. Careers define part of who you are. But never forget that time is not a guarantee and neither is that future you think you're planning for. I love taking Claire to school while not on a conference call, I love taking off for a run in the middle of the day because it's beautiful out, and I want to make more time for the people I love. I'm lucky to have received this reminder before it was too late. 

I Know the Way Out

Lately, the universe has been dropping some hints that it's time to tell this story. I met an amazing woman during my last marathon who was running in memory of her brother who committed suicide, and I believe we were meant to meet. I am drawn to these stories, and I feel like I might be able to make a difference, but I'm not sure how just yet. Maybe this is it. 

I've always had anxiety with a probable side of depression. I didn't understand it when I was a kid, hell, I don't totally understand it at 41. But I do know that what my parents called "worrying" back in the 70s was really a bigger thing. Everyone worries. Most kids don't agonize over and replay every single interaction, have insomnia, make themselves sick, and isolate themselves. 

I've talked about this in other blog posts, so I'm just going to quote myself when I describe how anxiety feels: 

"The best way to describe what anxiety feels like is to tell someone to imagine standing in a crowded room, screaming at the gunman in the corner while everyone else politely sips their tea. They look at you like you're crazy. You point at the gunman, and they don't see him. You're pumping more adrenaline through your body than your heart can handle and they say "please pass the sugar."

After I had my daughter in 2008, I was diagnosed with postpartum depression. Only it didn't feel like postpartum depression. It felt like how I always felt when big changes happened, like the roller coaster was coming off the rails. I've always had difficulty adjusting and coping with change, and bringing a colicky baby who wouldn't eat into a house I'd shared alone with my husband for 10 years was a big adjustment to cope with.

This time, this feeling I was having was given a name. And a drug. I was given anti-depressants and some Xanax and told that this was a hormonal thing that would likely level out over my child's first year. It didn't. Oh, I got better at being a mom, and Claire and I figured each other out. Yet, I still had panic attacks that were directly related to my insecurities as her mother, and actually felt even less like myself on the drugs, which I didn't connect to the pharmaceuticals. I just thought I was losing my mind. I didn't level out. 

In 2010, when my child was two, I was alone with her and had such a severe panic attack that I had to run outside and throw up. I've shared that before on this blog, but I didn't share how serious it was. I was convinced that I was going to have a panic attack every time I was alone with my child, and I didn't want to live if that was true. She's my light in this world, and if I couldn't be her mother, I didn't want to be. 

So, what do you do when you're sick and you're worried about your safety? Both of these things were true, it doesn't matter that I was the danger to myself. You go to the doctor. I went to the emergency room. This was life or death, and I even called my nurse sister who agreed: get there fast and get help.

At the time, I worked for the hospital I drove myself to, and I knew that going there meant I was going to see people I worked with. 

I walked up to the desk and told the woman through tears that I was a danger to myself. I was put in a room in the emergency department. I was given a cup with pills and water to take them with. I asked what the pills were and I was told they would calm me down. I was left alone for a while. I was wheeled up to the locked behavioral health unit. I was given more medication. I was asked to hand over the string from my sweatshirt and sweatpants. I was left alone again. I went through an intake procedure. I was put in a room and told that I would be seen by a psychiatrist the next day. Until then, I was staying there.

I cried myself to sleep to the sounds of other screaming patients in the unit. I woke up and was told I had to attend group therapy. I went and listened to stories of severely mentally ill people who made my problems look like an episode of Little House on the Prairie. Soon, the psychiatrist came and told me she didn't think I needed to be there anymore, and, even if she did, it would only be for 72 hours. I couldn't imagine spending 72 hours in that place, so she sent me to a group home. I lasted 2 hours there. It wasn't the right place for me either.

So I went home 24 hours later with a follow-up appointment with a therapist for a week later. Only nothing changed. I actually felt worse about myself. I still didn't know how to be a mother. I still didn't want to be alive if I couldn't be a mother. I felt, again, like I was screaming for help and no one could hear me. 

Thus began the most self-destructive period of my life. I stopped taking anti-depressants, and I lost my trust in the medical system. By the end of the following year, I was separated from my husband, and I had split custody of my daughter. The worst thing I could imagine had happened. I had pushed everyone away, I was living in an apartment alone, and I hated myself. My decisions reflected my self loathing. I didn't deserve happiness, or a husband who loved me, or to see my child every day. I didn't feel like I deserved love.

I was at rock bottom, right? This is the cliche. So, how did I get out? It was a recipe of ingredients, not just one thing. I took a new job (because the rest of the stress in my life paled in comparison) that introduced me to some people who made me feel like I wasn't worthless. I traveled for that job, I stayed busy, and I let it distract me when I didn't have my kid with me. When I did have my kid, I spent a ton of time with JUST HER and figured something out: I'm kind of good at being her mother.

I started to feel like myself again. Sometimes I had anxiety, but I didn't feel like it was out of my control. It felt like ME. I now know that it's likely the anti-depressant combo I was on was making me feel worse, not better. I do not blame this for all of my actions, and I'm going to say this: do NOT go off any prescribed drugs without consulting multiple doctors. I very nearly lost my life during the time I was adjusting to being drug free. But one day, the sun came back out. I remember going to the doctor for a check up around this time and they said I should go back on anti-depressants to deal with my life stress. I looked at them and said: "It's time for me to feel again. I'm going through some tough times, but this is life. This is me." They prescribed them anyway. I didn't take them.

It was around this time that I signed up for my first half marathon, and training for it changed my life. I found out that eating well, staying busy, and working out made me less likely to have anxiety. I found out so much about me. I have depression and anxiety, and I always will. I just accept these things as part of what makes me ME. And all this running. Yes, all this running is now a part of me. It has to be. That's the secret: most runners I meet have found their peace out on the road, running at dawn. 

By 2013, I had my husband back, a home again, and a life that I now felt I deserved. There was no secret recipe. It was hard work. It was marriage counseling. It was therapy. It was learning about me. I'm not perfect, and I'll never be, but I'm here, and I'm worthy of being here. I fought hard for my relationship and my family.

There's a story in a scene from one of my favorite TV shows, The West Wing, that I will link to below, but here's a quick summary: a guy is in a hole and can't get out. A priest walks by and says a prayer, keeps going. A doctor walks by, writes a prescription, keeps going. His friend walks by, jumps in the hole. The guy in the hole says "what the hell are you doing? now we are both stuck down here." The friend says "yeah, but I've been down here before. I know the way out." 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZQJ6yqQRAQs

I know the way out, but it's not the same for everyone. And I'm sad to say the cure doesn't exist in the hospital. It can be a beginning though. They will keep you safe from yourself for a short time, but the work will begin when you leave. Every time I hear about suicide, I think about that person and how they probably looked for help and didn't find it. I think about leaving the place that was supposed to help me, feeling worse than I did before. I think about how it could have been me. I think about how I have more to do to help change that experience for someone. 

I promise to be that friend to you, to help you find your way out. What I know now, what worked for me, it might not work for you, but I'll hold the flashlight. 


"Even the darkest night will end, and the sun will rise."
- Victor Hugo

There's Beauty in the Breakdown

I quit my job recently. It seems simple enough. You aren't all that satisfied with your job, you dream of doing something else, you find that something else, you're pleased, you leave, you start the new job. I was ecstatic about the new opportunity. It was everything I wanted. 

Except I tend to struggle with change. And forget that I struggle with change. Struggle is probably a bad word for it, because only recently have I come to realize that I have an acute biological reaction to situations like this. Even as it's happening, I can look at it and say "that's my body reacting to this change, the world is not exploding" but I can't stop it. It's like having an allergic reaction, looking at it and saying "those are hives" and then thinking you can stop it with your brain.

I left my old job with no regrets, took a few days off, ran a fun race with friends and I wasn't even anxious on my first day. About a week later, the small nagging feeling started in the pit of my stomach. Did I make a mistake or was this just that part of me that I forgot about? The part of me that reacts to change? What if this feeling wasn't just an allergic reaction? What if it was a sign that I had done something wrong, that I had made the wrong choice? 

I kept asking my family and friends to reassure me. I stopped sleeping. I tried to think of other things. I exercised, I read books, I tried to distract myself but only succeeded in exhausting myself. 

I have always been this way. Growing up, I rarely slept the night before a new school year. I made myself sick worrying about a small slight from a  friend and stayed home a lot just out of fear. 

After I had my daughter, I experienced horrible postpartum depression that led to me having panic attacks when I was alone with her. I was convinced that something was going to happen to her and that I was going to be unable to stop it. I was convinced that I was the crazy one, that I might be the thing that was going to happen to her. Once, I had such a fierce panic attack, I had to run out of the house into frigid winter temperatures to throw up, hyperventilating and then checking myself into the hospital. I had never loved anyone so much, and I was so fearful of that. My mind is trained to go to the worst possible scenario, and when you're a mother, that scenario becomes a house of horror. 

The best way to describe what anxiety feels like is to tell someone to imagine standing in a crowded room, screaming at the gunman in the corner while everyone else politely sips their tea. They look at you like you're crazy. You point at the gunman, and they don't see him. You're pumping more adrenaline through your body than your heart can handle and they say "please pass the sugar."

The next several weeks, I was on a roller coaster. I'd feel great, love the work I was doing, and then I'd wake up in the middle of the night feeling like I was on an island where nothing was familiar. All the while, no one but those closest to me knew I was struggling. That's the thing: most people with anxiety problems are funny, high-functioning, rational, creative beings. You can't see the hives.

I had a particularly rough weekend, and I found myself sitting in my neighbor's backyard watching several children jump from a tree fort onto a trampoline. Several Skyline kids were doing it, just hopping over the railing and taking the plunge with glee, disappearing into a pile of leaves someone had gathered inside the trampoline. 

My daughter watched for a while and then walked over to try it. Then walked away. Then walked back over. Struggled. Began to cry. She asked my husband to go up there and help her get over the railing, but when he climbed up, she didn't want to go over the railing. She cried, she yelled at herself. She finally got over the railing, and then just stood there. Suspended in pain and fear. She climbed back over the railing and let other kids jump. She tried again. And again. Through tears, anger at herself and panic. 

When she finally jumped, I cried. The other kids kept jumping. She went back up and did it again, still crying. Forcing herself to do it over and over again. The littlest of the group, a four year old, finally got permission from her parents and jumped without hesitation. Claire kept having to push herself, but she jumped more than any other kid there.

Later, I asked her if it was fun once she tried it. She said "Not really, but I had to keep going so I wouldn't be scared anymore." She  cried when she recalled how hard it was for her to jump, and yet a four year old could do it without blinking. I told her she was brave, she was fierce. To jump was so much harder for her, the fear so much bigger. Her body telling her so much. But she did it anyway. She overcame that fear and kept pushing through it. I was so proud of her, because I know how that feels. The monster lurking at the bottom of the trampoline that no one can see.

I told myself to give it time, that reaching the peak of this roller coaster meant that it was coming to an end. Sure enough, my body has let up on the proverbial hives. I love my new job and it was the right decision. When I start to falter, I remember that little girl jumping. I give myself permission to take some time, take a deep breath. Keep jumping. Let go.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=13WAhlE02ew

Mankato Magazine

Just wanted to post a link to an essay I wrote for the Mankato Magazine that is based on my last post. I am proud of myself for letting this one out into the world.

It is missing the last few lines: The difference with this race is that I’m finally realizing that it’s ok to feel that way. Not everyone loves races. But I am still a runner. And I am still strong.

And I am.

Check it out, starting on page 22. Also, the editor's note on page 6.
https://issuu.com/dhabrat/docs/katomag_10_16

For Those Who Don't Enjoy the Race

That's me in the back. Hating life. It is not a moment I want to remember, nor is it a moment I want to repeat. The photo was posted on Facebook by the race. I tagged myself and saved the photo because I figured I'd have to face this and write about it eventually.

About a year and a half ago, after finishing my second half marathon, I decided to have surgery on my foot to repair several issues. Whether this was a good decision or not is now up for debate, I had a doctor that I no longer trust telling me it was. That's a different blog post for a different time. The point is, I took last year off from signing up for official races so I could give the foot a year to heal.

Beginning in January, I decided it was game on. I signed up for my third half marathon in June, started working out almost every day, and found a few wackos to sign up with me to ensure that I would stick to a  rigorous training schedule. I was feeling great. I had never felt better and more in shape. I was digging our training runs and the camaraderie I felt with the girls I ran with all the time. Note the past tense. (That's called foreshadowing.)

Part of our training included a small fundraiser 10K on Memorial Day. I really didn't think much of it. Sure, I have a track record of choking during these things and I hadn't participated in an official race in more than a year, but the weekend before, we did 15 miles. I thought it would be just like a training run. Sure, I was coming off a week of work travel and a crappy long run the day before, but I would have my buddies with me and it wouldn't be so bad. I went to bed pretty cranky and upset. (That's also called foreshadowing.)

When the race began, my competitive running buddies happily sprinted off (why were they so excited?) and I was paralyzed. I tried to keep up for a while but they were lost in competition land going 2 minutes/mile faster than I had planned. I'm happy for them, I'm glad they felt great, I love them with all of my heart. I wish I could bottle their race day enthusiasm and shoot it into my veins like the heroin it most certainly is.

I don't like to compete. I don't like crowds. I don't even like sports. I don't get the "race-day adrenaline rush." I don't know if you understand yet, so I'll say it: I HATE OFFICIAL RACES. My race day "plan" was to pretend like we weren't really in a race. I was just going to pretend like the trails were crowded that day! BECAUSE I HATE OFFICIAL RACES.

I run alone often, in fact, until this year, I ran almost every training run alone. However, I prep for it. I listen to music, podcasts, plan my route, stick to a pace based on how I feel, and tune out the world. I didn't even have my headphones with me yesterday. This was going to be 6 hot miles of me and my self-defeating thoughts.

First, my watch didn't start when it was supposed to, so I never really knew where I was on the route, which those who do these stupid things understand will kill you. Next, I got to the second mile and my brain told me I had to walk. And cry. Really, I was crying after 2 miles. Why was I crying?! This is the chick who did 15 miles the week before. This was not a good omen. I had to push myself through every 1/10 of a mile for the entire race. I would find a decent pace, pass someone, and then end up walking, only to have them pass me later.

I saw my friends at the end cheering for me and I wanted to hide. They came over and I dissolved into a puddle of tears. I told them I never want do this again, and I left. And I cried in my room for hours. Right now I'm trying to convince myself to even run the race I signed up for so many months ago, the one that I did all of this for, the one that I felt so prepared for. The one I know I'm physically prepared for.

I finished the race at about 1:03, a time that I wouldn't have been ashamed of a few months ago, but I know I had it in me to do so much better if it hadn't been for my struggle with myself.

So what happened? Why am I telling this personal story to strangers? Why did I save that stupid photo? I don't know, I'm just writing this to get it off my mind. I don't have the answers. It has been 24 hours and I can't even talk about it without crying. My running buddies asked me to do 4-5 miles this morning and I COULDN'T EVEN RESPOND. I don't know why I feel like this and I don't know how I'm going to get over it. I can't believe I'm sharing my humiliation on the interwebs without even knowing why I'm humiliated. It comes down to this: I am scared to run.

For now, what I can do is list the reasons why I sign up for these damn things if I hate them so much in the hopes that I can find my way back to the love I have for running before June 18.

1) Fitness. This is really the least important one on the list but I thought I'd get it out of the way. Signing up for official races that I DREAD MORE THAN DEATH keeps me motivated to do the training runs that keep me semi- in shape. Period.

2) Chasing the dragon. That I just used a drug reference is not an accident. I love how (sometimes) I feel like I could run forever like Forrest Gump. I hate getting out of bed to do it, but I always love how I feel when training runs are over. I feel accomplished, happy, and unable to conjure feelings of anger and anxiety. That's the dragon I chase. It's cheaper than anti-depressants, and I like the side effects a lot more.

3) Friends. I have made some really great friends and have had the opportunity to see my already great friends much more often as a result of the grueling training schedule we put ourselves on. We hold each other accountable, we push each other when we don't want to go anymore and we laugh while we're doing it. There is really no better way to start my day than with these people and that feeling.

4) I can. Many people I love can't run. They don't have to worry about stupid race day anxiety because they don't have limbs or they have bad hearts or they have cancer. Or they are dead. It's morbid, but come on. The only thing keeping me from running is my...brain? I feel like such a whiner.

Journalism, Law, and Adnan Syed

I double majored in English and Journalism in college and my favorite class was Mass Communications Law, hands down. I have a deep fascination with the way the law has shaped journalism and the way journalism has shaped law.

True crime has always intrigued me. I don't like scary movies and I often become fearful when reading about true crime stories, but I can't look away. When I started listening to Serial during season one, I couldn't tear my ear buds away from my head. It wasn't just because I was intrigued by the case, it was because this was a totally new way to be a journalist.

Unlike many of my fellow soldiers in the Serial army, I was not new to This American Life or podcasts. I love music, but on monotonous long runs training for a couple of races I stupidly signed up for, I would get bored of my playlists and turn to audio books or This American Life.

There's something about the podcast movement and Serial's epic rise that says so much about how things have changed and stayed the same. It was like we had all been transported back to the early days of radio. Its simplicity as a medium combined with the technology used to deliver it to 5 million people per week was a game changer. I'm thankful to Sarah Koenig for that, although I know it wasn't on purpose. She had no idea this was going to happen.

Fast forward to last week when the post-conviction relief (PCR) hearing to determine if there is enough evidence to grant Syed a new trial begins. Since Serial ended, I have done what I always do when I become intrigued by something: I read EVERYTHING, watch EVERYTHING and listen to EVERYTHING that I can find on the subject. I assumed that a good portion of the Serial army did as well.

They didn't. I wasn't the only one listening to Undisclosed, the podcast started by family friend Rabia Chaudry (the one who begged Sarah Koenig to take on this case) and two other lawyers, Susan Simpson and Colin Miller, who got sucked in by Serial and couldn't stop researching it (just like me, only smarter) and Truth and Justice, another podcast started by fan Bob Ruff, but there certainly weren't 5 million of us listening.

Going from Serial to Undisclosed and Truth and Justice was like going from elementary school to graduate school in one leap. Much of what Sarah uncovered or took for granted was called into question and, often, disproved. It's not that Sarah didn't work to uncover new information, it's that she a) isn't a lawyer and b) didn't get to benefit from the massive attention her podcast had on the rest of the world and, amazingly, potential alibi witnesses. That being said, there really is no excuse for her elementary-level coverage of the PCR hearing.

As someone who donated money to Serial to keep it going because I believed that they were bringing justice to Hae's family (because justice for Hae does not involve convicting the wrong person with no physical evidence) and that Serial would continue to do this important work to fight the radical indifference problem we have in this country: I am disappointed.

I now know more about the case than Sarah does, and her coverage of the PCR hearing was, in a word: embarrassing. Still, it didn't bother me too much until I realized how many people were relying on her to deliver the ending they so desperately wanted. The dream we all hope for, the happy ending. The 5 million plus people who listened and waited for Thursday mornings every week were now waiting for her to provide closure. They felt that if there was more information to share, they would get it from the person who seemed so addicted to finding the truth. Unfortunately, it seems as if she stopped caring about Adnan the minute she posted the final installment. Her clueless calls to Dana from the closet in her hotel room were filled with the indifference that I hoped she would eradicate.

Sarah did a lot for Adnan's case, so I'm not going to continue to harp on her current lack of interest, because I also think we are seeing yet another evolution in the way this PCR hearing is being covered. There are multiple amazing sources "live tweeting" from the hallways of the courthouse, feeding the hungry masses who haven't hid their heads in the sand since Serial ended. There is still an army out there, and they are anything but indifferent.

Lawyers from all over the country providing background on PCR hearings via Twitter and their blogs, journalists suddenly doubling and tripling their followers on Twitter because they are covering the case, podcasters and random lawyers from Minnesota using Periscope to recap the day's testimony and average Joes like me getting likes from Rabia and her brother. This is a movement of the people, for the people. This is a drastic shift in the way journalism can bend and shape itself to continue to be not only relevant, but integral to providing justice. This is a new case to be covered in that Mass Communications Law class, and we are making history.

#AdnanSyed #JusticeforHae #FreeAdnan