What's Next? — Running the Middle

I’ve thought about whether to write about this life change here, and whether it has any relevance to running. But then I thought… since when is running really just about running? Unless you are an elite, professional, or Olympic level athlete, anyone who runs on the regular is doing so for reasons other than scoring a podium finish. You might be running to take charge of your health, maybe to enjoy the outdoors, perhaps to relieve stress, or possibly even as a form of meditation. You could be running to improve your self-confidence. Maybe you’re trying to prove your worth to someone else, or maybe to prove your worth to yourself.

Maybe you just like shiny things and those swanky finisher medals attract you like a magnet. Oooo,,,,that’s pretty….

Run the Bluegrass half marathon in Lexington, Kentucky in 2017. Awesome medals, beer, and bourbon donuts at the finish? Yes, please. Had an unexpected PR on the hilly course. So unexpected that I tried to give back the medal after it was engraved with my finish time because it didn’t match the much slower time on my watch.

A long time ago, I liked to run but was awful at it. I didn’t want to run to lose weight or run to be cool. I just liked the way I felt afterwards. I’ve written briefly about my failed attempts at becoming an athlete in middle-school and the subsequent swearing off all athletic endeavors for years following. At that time, it seemed as though you should only do sports if you were one of those that were good at sports. Since I’m not all that coordinated, running suited my lack of body control quite well.

Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot. Look! I got it!

Somewhere along the way into adulthood, I decided to try running - again. At least try, right? When I did, running was still hard. I was slow. I still am slow. I still generally resemble a sweaty, uncoordinated buffalo at any given moment while running. It can easily be argued that although I’ve accomplished a few running milestones here and there since, I’m still not actually good at it.

Finishing my first 50-mile distance, November 2020. Races were mostly cancelled at this time so I ran my own 50 at my local trails. My daughter and family, along with.a few good friends, were there to welcome me at the “finish”.

Maybe it was time, experience, and a bit of maturity that gave me the power to stick with it this go ‘round. As a result, I learned some things. Not how to become a better runner (like, clearly… that has yet to come to fruition), but how to enjoy running because I just enjoy running. I didn’t learn better form or technique. And I’m definitely still working out how to eat the right things for those really long distances so I don’t become the walking dead.

Most importantly, though, I got better at setting goals and taking risks. I learned that even if you fail at the things you try, you can try again. I learned how to be braver. I learned to say yes even when an adventure seemed a few steps outside my comfort zone. I learned that I am tougher than I thought I was, and more capable than I gave myself credit for.

It seems safe to apply this thinking to a hobby or pastime, such as running. But if I could learn to be brave, take risks, and step outside my comfort zone in one part of my life, then maybe it’s time I applied these things to other areas as well.

So, after 24 years in the field of education, we’re gonna step right on out of that comfort zone. Not sure if we’ll be stepping into a luscious field of sweet grass and flowers or straight off a cliff but…. I’ve finished what I set out to accomplish in education, so I’m going to ask myself that exhilarating and fantastic question: what’s next? At the end of this school year, I will no longer be teaching or working directly in traditional education. I did what I set out to do. I fulfilled the inner promises I made to myself as a child: to give back, and to repay what was given to me.

Last day of school 2022. Ringing out the year with my students.

I knew from the time I was in fourth grade that teaching was what I wanted to do as a career. I was fortunate to have had a teacher who, in my eyes, was the coolest, the funniest - and other than my own mother - the greatest human on the planet at the time. Ms. Ruth Hangartner.

I loved being in her class. I had her in fourth grade and later in sixth grade. She cracked jokes, never took herself too seriously, and even amid her disorganized piles of papers and materials somehow managed to teach us some curriculum. She did extra stuff with us, too. We went on an overnight camping trip to Wekiva State Park. She taught us how to screen print a t-shirt. She showed us how to love and respect animals. She had plants and fish in her classroom that we helped care for. As a reward, she took us out to lunch at Burger King and then went to her house and farm where there were geese and chickens and horses. She liked to call herself Dr. H and we got to shoot paper balls in the tiny basketball hoop on the wall. We laughed with her when she got braces in her mid-forties and her lips would get stuck to the brackets when she tried to talk. She didn’t dress fancy or fashionable, and seemed to show little concern for things happening outside the walls of her classroom. She was engaging. She was real.

Me, on the right, showcasing the geese at Ms. H’s farm.

Sitting on the hitching post at Ms. H’s farm with Henry the horse and some classmates.

Ms. H. often allowed me to stay after school with her because, often, I didn’t want to go home. Home was where my father was, often, because, often, he wasn’t working. I did not feel comfortable at home. He and I never had the right relationship. There were many times throughout my life the already poor connection was strained. As a child, I wanted to be at school with Ms. H. while my mother was at work trying to sustain our family. School was where I felt cared for and safe when my mother wasn’t around.

Ms. H talking about horses with my Girl Scout troop at her farm. Me, second from right.

The details of exactly how I spent my time after school are fuzzy these days. I remember helping Ms. H organize her things and materials. Our old school building from the early 1900s had a long closet that stretched along the end wall from one side to the other. I recall cleaning and arranging it many times for her. I helped grade papers, move desks, prepare materials, and clean the chalkboards. Yep, real chalkboards. It was quite the skill, you know, how to get them cleaned just right with the big, rectangular wet sponge. You had to rinse frequently and work from top to bottom just so. I can remember the smell of the ditto machine, too. The purple ink that would smear if you didn’t give it those extra few seconds to dry after you spun it out of the machine. And then we’d all sniff the paper… That might explain a lot, I know.

Most days, I would walk home from school on my own when she was ready to leave. But on other days, Ms. H would drive me home in her yellow Volkswagen Beetle, with its black top and hot-as-heck black seats with rips and tears in the edges. No AC. I didn’t mind, though. Those extra minutes with her made me feel special.

Ms. H at the end of our sixth grade year.

I went on to graduate high school and subsequently from the University of Central Florida with a degree in Elementary Education. Over the years, I learned a lot, and realized that the work of teaching was far more complicated and difficult than I thought. Ms. H had made it look so doable, and fun. There were many who supported me while learning the profession, showed me the way, and picked me up when I would fall. And with time, I figured it out. I wasn’t always the most detailed of instructors, but my kids learned. We always had fun, the kids were engaged, and I tried my best to build relationships and to be real. That was the model I had. It was who I needed to be.

Me with Ms. H at my elementary school in later years. I’m not sure when this was taken, but I suspect it was early high school. I had come back to help at the end of a school year for a student banquet or celebration (the visor was part of a beach theme).

There were a few times I tried to reach out to Ms. H, to thank her for being the bestest teacher ever, but I never did get in contact with her. Years ago, I tried calling her former school, but they couldn’t tell me anything about where she was, although I suspected they knew. Of course, legally, I understood why they couldn’t tell me. I asked if they would just send along my number, but nothing came from it. I Googled her a few times and although her address came up the same as it had been when I was a child, I felt odd just coming out of the woodwork to say hello. Would it be weird? Would she even remember me? So much time had passed, would it be super awkward to attempt a conversation?

After being a teacher myself for many years, I understood how difficult it was to remember students. We see them as children, but after a decade or more has passed, not only are the memories blurred but those children are all grown up. It’s tough to feel the same connections as before, much less even recognize their now grown-up faces.

I eventually decided to let it go, and simply hold the memories of Ms. H in my heart, trusting that she understood what I now know: that my work is far greater than state standards or curriculum. It’s about kids. It’s about learning. It’s about caring. It’s about sacrifice, long hours, and sometimes choosing the work over the other parts of your life that matter too. It’s giving your soul to the kind of work where you may never know the significance of your contribution.

But why leave the profession? Why now? Although education is certainly in a state of turmoil, my decision to take the leap to a new career is influenced by far more than just the circus in which we teachers have found ourselves entrapped. I could go on about what’s right and wrong in the educational field today, but that’s a conversation for another time and place. The current climate isn’t my sole cause to step away from the profession, but it undoubtedly has made it easier.

Last November, my father passed away. I had not spoken with him, by choice, for nearly 12 years. It had become a relationship my heart could no longer sustain. To preserve myself, I let it go. Not surprising to me, I had no grief after his death. What was surprising was feeling an odd sense of relief. Something had been lifted. It was as if I had, indeed, finished a task. I set out to be the person who had influenced me so greatly as a child. A teacher. It felt as though I no longer needed to give back. I had paid the debt. I carried her work forward. Like some strange parallel to running a long and difficult race, I had finished. I had done good. I’d hoped I had made her proud. “That’ll do pig, that’ll do.”

Now, I could give myself permission to ask the question: what’s next?

If Ms. H showed me how to be a great teacher, running showed me that I could do hard things.

Ms. H gave me purpose. Running gave me courage.

Being able to let go allows you to move forward.

In this new chapter, I’ll still have purpose. It’ll just look a bit different. I’ll still get to have some fun and interact with some kids, but that too, will look different. It is exciting to imagine what else I could become and how I could use my education experience in new ways.

Running? Well, that might just be one of the best parts. I’ll still get to. And, in many ways, my new way of work will allow me more flexibility to run, which in turn could mean some great new escapades and adventures. Like Mr. Burns says in the Simpsons, “Excellent…”

Although this big life change has been simmering for quite some time, a quote from a recent book resonates. In Born a Crime, by Trevor Noah, he writes:

“I don’t regret anything I’ve ever done in life, any choice that I’ve made. But I’m consumed with regret for the things I didn’t do, the choices I didn’t make, the things I didn’t say. We spend so much time being afraid of failure, afraid of rejection. But regret is the thing we should fear most. Failure is an answer. Rejection is an answer. Regret is an eternal question you will never have the answer to. ‘What if . . .’ ‘If only . . .’ ‘I wonder what would have . . .’ You will never, never know, and it will haunt you for the rest of your days.”

I could continue teaching in a traditional sense, in a classroom, in a school. I could keep on doing what I’ve been doing, and everything would likely be just fine. Teaching is safe. I know how to do that. It’s what I’ve always done.

But running taught me to take risks, to be brave, to step out of my comfort zone, to say yes.

I’m excited to find out the answer to “what’s next?”.