After reading the line, “What is it like to be you?”—and the idea that it’s a question no one can truly answer because we can’t step far enough outside our own frame of reference—I looked up from Children of Men, turned to Dave, and asked him.
He paused. Where I imagined he’d ask me why, or where the thought came from, he instead said, “Lots of logic. Pro-and-con lists. Calculations.”
I told him that, comparatively, it feels easy to be me. My body is healthy. My mind and my community are, too. Things seem to work. I don’t want to jinx it, so gratitude plays a big role in how I move through the day.
And yet—how do I genuinely get in touch with myself? How do I twist the FM dial past the static, the overlapping stations, until something comes in clear and undeniable?
Most days, it’s all noise. Conflicting signals from within. I think a thought, doubt it, decide there’s more beneath it, and start again. Sometimes I wonder if the problem isn’t the static at all—but the thoughts themselves.
With writing, I sometimes feel like a has-been. Someone who peaked too early and is now washed up. I’ve said before that I bore myself, that I should do everyone a favor and quit. So do it, I think. Pull the trigger. Be done with it.
But I don’t. I stay. Maybe that looks like caution. Maybe it feels like cowardice. But it’s also endurance. I show up. I meet commitments. I try to live with real integrity. I aspire to be like my dad, like my grandpa—to push harder, to be better.
I don’t get an exit stage right. Dedication—to anything—requires sacrifice. You sacrifice, you cry, you tantrum, and still the line barely moves.
I mostly ran four miles today—the same as yesterday, only faster. Mile one clocked in at eleven minutes; yesterday it was twelve-plus. The later miles slowed when my right flank—whatever that area below my hip is called—tightened up. I know that pain. I hobbled through it during a half marathon years ago.
This time, I’m working with it. When the pain hits a six out of ten, I walk. I wait for it to drop to a two, then I start running again.
I want to run long distances. The country roads help—gentle elevation, no more than sixty-seven feet. Ideal conditions. I worry about getting stuck at four miles, about getting too comfortable knowing exactly where the turnaround points are and how good the relief feels. Maybe the answer is extending each run, even by a tenth of a mile—just enough to disrupt yesterday’s habit.
But I’m not in a hurry. For now, it’s about getting this hip on board. About building trust between my body and the plan.
I used to think “better” meant measurable—faster, stronger, farther. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe better is presence. Maybe it’s staying with the static long enough to recognize a signal. Maybe it’s listening closely—through doubt, through discomfort—and choosing to keep turning the dial.
Not to eliminate the noise.
Just to learn how to hear myself inside it.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 