He was a grocer. A blue-collar American. The first man in my family to carry my last name.
I never met him. And neither did my father.
A heart attack felled my great grandfather before he could even see his 50th birthday. The tragic event cast a shadow over my family. One that was still hard to ignore when I entered the picture three decades later.
The other side of my family tree was no less somber. My mother adored her paternal grandfather. But by the time she was in grade school, he was gone. A heart attack claimed him too.
Heart disease is a sobering reality in my family. The leading cause of death in America has wreaked havoc on my family tree.
Even those who’ve managed to fend off the reaper ended up sporting pronounced war wounds. My mother’s father survived two heart attacks, a triple bypass, and a stroke in his nine decades on this planet.
I remember the third and fourth legs of that odyssey. I vividly recall the toll it took on him. The toll it took on all of us.
I observed it. I absorbed it. And I buried it.
Until now.
Everyone’s fighting a battle you know nothing about.
I’ve seen this phrase more and more recently. It’s a hallmark of the era we live in.
Those eight words are meant to serve as a powerful reminder. A reminder not to judge others for what they show us through their actions. And a reminder to not be so secretive ourselves.
I’ve long struggled to heed this advice.
I do my best not to cast stones at others. But I’m often hesitant to show my own cards. Even when doing so might help clarify my actions.
This dichotomy came into sharp focus some years back. I’d recently entered the world of competitive running, ramping a modest exercise routine into a full-fledged recreational hobby.
My commitment to the sport was notable – and intense. And soon everyone around me was asking one question: Why?
Why was I doing this? What kept me going?
I’d often provide stock responses to these inquiries.
I do it because I’m good at running!
I do it because I love running!
I do it because no other experience matches it!
All those statements were technically true. But none of them represented my why.
They weren’t the reason why I showed up in an empty parking lot at 5:30 in the morning. They weren’t the reason I cranked out the miles until my legs and lungs hurt. They weren’t the reason I spent hundreds of dollars on gear and entered every race I could.
No, the reason – the real reason – I did all these things was my family history.
I was haunted by the legacy of heart disease in my lineage. I was determined to stay in shape and avert an early demise. And when it came to this objective, no other cardio workout quite compared to running.
So, I ran with vigor and determination. I made friends in the running community. I won medals in distance races.
I gained the upper hand in my hidden battle with heart disease.
And then I got injured. Four times over.
And a new set of hidden battles began.
There’s a famous video on the internet of a baby giraffe learning to walk.
The calf first struggles to stand up, then to steady itself, then to move on its own four feet.
Running for the first time after a hiatus is somewhat like this. You’re tentative and skittish at first, but eventually you get the hang of it.
But those first steps back are only half of the experience. The other half occurs the next morning, when you feel like you’ve been hit by a truck.
It’s hard to explain the level of soreness that accompanies that first time back running. Muscles you didn’t know existed now radiate with pain. You find yourself shuffling about, hunched like an elderly person with sciatica.
It hurts to do just about anything, and it takes days for your body to loosen up.
I know this sensation all too well. After all, I’ve experienced it four times in less than two years.
Yes, this full body soreness has become a constant for me. A painful milestone I keep passing in a bevy of injuries and recoveries, of setbacks and comebacks.
This strange purgatory is foreign to many competitive runners. Some have stayed healthy throughout their journey. Others ran through an injury without taking a break. Their bodies have been spared the trauma that comes with starting all over again.
Even those who are forced to reboot will likely only go through this ritual once or twice. Rapid injury recurrence is somewhat rare in this sport. And those facing such affliction often step away for good.
So, I’m one in a million. Which makes me one of one.
I put myself through hell time and again, just to get back in motion. And others couldn’t possibly comprehend the struggle as well as I.
This has become my hidden battle. One that I’ve worked hard to keep under wraps.
But what good has that done me? Surely none.
Suffering in silence is still suffering. It brings me no closer to closure, and it pushes others away from understanding.
So, I’m changing course. I’m coming clean. I’m putting my cards on the table.
I’ve had my ups with running. And I’ve had my downs.
I’ve enjoyed the thrill of running free and easy. Of setting personal bests and standing on podiums. It’s scintillating.
But I’ve also felt the pain of running. Of acute injury, of drawn-out rehab, and of head-to-toe soreness that comes with every reboot. It’s miserable.
The peaks and valleys don’t always sync up. A return to glory as no more guaranteed than a fall from grace. Yet, I stick with it anyway.
For the alternative is not palatable.
I refuse to walk away from the fight. To bury my head in the sand. To willingly succumb to the ailments that have dogged my lineage.
I’m determined to stay active. To give myself a chance for more chapters to be written.
That’s worth the battle. Whether its fought in the shadows or the light.