The Ultra Marathon: A Lover's Quarrel.

"What the hell am I doing?" I speculated as I strained my blonde locks into a tight, high pony tail long before the sun peeked through my bedroom blinds. The slumbering sounds of my husband resonated under the crack of the bathroom door as I slipped on my running shoes.

I looked into the mirror at the young woman staring at me, eyes half open, standing in her running tights. She looked ready for something.
Anxious, even.


I have been struggling up hills and wiping dirt from eyes long before I learned to run a mile. 

I have been running all of my life. 

From people, to people.
From who others said I was, to the woman I knew I was meant to be.
From the easy, comfortable life to the road less traveled, leading to the life most fulfilling.

When I started running, I ran to get away, to lose myself and lose so many others.
Today, I didn't see this girl running from anything, but running towards something, towards herself.

I stared down upon the asphalt, my eyes skimming the chalk writing.
50k start line.

I looked to my right, a woman with legs as long as my entire frame was adjusting her fancy running glasses and bouncing.
She seemed friendly enough as she talked of personal bests and a pace that made me and my partner's eyes widen at one another.

I was running.
There was no crowd support here.
I had wanted it that way.
I had chosen a small race intentionally with a small town course.
No bells, whistles, flimsy signs or faces yelling words of encouragement.

Just me. 

Just a few straggling runners I didn't know and a hill long as hell.
Ten laps of 3.1 miles meant I would cover this hill, totaling 3/4 a mile long...ten. times.
My partner let out a groan as we approached it's base.

I trudged with my head down, trying my best not to focus on the struggling runners ahead.

I began to reflect on my training, my running career.
Almost four years ago I was training for my first race; a 10K.
Here I was, running 31 miles.

Running had taught me to push through all flavors of pain. 
It taught me to keep moving when my dad had cancer.
It taught me to keep moving when I left my ex-husband.
It taught me to keep moving when I moved 200 miles from home.
It taught me to keep moving when I found myself alone in this new place, friendless.
It taught me to keep moving when the scale tried to tell me how valuable I was.

"You know what? This hill is for everyone who I needed most but didn't stick around. You're missing out on the best part of me now and I feel sorry for you."

"You know what? This hill is for the years of eating disorders and self hatred. I conquered you."

"You know what? This hill is for the substance that was more important than me. I left you behind."

"You know what? This hill is for cancer. You suck. We conquered you too.

"You know what? This hill is for every whisper spoken from a pew. I conquered you." 

"You know what? This hill is for my three boys. I will endure any struggle to love you and protect you."

"You know what? This hill is for me. This run is for me. I'm not running away, I'm running towards."


My Ultra Marathon was a lover's quarrel.
It was intimate, painful, yet impossible to forget. 

There is no denying the early mornings of quietly treading down the hallway before sunrise in my running shoes, attempting not to wake sleeping little ones.
There is no denying the declining of Friday night invitations to parties.
There is no denying the ache in your legs or the cold air burning your lungs.
There is no denying the taping, stretching, lifting, the dirty pile of sports bras looming in your bathroom floor.

Yet, it is a beautiful argument of who you are and who you are capable of being. 

I believe when you push yourself past the limits of the average, you really do find parts about yourself to be quite extraordinary.

I find my stature to be small, but my soul is tall. 
As tall as the bouncing woman at the start line. That tall.

My sorry attempts at starting "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" didn't get me through it.
The brand of my shoes didn't get me through it.

No running mantra, slap on the back or other person can get you through it.
Only you can. 

Once I passed the regular marathon mark, I threw my hands up in the air, let out a squeal, possibly skipped and carried on.

Running and I have seen it, been through it and conquered it all.
Today was no different.

My husband clapped and counted down the laps as we shuffled on the gravel and eyed others crossing their finish lines.
The last few laps I wasn't sure how I was supposed to feel.

Emotions were like fireflies in the summer night;
captivating, yet difficult to capture.

My eyes saw the grass slope I was to jump up to reach the green inflatable finish line.

Tears swelled.

I was a conquerer.

I had finally taken an emotion captive as I sprinted towards my husband attempting to capture unflattering photos.

What was that emotion?

That, you'll have to find out for yourself some day.

PhotoShop

As many of you already know, I am a photographer. You can call me professional, but I just see myself as a girl that likes to take pictures. Something about capturing a moment right when it happens, a moment never to be seen again in that exact form in all it's beauty and rawness ...it gets me. 

A mother's laughter.
A child's pouty lip.
A bride's blushing cheeks.

All of these moments fleeting through my lens, only to live the rest of it's life in a photograph.
You can not get those moments back. 

I edit my photos for the majority of shoots, mainly photo effects, leaving airbrushing alone.

A few days ago, the weather was gorgeous.
The sun was reflecting off of my sunglasses and the Spring breeze was blowing my curls all about my porcelain face.

I decided to leave the makeup at home for the day and made my way down the winding back roads to meet the day's clients.

I pulled up to the abandoned buildings, a perfect mixture of orange rust and gray washed walls.
There waiting were three beautiful, strong women.

Their color schemes were perfectly coordinated and the droplets of sun kissed their freckled cheeks.

They were fun.
They were intelligent.
They were witty.
They were full of giggles.
They were full of life.
They were funny. 
They were free, but not from everything. 

As the shoot went on I learned their insecurities.
I learned the parts of themselves that they detested.

They insisted I edit their faces, legs, their bodies as much as possible.
They wanted me to airbrush their imperfections and shoot them from their "good" side.

They wanted me to...fix them.

My heart broke for them.

Why?
Why does it matter so much to me, you ask?
They were strangers.
Women I would probably never see again after that session in the sun.
So why did their thoughts and groans of self animosity hurt me?

Because they were beautiful.
Not only were their minds and hearts stunning to encounter, but that beauty illuminated so strongly it showed even through their skin.

I talk about body image and beauty a lot because I care about it a lot.
It is a burden I choose to carry for you, for the girl down the street, for the women I photographed that day and for myself. 

It weighs on me.
Heavily. 

When you maim your beautiful features with words of self destruction, I believe God weeps.
You might think that is an assumption too powerful to make.
I don't think so.

When one of my boys builds a colossal Lego monument, they are beaming with delight.
They want to show their dad, they want to show their brothers and they call me into the dining room to "ohhh" and "ahh" over what they have just created.

Want to know what happens when one of their brothers knocks into the table and dismantles a piece of it?
Want to know what happens when their brother says their masterpiece isn't all that great?

A melt down.
Possibly some boy tears collect into a pool on the table.

Why?
Because they made it with their own hands.
They put time into it.
They put effort into it.

To them, it's the greatest thing they have ever  made.
To them, it is perfection.

When someone comes and threatens that creation, they become defensive and hurt.

I think God can be the same way.
We are it, ladies.

We are His workmanship.

He created the alluring galaxies, the grand waves that mold caves and mountains.
He formed every exquisite jewel and yet His work was not in its entirety until He saw you.

He saw you and knew that what He had contrived was "good" ( Genesis 1. It's there. And it's awesome).

When we waltz through art museums, we don't mock Picasso.
We don't question Van Gogh.

We revere and we accept them for what they are.

They are the artists and their pieces are respected pieces of art.

We effortlessly understand that concept, yet we question the Creator of the creators.

The Creator of every artist we admire is often the One we ignore.
We roll our eyes, we pick apart His work and we disrespect His best piece-

Us.

I will never attempt to better or to change a Da Vinci piece.
That would be ludicrous.

Yet, we as women try to tweak the Master's design every. single. day.

Now that, is true ludicrous.


Why airbrush a masterpiece?

Why carve away at an acclaimed sculpture?

God doesn't want to Photoshop you.


You shouldn't either.

A Letter To My Stepsons.

Caler, Corban and Cannon:

I love you.
I know you already know this, even though my love is typically shown in a non-traditional way.
Maybe I say it in a wink at the dinner table as macaroni falls down your chin or a ruffle of your beautiful hair as you pass me on the kitchen tile.

I know I don't squeal when you walk up to me or squeeze the breath out of you in a big momma bear hug.
I know I don't call you "honey, baby, sweetie", you know, all of those mommy names that mothers do as they squeeze their rose-cheeked children before sending them on their way.
I know I don't swoop you up when you trip over a toy in the living room, but instead I often laugh and try to ask if you're really okay through the giggling.
It still seems to make you smile, even through your serious "injury."

I am not your mother, nor do I want to be.
I am writing you this to tell you that I don't want to be any other little boys' mother either.

Because...you are enough. 
Yes, sometimes as the three of you run around me and your daddy with swords made of wrapping paper tubes, hitting the furniture in your "ninja" masks, you are enough in a physical sense.
Being a bonus mom to you three boys is the ride of my freaking life some days.

Some nights I go to bed with half of my hair and half of my wits ( as do many mom's I'm sure).
Yet, you are more than enough.

There is no part of my heart that is not filled with absolute joy or contentedness.
There is no part of my soul that wrestles with any emptiness.
There is no part of my mind that wonders, "What if..."
There is no part of my life that bares a gap, waiting for another to fill it.

You three filled that gap long ago. 
You three silenced every question, every lingering feeling of incompleteness.

I am often questioned as to why your daddy and I have no desire to bring a fourth child into our family.
I want you to know...that frankly, we don't need to.
Why?
We have you. 
Caler, Corban and Cannon, you are everything I could have every wanted or needed in my world.

Honestly, I never saw myself as a mother, even as a small girl.
It was never in my cards, but then one day...God shuffled my deck and he gave me three of the most lively, beautiful, brilliant, wide-eyed boys.

And from that first day that we met for pizza and I left smelling of cheese and rusted game tokens, I knew that you were it for me.
You were the missing cards in my deck. 
You were the reason that as the years of life piled on, the desire to conceive never came.

Even in the midst of me and your daddy's confusing beginning, the Creator of all things looked down and saw the five of us.
He saw that first meeting in a pizza parlor.
He saw the first time you would hug my neck and say you loved me.
He saw that any empty part of me would undoubtedly be filled the moment we met.

You three boys and your gorgeous daddy are the thread that has stitched so many pieces of my shredded heart back together. 

The weeds (I mean, beautiful flowers) you pick for me in our backyard are enough.
The nights just the five of us cuddle up in the living room for a movie are enough.
The morning I walk into the kitchen to your three bedheads hunched over your daddy's delicious pancakes, are enough.
The summer afternoons that we walk hand in hand to the neighborhood park to watch you climb anything and everything, are enough.


The truth is, I fell in love with the three of you.
The truth is, I never knew I had a longing to be met until I met you.
The truth is, you are absolutely, undeniably, undoubtedly...enough for me. 

So when people ask me, "Why?"

I will only have to smile and look over to the three of you.

Britney.