In such disbelief I am about my current position that it seems I can only come to turns with it through writing. You see, I planned to do this particular triathlon (Chicago Triathlon, starting in less than 6 hours) since before I got pregnant with Oaks. I had completed my first Olympic triathlon when Kellen was 9 months old and concluded that this was the most effective “return to pre-pregnancy weight” plan for me. I assumed that if I had at least 6 months postpartum I would be able to effectively recover, train and complete the race. Even now, I have very little doubt as to whether I could complete it. So much of racing is mental, and my resolve to win* this race is pretty firm. I’m an overcomer—it’s in my bones!

(*For me, a triathlon is an individual sport and I am competing against myself primarily. To “win” this time, I wouldn’t have had to beat my time, but to simply finish—having had 4 months less to train, and twice the amount of children to juggle.)

And so it is so strange to be sitting on my couch past my race bedtime, none of my race gear laid out, un-bodymarked, with no race packet in hand. Maybe if my leg was broken, or a family member was in the hospital, or the 24 hour flu—I’m very reasonable and realistic afterall—maybe this wouldn’t feel so strange. Normally, at this hour I would be trying to remain asleep but instead reviewing timeframes, rationing my fuel, envisioning myself pushing it on the bike or finding my steady gait on the run.

Sigh.

It took me about 5 years to quit my last big thing, and 2 years have passed since that. Quitting is not a well-traversed path in my life. So I write to make sense of it all emotions that surround it. Because there is a time when quitting isn’t about giving up or showing weakness. Sometimes, it’s the very thing we’re called to—because it makes us stronger.

It was a decision that took me three solid days to mull over and make. There was no one strongly advising me one way or the other, so it came down to my own pride versus my own sensibility.

In June, I found out the sprint tri I was hoping to do as a way to ease back in to triathlons was sold out. I was so bummed until 4 days before the race I heard there were still charity spots open. Against all odds, many of you helped me raise $520 for ovarian cancer research in 24 hours and we secured my spot in a race I felt undertrained for (ask me sometime about the Case of the Missing Shoe and the Unwanted Opportunity to Spend Money on Shoes).

I raced it in honor of my husband’s aunt battling ovarian cancer and my mom recovering from breast cancer. These were races they hadn’t signed up for and at times they felt severely undertrained for. I ran that day knowing my strength and endurance wasn’t from within, but from my loving Father who planned out every moment since (and of course before) one year prior when I wanted to run that same sprint tri, couldn’t, then got pregnant about the same time as that race. He knows, He sees, He lifts up. I felt linked in spirit to my cancer fighting relatives who were overcomers, as well to all the women I raced alongside who were overcoming their own struggles with weight, healthy, body image, children, relationships, schedules and more to be there and complete the race marked out.  I had a 3 month old who still nursed 3 times per night, and my body felt a long way off from anything you’d want to parade in a swimsuit in front of a thousand onlookers. Early hints of a stress fracture were probably showing up around that time, but the thrill of testing the limits of my physical strength superseded any thoughts about slowing down for a sore foot. I was an overcomer, afterall.

And until this past Monday, I was prepared to run through the pain once more and test those limits and beyond in a race twice the distance of a sprint, even if it meant I took a month or two off from running after it.

But Monday morning I woke up with a combination sickness of two unrelated illnesses. Taylor had an important work meeting and couldn’t stay home and so I found myself bewildered at the thought of keeping by two boys alive when I felt so awful. As I thought through my lists of options for help, my mind drifted to my race—would I be healthy by then? Would a week of zero training before the race make it hard to jump back in and complete a 3+ hour race? And then, if I survived the race, how would I feel waking up Monday morning, body obliterated and husband trotting off to work? I had already picked my post-race celebration meal (like, a whole deep dish Lou Malnati’s pizza to myself) and was thinking how none of the anguish would matter in that moment. But as I said before, I’m a reasonable person, and I began to think through the big picture, and to remember why I race in the first place:

First of all, I race to be strong and healthy for my life. To be able to fly a kite for my son when there’s no wind. To race my high energy three year old while holding my other, not so active or small son. To stay awake for those precious few minutes to connect with my husband when our boys have finally relented to sleep.  To watch a friend’s kids along with my own while she attends a birth. To kneel down and peek in a tunnel at our church nursery, 100 times over. To cook a meal for a friend after their adopted daughter was brought home while my kids beckon for oohs and ahhs over each tiny milestone. I race for endurance.

I risk all this if my possible small stress fracture turns into a definite big stress fracture. Or best case scenario, a hell-ish 48 hours following a race my body was not properly equipped for.

Secondly—and this is perhaps more specific to me than others—but keeping up an exercise regimen (to achieve that goal of overall fitness) is pretty impossible for me without the threat of a race—a race I can’t complete without the training. That motivates me big time.

While I definitely feel undertrained for this particular Olympic length triathlon, I don’t think I’ll look back on this summer as a failure as far as this aspect is concerned. I signed up, and because of that, I exercised more than I would have had I not. Those 3 or 4 trainings a week is a “win” in my book, but it won’t secure any good times in a race this size. Really, 6 to 7 trainings per week is standard. I missed that mark and was prepared to have a slower race, with more walking than last time.

Finally, I love triathlons because they don’t wear out your body the same way racing in only one event does. I love the balance. I race for balance in my life. This summer, Taylor and I set out to carry a schedule that balanced our priorities of our marriage and parenting. We had some growth in this but I started realizing this past month that training with two kids in tow is not as simple as training with one. As we balanced the time spent outside the home in ministry and social spheres, life inside the home in intentional parenting, and the life with the ever-thirsty space of our marriage, I began to see the unwatered roots of my own spirit. My “free time” that I carved out to train ate up all my extra help, instead of providing much needed breaks. And my early morning swim class cut deeply into my much deprived sleep state, meaning a fast decline around naptime and bedtime where I might have normally recharged as an introvert (who happens to live with three extroverts).

Choosing to let go of this race meant I could start sooner to recollect myself and find a balance that is sustainable for my life.  (And now, I know better than to train for a long race before my kid is sleeping through the night!)

So there you have it. I quit the triathlon, risking letting no one down but myself, for the sake of being strong, fit, and balanced. For myself. And for my family.

For me, this “failure” is a step forward—a yieldedness to wisdom that supersedes my own and strengthens me for the real race at hand.

Wisdom brings strength and knowledge gives power. Proverbs 24:5

P.S. Post photos are from June sprint tri. The last one shows me carrying my bike after I finished because I fell (in front of many) right as I was coming into transition at the end of the bike. The chain got caught and I had to carry it to my rack. People looked at me like I was showing off or something–carrying my bike needlessly. Ha!

I’m sure Taylor wishes I was more spontaneous, but on this gorgeous Friday in May, I was up for the adventure. We skipped naps and headed to the city for an afternoon with dad, visiting the zoo and the nature boardwalk. We got home late after a spontaneous dinner with good friends in Oak Park–Johnnie’s Italian Beef as the cherry on top of it all.

Clearly, I’m the one behind the camera in most of these shots, but I love what was captured of this dad and his sons. ((lucky mama))

I made it in one! 🙂

Watching boys become brothers is a beautiful thing. These two are just beginning to venture into this reality, but they have a lifetime of lessons to learn on the art of being a brother. It’s something I can’t really teach them, except to raise them in an environment of respect, loyalty and play (among other things). They have the makings of being a great pair, with Kellen’s sense of adventure and Oaks’ resilience. Not to mention, how the two of them light up around people–a sweet love for others.

Oaks naps in a variety of locations–at least someone gets to nap in that bed…

Resilient.

Oaks outgrew the bassinet configuration on his round crib. In June we gave him much more real estate to move around in, which mostly coordinated with the end of his swaddling days.

And of course – this boy deserves a few highlights of his own. Learning to be flexible with another kid in the house hasn’t been Kellen’s “favorite” lesson, but he has shown some growth and maturity in this area. (Thank you Jesus!)

In May, Kellen finished his second year of preschool (co-op homeschool group). We repeated a lesson from last year in which we read The Little Red Hen and made whole wheat bread. This time they got to see the process from wheat berries to finished buttered bread, as we added a grain mill to our kitchenaid repertoire recently. The boys especially loved to “punch” the dough down. His good buddy Mason is behind him wearing a Ninja Turtle shirt…Kellen hopes to be like him in every way, including ninja skills. 😉

Kellen may be growing, but he’s still my sweet little boy. Sometimes, I just need to slow down enough to enjoy these tender moments.