Harder, better, faster, stronger.

If there's one word in the English language that inspires more fear, more apprehension and more shame in me than any other, it's this one: wrong.

I've been thinking a lot lately about that word. Wrong. When I was in college (i.e. when my life was pretty well laid out for me), I spent hours and days and weeks of my life fretting and obsessing about the few choices I had to make, completely paralyzed by my indecision because I was afraid I would make the wrong one. Throughout the last year and a half, I've found it nearly impossible to forgive myself for instances in which I was careless with the feelings of people I cared about, in which I was rash and thoughtless, in which I made the wrong choices.

I've heard it said that humankind is capable of only two emotions - love, and fear. The majority of my adult life has unquestionably revolved around the latter. Somewhere along the line, I convinced myself that if I made a mistake, no one could possibly love me; and worse, I couldn't possibly love myself. If I didn't make every effort to see that the needs and wants of those around me were satisfied, if I didn't put aside my own desires and feelings - in fact, if I even focused on them long enough to realize what they were and that they could possibly conflict with those of others - I wasn't being a loving friend, or family member, or coworker, or girlfriend. I killed myself to maintain that precarious balance and tend to the needs of everyone I cared about, endlessly berating myself for those that fell by the wayside, trying desperately to hold on to some semblance of control in my own life, and expected that at the end of the day, I would be perfect. I would do everything right, and love everyone, and everyone would love me, and I would love myself.

Well, honey, that's not love. That's fear. Plain and simple.

A few weeks ago, I was having a particularly overwhelming afternoon. Now, when I'm stressed, I tend to just take off. And so I went for a run. I ran until my breath fell into a steady rhythm. I ran until all I could focus on was putting one foot in front of the other. I ran until I felt the endorphins coursing through my blood, and a smile creeping across my face. And suddenly an hour had gone by. It was then that I decided I was going to push myself. I decided to run a half-marathon.

Now, I had never been what you would call a "runner." I'd always preferred to run on a treadmill, with music pounding in my ears and some empty drivel on the television distracting me from the otherwise mind-numbing experience. But somehow, this was different. And since then I've been running exclusively outside, at dawn, with no sound but the beating of my own heart and the scuffing of pavement for company. I can't focus on my past, or my future, or my so-called "mistakes," or what anyone else expects of me. I'm forced to take it breath by breath, trust my instincts, let go of my mind, and listen closely to what my body is telling me. And slowly, I'm picking up the pieces. We've all heard the old cliché - before you can love anyone else, you have to love yourself. And this might be the first time in my life I've ever done something for myself that wasn't based in fear - fear of consequences, or inadequacy, or failure.

They say that if you can run 10 miles, you can run 13.1. This weekend, I'm on track to do just that. Easily. Something I never thought I could do. I'm proud of myself. And while it's not forgiveness, it's a start. Love, like life, is an endurance sport. And I'm working on it. One step at a time.