Running Up That Hill, With No Problems

(song: Running Up That Hill/artist: Kate Bush)

Well friends, I really stepped in it this time. Little Miss "I need a new challenge" decided to register for a half-marathon - The Brooklyn Half-Marathon. So here I am on week 9 of 12 training weeks, and you know what I've discovered? I HATE [distance] RUNNING! It's truly awful! It hurts. 

It's boring. It's cold outside! My toes hurt, my shins hurt, my knees hurt, my quads hurt...my pride hurts. And it's that wounded pride that got me into this mess in the first place. You see, in February, a cousin-in-law (is that a thing?) -- a super-in-shape, vegan, long-distance runner with a lean runner's body, cousin-in-law -- told me he highly doubted that I could complete a half marathon at my goal pace of 9:30/mile, given that I'm not a daily runner and that the longest I had ever run was 6 miles. Details, details. So...I set out on a mission to prove Cousin Joe wrong. And boy, do I regret it! I am NOT a distance runner. I don't get "runner's high". I dread the long run days. There is very little about distance training that I enjoy. Except the off days. I enjoy the off days. And the carbs. I love eating carbs.

At this point in my training, I have completed two 10-mile runs (in addition to many shorter runs). One at a 10:30/mile pace. Shut your face, there was nine minutes of walking! The other at a 9:44/mile pace - no walking. Better. Obviously, I am not quitting. Though, I sometimes secretly hope I'll get the flu or break a bone so I'll have an excuse to bail. Not really. Maybe a little. Oh god, what have I done?!

Okay okay, some good has come of this training. My cardio endurance has vastly improved. I'm really proud of my ability to run continuously for 10 miles. Even though I hate running, I love that I CAN. Three years ago, I couldn't run down the block. I have complete confidence that I'll run the entire 13.1 miles without walking (or dying). I'm actually very excited about the actual race. The grand finale of all this hard work. Plus a bunch of my friends are running, so that makes it even more exciting. And I know, regardless of my pace, I'm going to be so proud of myself when I cross that finish line. And I can finally check "run a half-marathon" off my bucket list. Don't worry, "run a full marathon" was never on my list. I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid.


Twenty-four days to go! I'm really gonna miss the carbs...

See you at the finish line Cousin Joe!

I'll Be Writing More in a Week or Two.

(song: Paperback Writer/artist: The Beatles)


I wrote the following article about my struggles with body image - particularly during and after my pregnancy(s) - for Seleni Institute. My first paid writing assignment!

{Reprinted with permission from seleni.org}

Learning to Love My Formerly Fat Self

One mom's journey to self-acceptance

By Alison Donnelly, mom to a 5-year-old son in Brooklyn

Because I was a chubby kid since the age of 10, I've heard every possible euphemism to describe my body: "pleasantly plump," "Rubenesque," "carries weight easily." I always understood what those words really meant. And I never disagreed with them.

Nope. I believed them all, and I punished my body for it. I ate too much (and when I got older), drank too much, smoked, and even did drugs with little concern for the consequences. I hated my body, so why did it matter how badly I treated myself?

Flash forward to 2006 and my first pregnancy: At 5 feet, 9 inches and 175 pounds, I was a size 14. And when that pregnancy ended in miscarriage, I felt like the body that had failed me in its appearance had also failed me in function. So I returned to punishing it with a vengeance. By early 2007, I was 193 pounds, size 16, and (luckily) pregnant again.

Like most women, I was desperate to get through the first trimester so I could feel more confident that I had a viable pregnancy. But I had another reason: I couldn't wait to announce my condition to the world, so people would start thinking "pregnant" instead of "fat" when they looked at me.

Caring for a developing baby meant caring for me

This time around, something amazing happened – because I cared about the life growing inside me, I began to care about my body. I opted for healthy meals and logged my calories to make sure I stayed within my doctor's guidelines for gaining weight. And even though I felt heavy, I also felt beautiful and energetic (to the extent a 200-pound woman can feel energetic during a New York summer). For the first time since my wedding day I felt strong in the present and excited about the future. And then, at the peak of joy from my son's birth, everything began to unravel.

Back to my old ways

The surge of confidence I experienced during pregnancy seemed to have been left on the delivery room floor. For the better part of my son's first year of life, I felt like I had been placed in the wrong job.

Some mothers made it look so easy, while I struggled with every aspect of being a new mom. I couldn't breastfeed because of a breast reduction I had when I was 18, so I felt like a failure in La-Leche-League-loving Brooklyn. At "mommy and me" music class, I defied inspirational posters by dancing like everyone was watching. The milk-filled breasts of bikini-clad moms in baby swim class mocked my mammary inadequacy. I was not the natural-born mother I had thought I would be. I felt like a fat, useless stay-at-home mom.

Then one afternoon while watching TV in my nightgown, a fitness infomercial inspired a revolutionary thought: Wasn't I worthy of the kind of love I had shown my body while my son was growing inside it? I got online, ordered the DVDs, and started exercising soon after. "A year from now, I'll be healthy and fit" became my mantra as I sweated and grunted through those first weeks, unable to do much more than 20 minutes of moderate cardio. I also reduced my calorie intake (especially the kind that came in a lovely stemmed glass), and the weight slowly started coming off. Within six months, I had slimmed down to a size 12 and began to feel the occasional twinge of self-worth that characterized my pregnancy.

Learning to love me

As the ball dropped on 2009, I had lost 19 pounds and was wearing a size 10. A year later, I was another 20 pounds lighter thanks to a personal trainer who made me believe that we all have the power to transform our body and mind. Understanding that is the sole reason I have kept off those 60 pounds.

When being super fit was new, I felt enormously guilty about the slightest setback. But I've learned to forgive myself for my slipups – like the occasional ice cream binge. Part of the maintenance process has been finding balance. I don't succumb to guilt when I enjoy too many carbs or have more than two glasses of wine. I acknowledge it and then return to my commitment to be healthy.

Yes, I started to love myself when I saw a skinny body in the mirror, but that was superficial. The meaningful love came from allowing myself to be human and forgiving myself for human behavior. I have the confidence to stay fit and healthy. I have the desire to enjoy my life. I finally know how to do both.

Alison Donnelly writes about her struggles and triumphs with weight, motherhood, and everything else as Formerly Fat Mom.

{Reprinted with permission from seleni.org}