As I poured the now-warm leftover water from my water bottle over my head , trickles of it stinging my eyes, all I could think was “God, I’m tired.”
It’s not an earth-shattering thing to think after a 16-mile run.
As I stood there with my hands on my knees, taking a breather before walking to my car from the trail head, I realized it was the first time I had really meant it.
It wasn’t because I hadn’t thought it before.
This time, though, it meant something more to just be just plain tired.
It was simple. Everything was tired: My legs, my brain, my lungs. Everything.
Tired was one title that made sense.
My life consists of titles.
I’m the first “test-tube baby” in the United States; that’s one title. “Social media marketing manager,” that’s another. “Trevor’s Mom.” “Journalist.”
Sometimes I'm the cook, or the editor. Sometimes I'm the daughter or sister-in-law, sometimes I'm the nice lady down the street who has that cute beagle.
I probably have a dozen other unofficial titles I put myself under, you might, too.
All of these titles battle for my time, and I consistently have to shift gears from one to the other.
The “test-tube baby” has to make time to educate people about infertility, while the journalist needs to finish her stories before deadline in order to make time for the mom to pick up her son.
It’s a constant juggling act, but I’m used to it. It’s normal. It’s familiar. It’s my life.
The tired I felt? All of my titles felt it.
It struck me that maybe this was the reason I truly loved running – because all of my titles get jammed together when I run.
The writer doesn’t need to prove she can write.
The mom doesn’t need to attend to someone else.
The journalist doesn’t have deadline pressure.
The “test-tube baby” doesn’t have to be perfect.
For however many miles my run is, I’m just Elizabeth.