I have a long history of not finishing things.
There have been a series of projects in my life that I have
started with gusto, then eventually dropped or let fade away into oblivion as
my attention was caught by something different or more interesting. I have a
collection of barely-started and half-finished projects: stories,
knitting/crocheting, journals, drawings… the list goes on.
I am not proud of this habit. In fact, it has vaguely
bothered me over the years. Even as I find a new hobby to grab hold of I
realize that eventually this too will likely lose its appeal and be abandoned.
I don’t WANT to be an abandoner, I would much rather
finish all the projects I have started, to make way in my mind and life for new
hobbies and projects. But for some reason, other things pop up that seem more
important, more interesting, or more necessary than my current venture. But it
doesn’t mean I like it. I want to be a finisher.
Then, a couple years ago I learned something very important
about myself. My mom and sister had signed me up for the Top of Utah half
marathon. I agreed, thinking there was PLENTY of time to train. Ha. As usual, I
started my training with gusto. I ran consistently for a couple weeks, then
slowly, work and life crept in. I essentially stopped training, which (as you
can guess) was a bad plan, because the race was still coming, and eventually
arrived.
I woke up early with my mom and sister, praying for an
unexpected burst of stamina. The beginning of the race went fine. My sister,
who had been training hard, cruised off and left my mom and me in her dust. My
mom and I started to run. Slowly, we started to make progress.
I won’t bore you with the details of the race, but I will
say that running that half marathon was agonizing. I begged my mom to leave me,
but she patiently (or stubbornly) kept with me, encouraging me to run, and
walk, and occasionally even limp along. I wasn’t surprised that I was having
difficulty—I had, after all, basically stopped training—but I was surprised at
was exactly HOW hard things got. Every part of me ached, and all I wanted to do
was to stop.
For those of you who know, the Top of Utah marathon is
great—most of it is downhill, with a tiny uphill portion followed by a long,
flat stretch at the end. From about halfway through mile eleven, you can
actually see straight forward to the finish line. That is one of the worst
parts, actually, because you can see the end but still have further to go.
When my mom and I reached that flat stretch, I was beyond
finished. I was in pain and miserable, and had no desire to go even one step
further. At that point, I thought “I can’t do this.” After all, there were
runners already walking back home; there were people walking sedately past us,
having finished hours before.
I wanted to be one of those people. I thought “I could
quit now—after all, who is really ever going to know or care? Twelve miles is a
pretty good deal, right?” I knew that my dad and sister were waiting at the
finish line. I knew that Jeremy (at that point, my boyfriend) was waiting there
for me. But at that moment, I did not care.
Except… there was one small part of me that DID care. Somewhere,
deep inside my brain, buried behind all of the negativity and doubt, there was
a small part of my mind that refused to quit. I don’t know exactly what
happened. I would love to say it was a huge moment for me; but that would be a
lie. Instead, I just suddenly realized that if I gave up right then, if I
abandoned this race, I would care. I realized that this
was a time when finishing really mattered. That somehow, this race was going to
set the tone for other huge obstacles in my life. If I quit then, how was I
going to treat other hard moments in my life? That was when I realized that I
couldn’t quit. So, I didn’t.
That race was HARD. That last mile and a half nearly
killed me. But I did it. I finished the race. I even ran the last half mile, so
I could say I ran through the finish line. And what exactly did I learn about
myself that day (you may well ask)? I learned that there is a time when
finishing matters most. And I learned that I can (and will) finish when that
time comes.
I am not alone in my non-finishing habits. There are a
lot of people who I hear lamenting the unfinished projects in their lives. And I
am the same; I still start projects and leave them behind. I have a crocheted
dragon that I started shortly after Jeremy and I got married—it has half of a
head so far, and nothing else. I plan on coming back to it someday, much like
other projects I have left behind. But you know what? It doesn’t bother me so
much anymore now. Oh, there is still a part of me that wants to complete that
dragon someday; and I will. But I don’t put the same self-deprecating emphasis
on that project anymore.
There are times when we put projects and deadlines on
ourselves to show how busy and accomplished we are. Those times make finishing admirable.
But there are also times when finishing defines you, and changes you in ways you
wouldn’t expect. To finish at those times is incredible. I think one of the
challenges in life is to know when finishing matters most, and to find it within
ourselves to finish at those times.
When have you been a finisher? I would love to hear about
it!
