In the year before I turned 45, I decided to run a half-marathon. I had a girlfriend who is an avid runner, and she jumped in to support and run the same race, too. My husband’s boss at the time was an enthusiastic marathoner and created a detailed training plan for me. I set about several months of properly preparing for this epic milestone event.

I carefully adhered to the schedule set out before me. I got good quality shoes. A neighbor showed me the best places to get inexpensive running togs. And my husband and daughter got me a good pair of earbuds to go with my iPod.  

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I regularly attended my weekly yoga class and got help from my amazing teacher on how to stretch out my legs and feet as my muscles started to tighten. I religiously practiced those stretches, which kept me in good running shape.

The night before the big race, I spent the night with my friend so we could ride and park together.  We did not intend to run together. She is much faster than I, and I did not want her to have to drag along with me. We hit the port-a-potties, grabbed a snack and got the startling line and we were off.  

My friend quickly moved on with the faster runners, as we had planned.  And I set about a slow pace, so I could make it to the end.

I had a career’s-worth of Rosanne Cash queued up on my iPod. Maybe not a traditional choice, but she kept me calm and steady. I was very daunted by the thought of 13.1 miles. I had never run that far at once.

The morning slogged on. I don’t remember the exact mile when I really started suffering, both mentally and physically. But I do remember when I reached that last mile or so, I hit a wall. I wanted to stop. I seriously considered lying down on the pavement and refusing to finish.  

I had come so far. All the training and the determination and the preparation. And I was seriously ready to stop a half-mile from the finish line. No one I knew was anywhere around me. My husband and daughter and friend would be at the finish line, but there was no help in that final slog. 

To this day, I seriously do not know how I finished that run. I did make it across the finish line. And while I’m very proud of the medal I received that day (a participant medal, of course), I have mixed feelings about the whole experience.

I realized something later. I could have walked some of that 13.1 miles. There were lots of people around me who were run-walking. In fact, I found them quite irritating as they would “slam on brakes” in front of me, as I was in my pace, when their alarms went off that it was time to walk.

Why in the world did I think I had to run (in my case, slow jog) the entire thing?  I have no idea why it did not occur to me. Somehow I felt I would have failed if I did not walk.

And yet I put myself through misery.

After that half-marathon, I ran a 10K with a friend a few weeks later.  And then I never ran again. Now, 15 years later and I have never run another step. I guess the whole experience traumatized me.  Because I pushed too hard.

In my mind that very much parallels my journey of walking with my mom on her Alzheimer’s journey. It was such a temptation to push too hard, give too much and then hit a wall. I knew I could not afford to burn out. So I walked. I did not force myself to run. I gave myself breaks when I needed them.

I cannot emphasize enough the importance of getting some space to deal with your own feelings as you journey dementia with your loved one. It is okay to walk. You don’t have to be a hero or run a half-marathon.     

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