Finding Balance: Knowing When to Pursue or Let Go of Goals
Written on
Chapter 1: The Journey of Running Goals
One of the most rewarding aspects of running is the endless array of goals to pursue. Finished a 5k? Aim for a personal best (PB) next time. Managed to run ten miles? Challenge yourself to hit twelve the following week. There's always a new distance or faster pace to strive for.
I find immense joy in setting running goals. Some emerge from challenges posed by friends, like when one dared me to run 30 miles in a month. Once I accomplished that, I aimed for 100 miles a month—a feat I've maintained for over six years. Other goals come unexpectedly, such as when I realized I was nearing a 100-day running streak and decided to push it to 500. That sense of achievement drives me to continue striving for more.
However, what do you do when you set a goal, prepare diligently, and still fall short? How do you determine when to persist and when to move on?
My connection to the United States Military Academy (West Point) runs deep, having attended numerous graduations and events there due to family and friends. Walking the grounds instills a sense of achievement, making you feel that anything is possible with dedication.
So, when I felt the urge to run a half-marathon a few years back and discovered that West Point was hosting the Run for the Fallen, I eagerly signed up both myself and my husband. It felt like the perfect venue for my inaugural half.
On race day, nerves surged through me as I bounced on the field of Michie Stadium, warming up and shaking off the adrenaline. I was intimidated by the distance; my longest run had only been ten miles. Yet, the hills ahead loomed even larger in my mind. Having explored the campus before, I knew the inclines could be daunting. My primary aim was simply to finish, regardless of my pace, especially given the challenging 1200 feet of elevation gain.
The initial four miles were downhill, tricking my mind into thinking this would be easier than expected. Yet, I kept my gaze fixed on Michie Stadium, mindful that I would have to return there twice by the end of the race.
The first real challenge hit after mile four. It didn’t look too steep, but its incline took me by surprise. My breaths became shallow, and I felt dizzy. I had to pause and walk to regain my composure. Once at the top, I resumed running.
A similar struggle occurred around mile eight when we turned onto Mills Road. Walking felt more manageable than running, and I couldn’t quicken my pace until the terrain leveled off. I contemplated quitting; my legs were frozen in the biting 30° temperature, and the water stations were sparse. Yet, I knew I would regret stopping, so I found a more upbeat song on my playlist and pressed on.
As I neared mile 12, we turned onto Mills Road again, this time at the bottom. I yearned to run it. The finish was within reach, and the bagpipers along the route spurred us on. I pushed hard, but once again, my breath escaped me. I slowed to a walk, feeling overwhelmed. Bending at the waist, I considered crawling up, but I persevered and eventually crossed the finish line.
The euphoria of completing 13.1 miles in frigid conditions enveloped me. I had wanted to quit several times, but I didn’t. I wore my finisher's medal proudly, though as the days passed, a nagging thought lingered: I hadn’t conquered those hills, and it gnawed at me. I decided I would return the following year and master them.
In March, I bounced at the starting line, far more excited than anxious. I had completed the distance before and knew what awaited me. I had trained on hills in my neighborhood and ensured I stayed hydrated. This time, I was running solo, allowing me to set my own pace. The temperature was 50°, much warmer than the previous year.
Yet, the hills still defeated me.
Each incline demanded more effort than I had anticipated. Although I slowed my pace and focused on my breathing, I had to accept that I needed to walk about halfway up. I pushed aside my disappointment and shifted my goal to finishing strong.
Crossing the finish line, I achieved a PB, several minutes faster than the prior year. My daughters cheered me on during the final stretch, adding to my exhilaration. Having tackled this race alone, every step felt monumental. The high from that race lingered for weeks.
However, thoughts of those hills returned. What was I doing wrong? Had my training not been sufficient? Did I lack the desire? Were my emotions hindering my physical capabilities? The goal seemed straightforward, yet it remained elusive.
I set those hills aside for a few years until I decided to take on the largest one for a third time. As I was wrapping up my 500-day run streak, I chose West Point's challenging terrain to commemorate it. I had logged higher mileage than ever before, aiming to enjoy the run without race pressure. I decided to tackle Mills Road early on fresh legs after a brief warm-up. This would be the culmination of my streak, along with overcoming that hill.
I started strong, completing an easy warm-up mile before approaching the incline. With each step, I encouraged myself, muttering, "You can do this." My smile grew as I navigated a quarter of the way up, then a third. I was making progress.
However, halfway up, my breathing quickened no matter how I tried to control it, and I felt the familiar sensation of hyperventilation creeping in. I had to walk to avoid collapsing. Yet again, I had failed to run up that hill.
At the summit, I reminded myself that I hadn’t quit. Yes, the goal was to run the entire distance, but I didn’t give up. After reaching the peak, I completed another six miles around the campus, celebrating a significant achievement, though slightly overshadowed by my inability to conquer that hill.
Each attempt brought reflection, prompting me to analyze the reasons behind my setbacks. Despite training on hills, none matched the steepness of this one, nor did I tackle them regularly. I focused solely on my breathing as I approached the incline rather than incorporating hill training into my routine. I didn’t seek advice or stories on how to effectively tackle steep climbs. I neglected to ask someone to run with me for pacing support. Ultimately, I realized that the desire to run that hill had been overshadowed by other priorities, leading me to set myself up for failure.
I took a moment to ask myself, "Does this truly matter?" I value hard work and dedication. My run streak holds great significance for me, and I prioritize those daily miles, even if it means running at odd hours. I strive to reach 100 miles a month, constantly calculating and adjusting my runs to ensure success, as those goals truly matter to me. Conquering those hills, however, wasn’t as essential as I initially believed.
I will never cease trying new challenges or pushing my limits. Goals, both large and small, consistently provide motivation and satisfaction upon achievement. Yet, the most profound lessons come from the goals I fall short of. With every setback, I evaluate my efforts. Did I exhaust all avenues for training? Is there a different approach I haven’t considered? How much does this goal mean to me?
I don’t lose sleep over my inability to run up those hills entirely. Perhaps one day I’ll tackle them with renewed determination and succeed, or maybe I won’t. My priorities are ever-evolving, and as I age, I grow more comfortable acknowledging that some challenges may be beyond my reach. For now, I’ll allow the mountain to remain unconquered.
How do you determine which goals to pursue and which to release?
Thank you for reading! To follow more of my journey through running, writing, and motherhood, connect with me on Medium and Instagram!