Running in New Seasons of Life: Learning to Keep Betting on Myself, as a Woman in Her 40s

Carolyn Su, the founder of the Diverse We Run platform, shares some reflections in this NYRR Contributors Circle blog post.

Lately, I’ve been feeling as if I don’t know my body anymore. There’s that saying that turning 40 years old means you’re “over the hill,” but I had always thought that was a bunch of malarkey. “Age is just a number!” I told myself. After all, I have been an active person my entire life; who is to say some arbitrary age would dictate my fitness?

Unfortunately, perimenopause apparently has a shareholder’s vote in my timeline, because my body has been in chaos for the past few years. Against my better judgment, however, I decided to sign up for the largest women’s 10K race in New England—the Boston Women’s 10K.

12 Years Ago

The last time I ran this 10K race was 12 years ago, after my family had just moved to Boston. I was a 30-year-old stay-at-home mom, whose only friends were a colicky 10-month-old and a precocious 3-year-old. My husband was consumed by a demanding startup company, and, even after seven months, I was still trying to find my bearings, navigating a new city and new culture. Registering to run the 10K (known as the Tufts Women’s 10K at the time) was not only a way for me to get to know the neighborhoods around my new home, but also a means to hold onto what felt like the last remaining shreds of myself that I still felt some autonomy over: my body and ability to move as a runner. 

Unfortunately, race day was difficult. I not only over-estimated my postpartum fitness, but I also underestimated how much sleep I needed in order to competently race. Only three years earlier, after having my first child, I raced a half marathon five months postpartum and then a full marathon just four months later. I figured I could easily run a short 10K at a whopping ten months postpartum with kid number two!

Well, I was wrong. If repetition is the mother of learning, then hubris is the stepmother.

The weather that day was actually a quintessential, crisp, New England fall morning, so I didn’t even have poor weather to blame. I struggled to keep up with the women around me, I struggled both times we crossed the seemingly-neverending Mass Avenue Bridge, and I struggled the final 1.2-mile stretch down Commonwealth Avenue. Six miles never felt so long.


Tufts Women’s 10K, October 2013

Running During Perimenopause

Fast forward to this past weekend, where I have been in a season of life that has also been quite full and demanding: my Boomer-aged parents have had more health issues as they have gotten older; my now teenaged kids have had increasing demands for my bandwidth and presence; and my own body has now entered its own subterfuge of perimenopause. For the first time in a decade, I haven't been in marathon-training mode, and I have instead been focusing a lot more on strength training, in order to help manage perimenopause symptoms.

The shift in priorities has unexpectedly given me the freedom to exercise for pleasure instead of for performance. Signing up for the 10K was a spontaneous decision, and I found myself growing with excitement as race week approached. Look at me, in control of my fitness and health!

Lo and behold, the week of the race, my perimenopause clock woke up and chose chaos. My period came early, with a vengeance, and, along with it, a severe muscle fatigue all along my posterior chain. What were supposed to be easy runs or bike sessions all resulted in unusual muscle soreness, as if I had done hard tempo runs or a heavy lifting session. I could feel my anxiety start to rise, and I felt silly, since this race was "just a 10K."

When race day arrived, I was still struggling to let go of my original hopes of getting to push myself and setting a PR. Before the present week, I was feeling the strongest I had felt in years, but now, I couldn't predict which version of my body would show up. As my friends and I shuffled with the crowd into our corral, I finally had to surrender my expectations. If I had to walk, then I would walk, and that would be ok. The weather was beautiful, the air was crisp, and I was still grateful to be able to be a part of a race in the heart of my city.

I decided to run at a relaxed pace and to keep things steady until my body sent signals otherwise. The starting horn went off, and with a loud cheer, everyone started running.

The first mile flew by quickly, as did the second. To my surprise, my body wasn’t falling apart! In fact, I felt…good?! As I started the first of multiple ascents over the Charles River on the Mass Avenue Bridge, the roar of the spectators quieted, and I noticed that the breaths of the runners around me grew shorter and more labored. In contrast, I had started to hit my stride.

As I powered past the pace group I initially started with, I noticed that I continued to feel strong. The wheels hadn’t fallen off as I had feared, and I began to venture into the possibility of picking up my pace.

The cloudless, blue sky magnified the intensity of the autumn sun. Even in the cool, October morning, the exposed road along the winding, glittering river made everyone pant, as more and more runners diverted over to the numerous water stations. I took advantage of the open pockets of space to push past the congestion, and as I did, a rush of adrenaline came over me: could I still race this race?

What if it wasn’t over for me?

As the pounding of footsteps headed back up the Mass Ave Bridge to return into the city, I took stock of the situation: nothing was hurting or feeling weak, and, in fact, it dawned on me that the opposite was true! Everything was firing, I was in a flow state, and I decided to go for it.

I quickened my pace as I bounded down the bridge and turned onto Commonwealth Ave, the mile stretch that had previously wrecked my confidence, 12 years ago.

Instead of looking down at the ground, I lifted my head. My feet nimbly sidestepped and skipped over the various dips and potholes on the century-old road without a second thought, and I fought off the tightness nipping at my lungs.

Strong, Steady, and in Control

I continued to pick off runners ahead of me, one by one, as the gate to the Public Garden came into view. The roar of the finish line came within earshot, even though I couldn’t yet see the finishing chute. I could feel the lactic acid in my legs start to sting, and my short breaths started to trigger my gag reflex.

Turning onto the final stretch on Charles Street, my survival instincts took over for a split second: be careful! Slow down! Catch your breath! Staring down the street, I knew, deep down, I had more to give, and I wanted to give myself the chance.

The air seemed to stand still and the world went on mute. I somehow let out a guttural shout and pushed forward, my arms pumping and lungs burning. I flew past blurs of people and managed to raise my arms up in triumph and relief as I crossed the finish line in tears, shaking and trying to catch my breath.

I had no idea how long it took me to finish, and I had no clue whether or not it was a PR.

What I did know was that I entered race day completely unsure about how the day would unfold and how my body would show up or handle things. My body had not felt like a familiar place for awhile, and that was scary and unsettling.

But sometimes, you have to continue taking the steps and actions to take care of yourself, out of the faith and trust that things will come together and that those actions aren’t in vain or for naught.

I ended up running almost the exact same time as I did over a decade ago, but this time, I truly felt autonomy over my body and effort. This time, I was a different person—a different woman, mom, and athlete—I am so glad I chose to bet on myself.


Public Garden in Boston