A New Respect For My Body

I do not run like someone running aimlessly; I do not fight like a boxer beating the air.

—1 Corinthians 9:26

I’ve always had the sense that something fundamental between my body and my soul was disconnected, like a very important wire got cut at some point, like my body is off on its own, doing its own thing, lazy and undependable. But when I signed up to run the Chicago Marathon, I put on my running shoes—shoes that had been to the coffee shop and the farmers market but had never been running—and shuffled around our neighborhood.

Training began in April, and our first group run was a three-mile timed run. Three miles was the upper edge of my limit. But over the months, my body got stronger and the miles got easier. At one point a friend said, “Whoa, Shauna, you have runner’s calves.” It may have been the best day of my life. Each week of the summer the miles got longer—ten miles, sixteen miles, twenty miles. Each week I was surprised at what my body could do. In the same way that giving birth had connected me to my body in a new and meaningful way, training for the marathon gave me a new respect for my body, for how strong and powerful it was.