body image woes, corn tortillas, and a lost phone

A musing on the last trail experience of my trip out West

Unlike most optimistic people, I do not believe that everything happens for a reason. Sometimes stuff just happens and there isn’t divine meaning behind it. There doesn’t need to be some substantial life lesson to learn or some wisdom to gain. Shitty things happen and there’s nothing we can do about it.

This way of thinking may make some people feel out of control. They are comforted by knowing that the unpredictable things in life all have a greater purpose in their story. For me, this feels disingenuous and invalidating. Instead, I am soothed by knowing that horrible things are simply that. Horrible things, without any strings attached or an obligation to make them seem better than what they really are. Despite a difference in outlook, people with either viewpoint want the same thing:

To accept the tragedy. Clouded with hope, some people desperately cling to a deeper reason that helps them cope with whatever happened. Clouded with fury, others bitterly reject hope because it hurts too much to hold onto something that may not even exist. To accept is not to disown one’s feelings, but to recognize and move forward. To move forward does not imply that the hurting stops. It is an acknowledgement in spite of the hurting.

As humans, we are in a constant flux of coping. It can be either destructive or productive. In my head, “coping” is sort of synonymous with “healing” or “recovery.” Have a hard day at work? People choose to lick their wounds in a variety of ways as a result. My grandfather ran four miles four days a week at the same track for years. My great-grandfather, spent hours every day tending to his garden. My other great-grandfather, drank himself to death. My aunt knows how to sew or crochet anything under the sun. My other aunt has been on a diet since the beginning of time.

I hike. I run. I play outside. But I also hate my body with a passion. These deeply rooted feelings are often a result of something frustrating that is out of my control. Thus, my eating disorder sweeps in with the promise that everything will feel better if only I shrink. If I focus on how hungry I am, I won’t have the energy to think about the bad things. If I count my calories obsessively, I can’t possibly relive how brutally my dog died at the beginning of last month.

This long monologue is what was going through my head as I trail ran in Colorado. It was one of the last days of my National Park trip out West. My friend and I drove from Moab, UT to the small town of Grand Lake, CO just outside of Rocky Mountain National Park. We were spending the night there with the hopes of visiting the park in the morning. That wouldn’t actually happen because a snowstorm blew through the next day and caused the roads leading into the park to close. Either way, after being in the car for a long time, I knew running on some dirt in the mountains would help.

After Googling what trails were nearby, I found out that the Continental Divide Trail ran right through the town and overlapped with a few other trails to reach Rocky Mountain National Park. While I was just planning on doing a few miles, I was still really stoked to be on the CDT, if only for an hour. After curving through a thick forest of pine trees for the first half of the run, the trail eventually went along Shadow Mountain Lake. The views were incredible, and with a slight drizzle, the air was cool and crisp. Even though I was physically present and having a good time flowing on the trail, mentally I was wrestling with some pretty big feelings.

For the past several weeks, my negative body image thoughts have gotten progressively worse. While I initially gave into eating disorder behaviors after the trauma I experienced in Kentucky, the National Park trip and its structure helped me get back on track with eating well again. Despite this, the hatred around how my body looks only grew. I’ve been trying to ignore it as best as I can, but sometimes things can get overwhelming.

This was one of those days.

I was jogging along, feeling the wind and rain prickling against my face. I was acutely aware of how my stomach was jiggling with each stride. My breasts thumping against my chest, the strap of my sports bra digging viciously into the rolls of my sides. The soft muscles of my inner thighs rubbing together, the fabric of my shirt clinging against my frame, the sweat beading along the curve of my neck. It was one of those runs where I was hyperaware of my body’s existence and that only encouraged harsh judgmental messages to follow.

“I should just turn around what’s the point of anything I’m so mad about how I look I know I’m feeling this way because of what happened to my dog It’s the stress It’s the frustration It’s the confusion and anger and hurt I feel If hating my body is the comfort I fall back on in times of adversity maybe I can make sense of why he was run over Getting mad at the driver hurts less than the anger I place on my body It’s my fault It’s my body’s fault is easier to wrap my head around than to contemplate why the driver didn’t stop.”

While I continued to emotionally spiral, I was running around a bend in the trail when I saw a cute tan-colored, three-legged dog off leash with the owner walking a few feet behind. Like always, I shifted over to the right side of the path to let them pass as I ran by. I remember exhaling a breathy “hello.” The owner responded with a slight smile and a wave. It was over quickly, but almost a quarter of a mile passed the spot I saw them, and I noticed a phone lying in the middle of the trail.

“Damn, she must of dropped it.” I had only seen the owner and the dog on the trail so far. Plus, there was only one other car in the parking lot at the trailhead, so it must have belonged to her. Remembering my lost phone fiasco while hiking in Spain last summer, I knew I had to catch up with the owner and give it back to her. Immediately, I grabbed the phone and turned around to run as fast as I could in the opposite direction.

I’m really not a fast runner. So it took me much longer than I thought it would to eventually find her and the dog heading up a slick, rocky hill on the trail almost half a mile away. I called out to her and asked if she had dropped her phone once I got her attention. As soon as I held it up, she burst into a big smile and was so incredibly appreciative. She hadn’t realized that she had lost it yet and thanked me profusely for the kind gesture of running it back to her. I stood there catching my breath and told her that I was happy to do it. “There are good people in the world” is what she said before we parted ways.

There are good people in the world.

This struck me. Not because in this scenario she was implying that I was the “good person.” But because she was right. There are good people in this world. After what happened with my dog in Kentucky, I have felt so lost and broken about the idea of compassion. As someone who is an eternal people pleaser and someone who goes out of their way to make sure everyone else’s needs are met before my own, I am hardwired to care. Maybe even a little too much, and even at the expense of my own well-being.

It is hard for me to fathom how heartless some actions truly are, because in my brain, we should always make decisions with love in mind instead of implementing harm. That’s why it has been so incredibly difficult to grasp why my family’s dog was run over. But the owner of the cute, three-legged dog on the outskirts of Rocky Mountain National Park was right: there are good people in the world.

I took her words with me as I finished my out-and-back run. I went to our hotel and ate tacos for cheap (it was Cinco De Mayo) that we got at a nearby Mexican restaurant with a bar. I chewed through the beans and perfectly warmed corn tortillas while in our room watching Law and Order SVU. I thought and thought about everything. My thighs touch. I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason. Some things that happen are really shitty. The Continental Divide Trail is so beautiful. I helped a stranger. She said that there are good people in the world.

I swallowed some chips and salsa, marinating on these thoughts. I don’t have some grand conclusion. All I know is that my dog shouldn’t have died and there are good people in the world. For now, I hold both.

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