In fact, I didn't commit to the half marathon until the day my then 9-year-old son burst into the kitchen, fighting tears because one of his friends said I was like another friend's mother who'd died of breast cancer a few years before. "But I told him that isn't true," he said. "My mother is an athlete. She can run up all the hills in the neighborhood."
The day of the race I stood shivering between my two friends (both seasoned marathoners) in a pool of runners, everyone seeming much more runner–ish than me. I thought: Who do I think I am, trying to run a race just six months after surgery? I wasn't ready.
That's when my girlfriends hooked either side of my arms and started singing, "I Feel Good," and I couldn't help but sing with them, pushing through the resistance, the pain, the fear that I couldn't keep going, and we crossed the finish line holding hands.