I am slow as fuck
and that might just be my superpower
I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been in therapy on and off for almost three years now, but I find myself constantly reflecting and digging deeper into the meaning behind the things I do (or don’t do). I pay close attention to patterns, to behaviors, to the ways my body and mind respond to the world around me. And the truth is, for me, there is always something reflective happening under the surface.
So, three Sundays ago, I did a 10K. Notice I didn’t say I ran a 10K because, well, I didn’t.
Let me backtrack. In January 2024, I joined a run club that a friend of mine started. She and I had previously run together back in mid to late 2021, and when she started this group, I thought, “Yes, this is my moment to get back to something that brought me joy.” The goal was to train for a half marathon happening here in Antigua that May. Things started off strong. We were running three times a week, and I was feeling good. I had also committed to posting on my Substack every week, so everything felt like it was flowing. I was finally doing the things I said I would do.
But by the end of February into early March, everything started to unravel.
I wasn’t sleeping well. I was being weaned off my medication, and with that came the waves of anxiety, mood shifts, and disorientation that come with withdrawing from an antipsychotic. I was exhausted. Writing became difficult, and I stopped posting altogether for a few months - for a recap of that drama click here. Then came a back injury that left me unable to exercise for a while, and just like that I lost momentum. I was inconsistent, unmotivated, and, quite frankly, overwhelmed. So I fell behind. Like, way behind.
When it came time to register for the half marathon, I had to be honest with myself. After a lot of back and forth, I decided to sign up for the 10K instead. It felt like a compromise, but also like the most realistic choice. I tried in the final weeks to get back into some sort of routine, but my body wasn’t there. My head wasn’t there. Still, I knew deep down I wanted to show up. I’m known for starting things and not always finishing them. That’s a pattern I’ve been actively trying to change. So, I committed.
Race day came, and I told myself I’d run/walk intervals and just focus on finishing. I started off walking. After about a quarter mile, I figured I could jog a bit, so I picked up the pace, only to be hit with a sharp, piercing pain at the front of both of my feet, right around my big toes. I was in my tried-and-tested running shoes, so I didn’t expect this. But my toenails had started lifting, and the pain was unbearable. Just like that, running was out of the question. I was limping, slowly walking, watching little kids breeze past me. I felt humiliated.
By the halfway point, I was ready to call my sister and ask her to come pick me up. But something said, “No, you’re going to finish.” But then the skies opened up and it started raining hard—like torrential rain. I was soaked, limping, alone on the course, and completely defeated. I had fallen so far behind that not only had the other 10K runners disappeared from view, but quite a number of the half marathon runners, who had started at a way further distance, were passing me too. And yes, I finished dead last in the 10k.
I cried a lot. Luckily the rain masked most of it. But I was hurting physically and emotionally. I thought about how back in 2021, when my friend and I were running consistently, I was sleeping better, feeling stronger, and in a much better headspace. I got sick that year and had to stop training, and it took me over two years to even attempt to get back to that version of myself. And when I couldn’t replicate the feeling, when I couldn’t get back to that place quickly or easily, I was so hard on myself. I felt like a failure. Again.
Running in the morning is something I genuinely enjoy. It calms my anxiety and helps me feel grounded for the rest of the day. Not being able to be consistent with a morning running routine is a reminder that I’m not where I want to be yet and that’s a tough pill to swallow. I kept asking myself, “What is wrong with me?” I just wanted to feel like how I felt when I first turned 40. But I’ve come to learn that healing, growth, and rebuilding aren’t linear. They take time. They take grace. And they take a hell of a lot of patience.
Fast forward to 2025. I signed up for the 10K again. This time, things were different. I had been put back on medication midway through last year and was weaned off again earlier this year but the transition was smoother. My body and mind were in a better place. I started running again, solo this time, and while I wasn’t consistent with training (no surprise there), I did what I could. I made a plan to run/walk the race, same as last year, but I approached it with a much clearer head.
I spent the days before the race fueling and hydrating properly. I didn’t expect miracles, I just wanted to do better than last year. And I did. I finished the race. Not first. Nowhere near the front. But I didn’t finish last, and I didn’t feel broken at the end. I wasn’t limping. My feet held up. My body felt stronger. I felt balanced, calm, and proud. And more than anything, I felt like I had made progress.
And listen, that’s the point of all this.
Progress doesn’t have to be fast. It doesn’t have to be pretty or Instagram-worthy or impressive to other people. It just has to be yours. And mine is slow. I’ve accepted that. I’ve made peace with it. Because slow progress is still progress, and forward is still forward.
I’ve spent so much of my life measuring myself against others, envious of how quickly they heal, how fast they grow, how consistent they are in chasing their goals. But the reality is, I’m not them. I am me. And my pace is mine. My race is mine. The only competition I care about now is the version of me I left behind.
In 2024, I crossed the finish line in pain and tears. In 2025, I crossed it steady and strong. So, guess what? In 2026, I’m coming back to run the full 10K and I’m going to crush it. I’ve got a year to get my shit together, and I’m determined to prove to myself that I can do this. Not for anyone else. Not for the accolades or the praise. Just for me.
Races are won and lost when you compete with others. But what happens when you’re just racing yourself? What does winning look like then? It looks like this: showing up, again and again. Choosing to try, again and again. Deciding that your progress matters, no matter how slow it feels.
This year, I beat my 2024 self. And next year, I’ll beat my 2025 self.
Yeah it has been slow as fuck... but I am still moving.
And that’s enough. For now.
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Congratulations on finishing. That is what truly matters: finishing. We may go slow, we may get bruised, take a detour, and sometimes even stop. But we finish.
Well done Linisa!