By Kari McBride

“It’s just one mile. If you pace yourself, you can improve your time.”

It was my freshman year in high school, and the Presidential Fitness Test was my least favorite activity. As I dragged myself up the stairs and out onto the gloomy Oregon streets, I could hear the words of my PE teacher playing in my head.

“Just pace yourself.”

“It’s only one mile.”

“You’ll be done before you know it.”

There was always a strong start to the run. As if I needed to prove that I really could do this. Then somewhere as I turned the curve down Carman Drive, I lost my stamina and quickly slowed to a speed walk. By the time I made it to the first corner, I was committed to my slow walk. There was no energy left, and no attempt at pacing myself to the finish.

When I finally did see the end of the mile-long loop on Kruse Way, it was as if all life had been drained from my body, and it was taking every ounce of energy to plant one foot in front of the other. And then, if running the mile first thing in the morning wasn’t hard enough, it was right off to Human Biology next.

It may come as no surprise, but I am not a runner. At the time, I assumed pacing was something only runners worried about.

Fast-forward 20 years (give or take a few), and I can confidently say that today I would still not be able to run one mile—even if I did pace myself.

But somewhere along the way, I learned that pacing looks different when you live with chronic illness or pain.

My heart often responds before my brain has time to process.

When teacher appreciation week, a choir concert, and my daughter’s birthday all collided in the same week, my heartfelt offer to help was almost immediate.

“Yes, of course I’ll do it.”

Somewhere in the background, my brain was grimacing, already bracing for the consequences.

Oh no. She’s going to push herself again.

My brain knew that I can’t do it all. Or at least, do it all well.

But for a while, it looked like my heart was right.

Birthday decorations were hung.

Teacher gifts were made.

Choir songs were sung on repeat.

The week was going in my favor. Between coffee and adrenaline, I thought maybe I could do it all this time.

But then: First, it was the tickle in the back of my throat. That annoying feeling I kept telling myself was allergies.

Next, it was the ache permeating from my feet up through my back. Every muscle felt knotted and unable to relax.

Finally, it was the wave of brain-numbing exhaustion. The kind where no amount of sleep leaves you truly feeling rested.

And sure enough, my brain had been right all along.

I couldn’t do it all. Not well, anyway.

Just like my high school self, I crawled across the finish line and into the weekend. But instead of going to second-hour Human Biology, I poured myself into pajamas, curled up on the couch and spent the next 76 hours trying to recoup even a little energy. Dishes sat in the sink. Laundry stayed unfolded. The house could wait.

Before long, I found myself thinking about those gloomy Oregon mornings and the words my PE teacher repeated before every run.

And because I know this won’t be the last time, I wrote a note to myself:

“Just pace yourself.”

—by Kari McBride