The Road Not Taken

By Robert Frost

A poem by Robert Frost, that I had to memorize in its entirety in 7^th grade. For whatever reason parts of it have stuck with me and subconsciously risen sporadically since. Recently, it occurred to me that I have had an opportunity to ‘take the road less traveled.’ After three intense semesters in an MBA program (accounting, finance, and R programming), a dramatic build up of an apartment saga and a sense of lost identity (so many contradictions) –a long awaited chance to reset presented itself. With no immediate ties to the city I was born and for the most part, raised it, a temporary reprieve was granted. I jumped at the chance.

Over the last month and a half, I learned many things. Five lessons stuck out:

1. Appreciate the little things. Sunsets, lakes, nature and my crazy dog.
2. Your problems don’t actually disappear. They follow you. The demons in your thoughts need to be confronted and dealt with. Or they’ll come back.
3. Take care of your body and your mind. Diet, sleeping, exercise, drinking enough water. For the longest time I thought I was invincible. Then I thought I would die young. Now I’m learning to appreciate the present and am trying to preserve this beautiful vessel that has carried me countless of miles, to a few continents and through all of the years.
4. I am so thankful for the support of my family and friends, which allowed me to undertake this crazy, mini adventure.
5. Each one of us is on a journey. Whether it’s the friend who’s been able to abstain from tobacco for 50 days, the yoga teacher dedicating her year to becoming imperfectly green or the soldier awaiting orders for deployment, trying to maintain a presence at home while preparing to be away. 

Sometimes, two roads diverge in a yellow wood. Often, the well-trodden road calls to us, it is easy and comfortable. But, on occasion, something down the wilder, slightly overgrown road catches our eye and speaks to our soul. There is no other option, than to heed that calling.

Love and Comfort. The only words on her hospital chart. At the time, they were anything but that. They meant the end was near. There was nothing else the nurses could do for her. The first time I read them, my heart shattered. My grandmother had always been the one to comfort me when nobody else understood me. Every time I called to check on her, she asked about my running, knowing it was important to keep moving, always chasing that place that only a few can visit, eternal hope and youth. She understood the importance of holding onto the dreams that most lose as they ‘grow into adulthood.’ She encouraged me to do what I wanted, how I wanted and never make apologies. She was my source of love and comfort.

As I sat with her, that last night, I couldn’t stop sobbing. I couldn’t put into words what she meant to me. She wasn’t conscious but I hope with all my heart that she could feel my presence. In those last moments, how do you tell someone the impact they made on you. Those times riding in the car with her, wearing her most fashionable sunglasses and crooning to Linda Ronstadt had taught me to enjoy life especially with those you love. Cutting the hedges with her and then rolling coins with her and my sisters to take the trips to Toys R Us taught me that hard work was rewarded. She grew roses because they’re beautiful but tough with their thorns. The rose garden in her backyard with that special purple rose bush illustrated that magic was possible. I haven’t seen purple roses since, but knowing that they were my favorite, she would always let me take the blooms home.

Just like the roses and their thorns, she taught me to be beautiful but fierce. She cherished her independence over anything and proudly related to me about the days she worked downtown. When faced with adversity, she’d always tell me to ‘give em hell.’ The gritty determination of that generation of women was underappreciated in their time.

The longer I sat in the hospital room, listening to the steady drip of the morphine, the more accepting I was of those words, love and comfort. She deserved that. As I walked out of the room, saying goodbye for the final time, I took a picture of the chart. I vowed to make those words more meaningful in my own life.

It’s been said everything at its own time. I hated that phrase. I wanted everything right away. In high school I took my early success for granted. I didn’t appreciate it. In college, I struggled to stay healthy enough to compete, had a massive hip surgery and I got frustrated and walked away from running competitively for the next 10 years.

On a whim, in a conversation with my friend Nicki, I brought up a crazy idea, a huge goal. She fully supported and encouraged it. The more I thought about it, the more realistic it became. I talked to the highest performing runner I knew, Christine Taranto, who connected me to her coach, Joe Puleo. The progress I’ve made hasn’t been as seamless as it was in high school but over the past year, the goal has become a lifestyle.

I want to share my journey from high school phenom, to party-girl and back again. My story while trying to qualify for the Olympic Trials. Omne Vetus Novatur translates to ‘everything old is new again.’ This time around though, I appreciate every success and learn from my failures. I gave up running once but have been given a second chance to accomplish something I only dreamed of in high school. The marathon is the unicorn of running events. Everyone’s chasing the unicorn, the perfect 26.2, but it doesn’t quite exist.

Here’s to enjoying the journey and the lessons learned along the way.