I signed up for a half marathon a few months ago, back when I fell in love with running and thought it was my new BFF. 

Back-to-back blizzards, debilitating anxiety and a surprising bout of ugly depression sidelined the daily runs for a spell. 

But I put the jogging shoes back on my feet this past weekend and officially started the three-month training regimen. 

Turns out: I hate running just as much as I thought I did lo those many years ago. 

My passionate affair with pounding asphalt seems to have been a brief flirtation, at best. I thought I was running down the noise of the day, the chaos of the house and four kids. Now that perspective is on my side, I'm fairly certain I was trying to escape the death grip of unfamiliar panic attacks. 

In the interim, I started seeing an acupuncturist and therapist, started medicine for the menopause and started a cocktail of natural supplements. One or all of those quieted the anxiety and, also, rubbed the luster from the running.

The snow mostly melted by Saturday. The weather warmed, the sun shined and the roads filled with weekend warriors on bike and on foot. I was one of them. And I was miserable. Breathless by the first stop sign. Heave ho-ing by the second. Ready to rip my shirt off and head home by the third. 

"What did I get myself into?" I sputtered...

Read the rest at Feast After Famine.