This spring, waiting with me for the Boston bus that would take us to the marathon start line was Bettina, who declared, as we lined up, “I’m suffering from imposter syndrome.” Not knowing how to respond, I asked if it was her first time running Boston. “No, my eighth,” she replied. “I figured I had better come when I qualified again.” “Huh?” I wondered, “Who suffers imposter syndrome after qualifying for Boston eight times?”
Of course, the answer is, “Anyone.” Anyone who lives with an inner critic who judges her performance and finds it lacking, for whatever reason. Thinking about the ugly feelings some of us carry in the inner pocket of our hearts got me thinking in a more general way about ugly feelings and sport. Because, on the one hand, sport is a place that allows feelings that, in a different context, would be deemed inappropriate. I’m not going to say to a colleague competing for the same grant as me, “I’m coming for you!” But I might say it to a friend at the start of a 10 km race if we have a rivalry in place. We’re allowed to compete with each other on race day, to harness all of our aggression to reeling in other runners as we approach the finish line. We talk about runs we will crush, tempo paces we will master, control we will exert over desire for donuts or drinks as we train for a race.
And yet. We only have to look at the trial unfolding in London, Ontario, to know how these feelings can walk off the ice and manifest as truly ugly interactions with others. Closer to home, how much energy do our inside voices gain from the language of mastery and domination we indulge as sporty? I’ve asked friends busy unleashing inner demons on themselves if they would use the same language to describe the efforts of their friends, and they insist they wouldn’t. “But why not?” I ask. If you blame yourself for the injury that wrecked your marathon time, why do you think others deserve compassion for the injury that destroyed theirs? Your demons might be satisfied with the diet of self-criticism they dine on, but is there no risk that they might ask for envy, malice, and petty jealousy for dessert?
A friend recently described her feelings of being “less than” among our running peers. I pointed out that the group she belongs to is extraordinary in its running achievements—a bunch of women over 60 who routinely knock off marathons. Marathon statistics tell us that this group is not representative. In the most recent Vancouver marathon, women over 55 counted for only 122 of the 6886 who finished that day, a mere 2% of the total. At Boston, where each age group is guaranteed spaces, they counted for only 7% this year. But, just like Bettina on the bus, my pal has internalized a different standard, and it’s a punishing one.
So, I ask: how do we set ourselves up for success, however we define it, from a starting place of care and compassion? Can we be fierce and kind to ourselves at the same time?
(Stay tuned for Monday’s post.)