Miles of Smiles :)

I find myself hesitant to share this story. It is deeply personal and undoubtedly the most formative experience of my life. I have found that this story often leaves people with many questions. Please know that it still leaves me with many questions as well, but I am happy to answer whatever I can.

Is it better to feel pain or nothing at all? If you had asked me that question four years ago, my answer would have been more on the “nothing at all” side of the spectrum. As humans, we are hardwired to avoid pain and seek comfort.

Running had a very different meaning to me four years ago than it does now. Tired legs and the burn of lactic acid flowing through my veins were simply a bothersome but necessary aspect of the sport. I willed the feel-good endorphins elicited by a tough run to kick in and eliminate the pain.

My answer to the question above completely changed on March 22, 2021. 

My legs were feeling especially tired that day and I was dreading the 400-meter repeats we had scheduled for track practice after school. I anticipated the inevitable pain, and I was not in the mood to endure it. As the day wore on, something in my body felt off. When the time came for our workout, the feeling of something being off turned into something feeling wrong. Abnormal. Distressing.

Everything from there on out was a complete blur, but the most vivid memory I have is the distinct lack of pain. Just put one foot in front of the other. Why can’t I feel anything? What is wrong with my legs? Something is very, very wrong. 

Not even halfway through the workout, my mom was called to come pick me up early. I tried to tell her what I felt but hardly any words would come out, and the few that did were completely jumbled. Why can’t I talk? What is happening to me?

I have no recollection of the drive to the hospital, and only muffled fragments of the first few days of being admitted. My first clear memory was the overwhelming certainty that I was going to die. I couldn’t move my legs, I could barely move my arms, and I couldn’t speak. I was completely immobilized. I spent hours staring at the bright pink walls of my hospital room, enduring constant neurological tests and imaging. I listened with growing trepidation as the doctors discussed rare and acute neurological diseases with my parents. The phrases “Guillain-Barré Syndrome, Multiple Sclerosis, Stroke” swirled through my mind.

My brain was attacking my body. 

In the weeks and months that followed, I had to relearn even the most basic aspects of being a functional human being. I came to understand how much effort the most intuitive tasks like walking and talking truly require. It was mental and physical anguish that I would never wish on my worst enemy. However, I put every ounce of energy I had into getting better and becoming myself again. I regained all my abilities, but I never got my “old life” back; that is something I am eternally grateful for.

It is far better to feel pain than to feel nothing at all. Every step I take is now imbued with new meaning. The burn of a brutal workout is hard, but the possibility of never being able to run a brutal workout again is harder. I’d rather complain about the fruits of moving my legs than the gut-wrenching panic of not being able to move my legs. I’ll take the pain. I’ll take the extra miles. Thank you, God, for letting me feel the pain again.