A Beautiful Work In Progress

by Mirna Valerio

I stood in the middle of the trail surrounded by occasional flashes of brick red, sunshine yellow, and burnt orange among damp dark-brown, almost-black tree trunks and tangles of bushes that existed in sharp contrast to the wet and pale-green tufts of grass that struggled to survive under the thick canopy of forest. I realized that I was fortunate. To be able to run freely and unencumbered on difficult trails in Appalachia was a gift. “I am living the dream. I am living the dream!” I screamed to any tree that would listen. Here I was, huffing, puffing, and whining inwardly about something I had chosen to do of my own volition, about something I had the physical ability to complete. I made a silent promise to all my family members who had mobility issues, and to those who had heart disease and diabetes, that I wouldn’t forget this. I was able. I was strong, and this little bit of suffering I could stand—for their sake.

In the midst of doing what I loved to do and being what I thought I wanted to be—busy, outwardly calm and collected, doing everything and being everything to everyone—I had forgotten one important person: me. I hadn’t noticed that in my quest to be different, in my quest to not be the martyr that all the women in my family seemed to be, I had quickly become just that.