A Beautiful Work In Progress

by Mirna Valerio

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.

I love the experience of digging deep, pulling layer after layer off the onion that is me, discovering the most profound parts of myself over and over again.

No wonder so many women of my mother’s and grandmother’s generations are physically ill; these women who are the bedrock of their respective families have cracked and fissured. Their foundations crumble and they become sick from years, decades even, of standing and bending and folding and cooking and shouldering without a second thought—an automatic erasure of self, self-worth, health, and longevity, like the bedding planes eroded by seeping water.

From those strong legs sprang children with legs that will carry an entire new generation, and I hope it’s a generation that won’t need to carry the weight of the next at the cost of their own health and wellness.

I can only hope to honor the gift of her legs as I run, carrying myself, the memories of those who are gone, and the weight of the next generation for which I am responsible.