No Bad Weather

I’m writing this on a quiet Sunday morning in Queens, New York. We’re supposed to get snow today—a blizzard, actually. 

It’s been a cold winter here. The ferry—which I usually take to work—stopped running for a bit because of ice in the river. The track at the park was buried under ice and snow for weeks. 

There seems to be a general fatigue now here about the cold. Everywhere you go, people are itching for, and talking about, spring.

I hadn’t noticed spring before. Growing up in Western Pennsylvania, the weather here feels very similar to there—so reliably so, that when I speak to my parents about the weather on Monday, I can safely assume that’s what we’ll get here on Tuesday.

But I hadn’t truly noticed spring. Ten springs ago, after sludging through my first New York City winter, I walked to Riverside Park and felt life. I don’t know how else to explain it other than life blooming all around me. College students playing frisbee. Families pushing babies in strollers. Dogs romping at the park. The whole world felt deeply, wholly, beautifully alive. 

Since then, I have called spring my favorite. 

The weather—if you live in a four-season state—can determine much of our lives. Far more likely am I to go out for ice cream in July than January. Having always lived somewhere with changing temperatures, I revel in the way one season can seem eternal just to be cut short by a crunchy leaf or a first snowflake or a day where you can unexpectedly leave your coat at home.

Each season has its struggles. There is a unique hell to coming back from a 6:00 AM, 90% humidity “easy run” and knowing it’ll be a minute before you cool down enough to shower. Conversely, the amount of laundry I am doing from winter running is absolutely absurd. So. Many. Layers.

It can be easy to drop off running in the very cold or very hot months. When I moved to a new neighborhood two years ago, it felt like a particularly brutal summer. Historically, I don’t handle moderately brutal summers well either. I found myself running less and less and found my mental health in a similar decline. 

Recognizing the unsustainability of the situation, I signed up for another marathon the following fall because nothing gets me into my sneakers with such enthusiasm as a detailed training plan. 

Oh it was still hot that second summer. I still groaned every time I saw the humidity percentage. But I also learned how to map my runs around public water fountains. I figured out which side of the street offered the most shade. I intentionally adapted my diet and fluid intake to support the effort. I hit every summer workout And when fall came, I ran my best marathon yet.

Two weeks later, with the temperatures in the Northeast on a rapid decline, I laced up my shoes and messaged my friend: “let the games begin.” Let the game of running through winter instead of hibernating away, begin.

Because that’s the thing—there will always be an excuse not to run. It’s too cold or too windy or too rainy or too hot. 

But it wasn’t too cold when my teammates and I would go for long runs in the snow in middle school. If you look closely, there are still small white scars on my ankles from a particularly icy outdoor run in tenth grade. And, even though it was a rough go, it wasn’t too hot to finish a marathon in Florida in December because apparently “Florida” and “December” do not cancel each other out.

Talking to a running friend earlier this winter, I explained that I was just in a daily routine of gaslighting myself into being okay with the cold—”there’s no bad weather, only bad clothing choices.” Barring unsafe ice conditions, I kept to my runs.

And what happened?

I adapted. Much like adjusting to the summer heat, I learned that tucking my gaiter into my hat keeps it snug against my cheeks. I finally gave in and smeared vaseline over my face to fight off the wind. I realized that wearing the proper layers actually does make a difference in how you feel miles in.

I wonder, then, what of this I can apply to my life outside of running. What else have I written off as “bad” when really, I just need better [clothing] choices? Might there not be something I learn from moving through that discomfort as well? Through trial-and-error-ing and testing and failing.

Twenty years a runner and I still get it wrong. I still leave my gloves at home when I really shouldn’t. I still wore pants (pants?!) when I ran that Florida marathon. But every run teaches me something. About myself, about the weather, about resilience.

Because running through a tough season—whether mentally, physically, atmospherically, or whatever—makes us stronger. 

It would be easy to wait for spring. Our perfect moment. Our stars aligning. But that is not where growth happens. Growth happens in the latex gloves under the cotton gloves. Growth happens in the squinting through sunscreen and sweat. Growth happens when we sidestep the easy excuse and do the thing anyway.

When we relentlessly show up for ourselves.

When we make our own spring.