Emily Articulated: The process

By Emily Erickson
Reader Columnist

Another birthday came and went this week, and the way I celebrated it seemed to encapsulate everything I hope to carry forward into the year ahead. I was on the road — sore from a race that hadn’t gone as planned, still managing the lingering illness that derailed it — and on my way to pick up a litter of rescue puppies I’d be fostering until I could find them homes. It felt like a place in between, and a birthday in transition (both literally and, I hope, metaphorically, too).

The race was meant to be my first 100-miler, a feat that meant a lot to me both as an athlete and a person. It’s a distance that has loomed in the sport I love (ultra running) as the pinnacle of grit, fitness and adventure: a collectively recognized receipt of achievement. And it’s a distance that has genuinely scared me — a test of resilience, a battle of will against myself and a chance to see if I could come out the other side of the challenge stronger or changed.

But, in the days before the race, I contracted a chest cold that, although not major, would cause escalating complications, ultimately bringing my run to an early end at 62 miles, or 100 kilometers. The 13 hours I ran were significantly fewer than I planned, but included nearly eight full hours of nausea, chest pain and breathing difficulty — far more (and far different) suffering than was normal or expected.

Because of that suffering, in a way, I sort of met my goal. I proved to myself I could persevere in the worst conditions, even if it didn’t end with a podium or a medal. I had imagined the climactic end: a tear-and-sweat-streaked face as I crawled over the finish line; the culmination of a year of hard work, planning, training and investment, wrapped up in a single moment. Instead, I got the tears and the sweat, the hard work and dedication, and a quiet finish that forced me to sit with the question: Was it worth it? 

In that silence, I found pride in all that I’d accomplished, even if it wouldn’t be recognized by anyone but me.

As someone who has struggled with perfectionism — to feel like I’m enough, or interesting, or worthy — and a lifelong history of chasing achievement (and, perhaps, if I’m honest, the recognition of those achievements), it was probably the finish and the lesson I needed. A lesson I suspect I’ll keep learning over and over and over again.

As if to carve this message into my psyche, I began the first day of my next year caring for nine puppies. It’s an experience of pure process and giving, with the only reward being the quiet satisfaction of providing, nurturing and, if I’m lucky, finding forever homes for these innocent, perfect creatures.

We spent our first full day simply learning how to be together. At just 8 weeks old, they are a mismatched pack of mutts: a puppy in every color, with personalities popping like kernels of corn, each one bursting into who they’re meant to become. Between feedings and cuddle piles, the endless scooping of poop and the collective collapse into nap time, they bark, wrestle and wobble through their world on unsteady feet, fueled by curiosity and spirit.

They fall, and they get back up — never pausing to feel shame or disappointment when they don’t get it right the first time (or the second, or the third). They simply try again, because that’s what they’re meant to do. And they love every moment of the process, of discovery and growth, meeting each new task with a wagging tail and an open heart.

As I look at the year ahead, another trip around the sun, I can’t think of anything better to carry with me.

*If anyone is interested in rescuing a puppy, please contact me: [email protected].

Emily Erickson is a writer and business owner with an affinity for black coffee and playing in the mountains. Connect with her online at www.bigbluehat.studio.