The mind can be a powerful thing.

I'm living proof that "faking it til you make it" can actually work most of the time. With my powers of delusion, I've talked myself into doing a lot of things that quite honestly I didn't truly believe I could pull off. Did I know that I wouldn't have a claustrophobic meltdown when I set out to spelunk a few pitch black caves for four hours? No. But I did know that passing up the chance at something really amazing was a regret I couldn't live with, so I jumped in nevertheless and if I failed, at least I knew unequivocally that it couldn't be done—and that, I can live with. Thankfully, for this adventure and a few others, it turned out that I could—I faked it, and yes I did actually make it. Times like that, I was glad that I was full of sh*t.

Other times, though, my prowess for bullsh*t works against me. For the past few months, I've been slacking off on running and thought it was justified because I felt a bit of pain in my feet. Never mind that whatever discomfort I felt had more to do with my penchant for wearing ballet flats with zero arch support than actual running. But last weekend, I finally had to face the music. The half marathon that I had signed up for with a bunch of friends had finally rolled around and I couldn't bullsh*t my way out of it without getting bombarded.

"You've already paid for it. You can always run-walk-run if you have a hard time."
"You did a full marathon! All those miles on those legs—you can do this."
"You were fine in Brooklyn. You'll be fine this time."
"Come on, you'll get a pretty medal! You know you want it."

Still, I was so indecisive that when my alarm woke me at 5:30am on Sunday, the first thing I did was check the weather. Please, show me rain, I thought desperately, wanting an easy out. No such luck. Wearily, I pinned the race bib to my shirt and put on those neglected running shoes (I also made sure to put my insurance card inside my running pouch in case I had to be peeled off the pavement somewhere in Staten Island). As the ferry pulled away from Whitehall, I watched a beautiful sunrise come up over Brooklyn. No turning back now.

I was petrified when the race began, not having run any long distances since the Brooklyn Half Marathon. But as mile after mile passed and I found myself running and holding my usual 10-minute mile pace, I started to inwardly berate myself.

"You are so full of sh*t! I can't believe how many runs you talked yourself out of when you're perfectly capable of running all these miles!"

Somehow, I made it past that finish line—and did it in my second best time to date, phantom injuries notwithstanding. Oh the lies I tell myself, I thought sheepishly when I woke up the next day feeling pretty darn good—a bit tired and stiff maybe, but nothing remotely approaching an injury.

I hope this lesson sticks—not only because I will eventually hurt myself if I keep running races improperly trained, but because I could have improved my life even a little bit had I not bullsh*tted myself into complacency. I could've made a new personal record. I could've been faster and stronger. I could've been better.

Mind over matter. But please, always for the better.