I’ve been umming and ahhing over publishing this blog – it feels a bit self-indulgent TBH, but the process of writing it has helped me no end, so I suppose if it helps one other person balance the shitty part of their brain with the sensible kind part, then that’s job done, right?
Back in October, I finished a course of therapy with a pretty ace therapist who suggested I write a ‘compassionate letter’ to myself – something I am doing in fits and starts - because it’s just too painful to do in one go. It’s too hard. But over the last few weeks I’ve had a few days when I just couldn’t get my head around the idea that I was even remotely likely to finish the biggest race I have ever taken on – the Arc of Attrition. So I went back to what he advised me to do. And I wrote a letter to myself. All the images here are taken from my recent Arc recce trip back in December.
I am very good at self-critical thinking, always have been. I have the following sentence written in the front of my diary to try and remind me to be aware of this.
“It is not the situation you are in that determines how you feel, but the thoughts, meanings, and interpretations you bring to that situation.”.
A lot of mine are ‘I am not good enough’, ‘I am not prepared’ and the classic ‘I will fuck it up’. There are reasons for the fact I feel like this – shit loads of them that go way way back and some that are more recent. But I am aware I do it, and I am also aware there are ways to get round it. Writing a letter to yourself is one of those ways. It’s a way of shifting perspective from one that is self -critical to one that is self-compassionate.
The Arc of Attrition is a 100-mile race that takes place on the South West Coast Path, running round the very edge of the south west of Cornwall on the last weekend of January. It has over 4000m elevation, a 36-hour cut off time and only 4 checkpoints. It’s super hard and the DNF rate ranges from 60-75 % on a good year. It’s known as one of the toughest 100-mile races in the UK. I cannot begin to explain how important this race is for me. I’ve been waiting two years for it. I have no objective other than to finish it (well I sort of do but more of that later…)
Never have I planned and prepared for an event more, both mentally and physically. I went out and ran 90% of the route in December. The only miles I haven’t done are the first and last five (I like to keep a little bit of surprise in there). I have consistently trained all over the UK on hills, mountains and fells throughout the winter. I did the Yorkshire Three Peaks on the second weekend of January, battling sleet, wind, ice and snow as a training run. I have run 50 to 70 mile weeks for the last 3 months. I have read blogs, watched videos and taken advice from some of the races alumni and some of the best ultra-runners in the UK. My kit has been sorted and sorted again. I have panic bought. I have panic returned. But still there is a part of me that really, really doesn’t think I can do it, that I am not prepared and that I will fuck it up. That I am just not good enough.
This is human nature. We all have doubts. Mine can overwhelm me. The irony is that as a coach, I am the queen of helping other people get over this self-doubt. As a human being, I am the queen of allowing it to happen to myself. Some days I can bat it away. Other days it eats me alive.
I can’t explain why it’s so important I finish the Arc. As regular readers will know I didn’t have the best year last year. In fact, it was hands down the worst of my life. In July I became mentally ill to the point of almost taking my own life. I had to take 10 weeks off work to recover, I had to dial my whole life until it resembled that of a toddler, and I had to take a long hard look at the years leading up to that happening and deal with some pretty horrible shit. I had to remove people from my life, move out of my flat and rebuild everything (including my career) from the bottom up. The Arc feels like my comeback. It feels like the ashes from which the phoenix will rise. It feels like a FUCK YOU to everything (and indeed everyone) that ripped my life apart last year and it feels like I am proving to myself that I am better. It is incredibly selfish. I’m not trying to show anyone how great I am, I am trying to show myself. So what if it doesn’t go to plan? What if I do fuck it up?
Despite my best preparations and intentions, I might well fuck it up, and that frightens me. There are things I can cntrl (pace, kit, crewing) and thing I can’t (weather, rolled ankles, shitting myself). Sometimes I spend hours beating myself up, telling myself I have no right to be on that start line, that I am just not good enough. Then the nice bit pipes up and tells me at the end of the day it’s JUST A RACE.
But for me it’s really not. For me it’s a signpost in my life that points in a direction I want to go. I need to finish this. Or do I need to finish it? What If I don’t? Why after all I have read, learnt and done in the last 6 months do I still act like an arsehole to myself and tell myself I am going to fail?
I decided to write this letter to myself, as if I was talking to someone else that I loved, supported and respected. Because that’s how we should all feel about ourselves. I tell my clients to do this a lot, I rarely do it myself. I’ve decided to publish it to help anyone else struggling with this self-destructive thought cycle to get an idea of how to go about this. You can do it with ANYTHING. From a job interview to your first marathon. Write it. Write it again. Read it. Read it again. Take it in. Believe in yourself. This will be the last thing I read before I stand on that start line at 12pm on the 28th January.
Dear Allie
It’s difficult to know where to start with this, I guess by saying a massive well done. What you’ve done in the last 6 months, the work you have put into yourself and the fact that you have recognised that you might be starting to feel things are a struggle again is admirable. You should take that compliment because I really do mean it. There are a few things you need to congratulate yourself on. You have picked yourself up from the worst mental health crisis you have ever been through, and you have continued to stay alive. Not only that, you are, in a lot of peoples eyes, flourishing.
I’ll try and illustrate this with something only you will understand. Have a look at your strava. There were two weeks in August 2021 when you did NOTHING. FUCK. ALL. Because you couldn’t do anything. You literally couldn’t – remember that? You couldn’t leave the house. You had your mum looking after you. You stayed in all day doing jigsaws, reading books and having the occasional mass hysteria fit. Remember that? It was fucking horrible.
Now you ARE doing stuff. You are doing more than you have ever done before. That is an incredible comeback in a short space of time, and you should be congratulated.
You have given up drinking alcohol. You have recognised you were and always will be an alcoholic. You have admitted that to yourself and to the world and held yourself accountable. Do not underestimate what an incredible achievement this is. As I write you are six months sober. Six months. That is the longest you have gone without a drink in your entire adult life. You have given up something that you recognised was destroying your life, but something that also (somewhat ironically) helped you get out of bed each day. You used it to mask the feelings that you are now living with day after day and sometimes I recognise those feelings are extremely difficult. But you’re doing it and you are doing it so well. Being sober has become non-negotiable in your life and that is to be admired and celebrated. You’re doing fucking great, and as time goes on it will get more manageable. I just want you to remember this. If you do decide to drink again, it will destroy your life. Remember, you gave up one thing for everything. Do not give up everything for one thing. Stick with it.
I’ve noticed you’ve been starting to struggle with the idea that the Arc of Attrition is on the horizon – just over a week away – and you’ve started to doubt your capability and preparation, not just for this event, but for what the future generally holds. And that is totally fine. You need to remember what you learnt from that Nim’s podcast (the one you’ve listened to at least eight times now, you weirdo). You need to do the basics well, and you need to be in the moment and in this moment you need to read this letter.
You can do this. Right now, it is absolutely possible. You can do hard things and you have done hard things and I write this in regard to races you have run and life stuff you have overcome. Your aim is to finish the race (I also know your secret aim is to place in the race - and I know you haven’t looked at who else is running it in order to keep this pipe dream alive and that is TOTALLY FINE - dream on and dream big Bailey!)
If you don’t manage to finish it, if you miss a cut off, it’s just too much or you can’t physically get to the end, you will learn some lessons from that experience that you would never otherwise have learnt and that’s how you develop. And that is why it’s OK if it doesn’t go to plan. This is not a get out plan or a plan B. There is no plan B. This is me comforting you that if you don’t finish this race, you will not die. It is not in vain.
You are a very different person to the person that you were a couple of years ago, even a few months ago, Bailey. In a great way. You are less anxious and more controlled. You are more thoughtful and less reactive. You panic less. You are calmer and happier. You’re kind of simpler. You accept things more. You listen more. You read more and you are very, very aware of your emotions and the emotions of those around you. You have zero patience with dickheads though - that might get you into trouble at some point. All this great stuff and it’s still early days – there is a lot more to learn. It’s exciting. The race is exciting. Life is exciting.
You spend a lot more time on you, and less worrying about what other people think. Remember, you can’t control what other people think and their opinions of you are actually none of your business. You need to look after YOUR thoughts and feelings, not worry about theirs. This doesn’t make you selfish, it makes you harder to manipulate. There is a difference between those two things. Remember that. You were manipulated for a long, long time in many, many ways. When you’re being authentically you, you cannot be manipulated and you cannot let yourself or anyone else down. It empowers you. Read that again. You cannot let yourself or anyone else down when you are being authentic.
Do the basics well. That’s one of your non-negotiables. You have run 90% of the route, done all the research, tested all the kit, done the what if’s, made the spreadsheet. You have an amazing crew who will be there to support you and great friends who are also running the race. Remember that you cannot do this alone, but only you can do this. You are so loved and supported. When it gets dark, when it gets cold and when it gets super shitty, remember you have run this route with Pickle. She came with you. She was there and has done all that coast path and she will be there at the end waiting for you. The little love of your life. Be more Pie.
That’s it really. I want you to go back to the start of this letter and re-read it. Get into your brain these things you do actually know and be kind to yourself. You have done and are doing your absolute best. You deserve to have an epic time – a huge adventure – one you won’t forget. You’ve done the hard work, and this race is the party at the end. Suck up every second of it, feel the wind, battle the weather, feel alive and fucking go out there and get it. I have total belief in you, and know that whatever the outcome you aren’t letting anyone down.
Oh and remember. Nothing out there can scare you more than you scared yourself last year. No pain will be worse than that pain. You’re a warrior. I love you.
Allie xx