Kristy Maute

A Summer Promise

I’m guilty of it. I’m guilting of rearranging family life to accommodate a baby. There are families that seem to effortless transition into becoming parents and adding kids to their pack. I was not one of them. Chet stunned me in many ways. While I didn’t completely abandon everything, I did quit saying yes to scenarios I used to love because incorporating a baby overwhelmed me. Four years later No has become a reflex again.

This summer I’m making a conscious effort to saying Yes to the things we love. This weekend was the first of many YESs this summer. When my parents asked us if we wanted to join them to listen to a friend and local musician play music, we said Yes. When friends invited us to a join them in a family beach day, we said Yes.

What if Chet gets tired and cranky?

What if Chet is naughty?

What if Chet won’t leave my lap?

I should know better by now. My adventurous and curious little guy thrives on being on the go. He never stops moving or talking.

On Friday night I played glow stick sword battles with Chet while Cole stood front and center absorbing the energy of the band. He talked to the saxophone player about learning and growth. We enjoyed a beautiful sunset over the Sound. When our wedding song started playing, I got to dance with my husband (for a minute before both boys crashed the party).

On Saturday our entire family enjoyed an entire day in the sunshine on the beach. We stayed all day splashing in the waves and building sand castles.

This summer I am going back to saying Yes to things that give me butterflies.

Yes to more family beach days

Yes to concerts on the beach

Yes to late night cruiser rides

Yes to cookouts

It’s no longer baby Chet that paralysis me from enjoying these summer moments (because he’s not a baby anymore). It’s the stress I assume I will feel if things don’t go according to plan. I’m sure there will be moments I’ll regret venturing out, but I’ll regret wasting away another summer even more.

“The world is stuck because of the word ‘no’.” ~Dada Bhagwan

It’s time to revisit Saying Yes again. After all, it is one of the main reasons I started this blog. It’s no coincendenec that I always end up back here. Saying Yes has now become my reset button. When life and seasons change, bringing myself back to a place of Yes and possibility is how I make sure my wheels keep moving.

(Maybe 40 day goals need to make a comeback too.)

I get nervous.

I get nervous. Every few days, once a week, every now and then, I feel the anxiety attached to taking a leap of faith. Sometimes it consumes me. Other times it quickly leaves.

Questions roll in looking for an answers. What are you doing? Where are you going? What’s next? Answers are no where to be found.

This is the thing about leaping. You have to commit. You can’t jump and panic half way. You’ll tumble down, down, down if you let yourself over think. Once you leap, the only choice is to fly.

A few years ago Christian and I took our mountain bikes to a local trail. It was new to me. I hadn’t looked at a map. I simply followed him. As we biked, the fall foliage quickly covered the trails. It was slippery. I felt unsteady. I couldn’t see where I was going. I got nervous. I started to panic. Where are we going? Which way does the trail go? What’s up ahead?

Patient at first, Christian looked back to reassure me. All I had to do was follow him and the trail. The more unsure I became, the more I doubted him and our journey. All I had to do was follow him and the trail.

Anxiety got the best of me that day. I got mad at him. I found my way back to our truck, I tossed my bike aside, and I sat there mad while he biked. I missed the entire experience. I never learned where I was headed or what was next because I didn’t trust the journey.

Right now I’m half way through my leap. I’m in the phase where trusting is essential. As much as I’d like to think I’m digging in to the work needed to delivery me on the other side, I’m not. The real work right now is letting go. I’m still leaping. No work is required. I’ve already leaped. Can I trust the fall enough to truly let go?

When the nerves creep in and the questions start to take over, can I trust myself and my intuition enough to continue to leap?

I’ve stood on the edge of mountains and wondered will I catch myself? I’ve climbed mountains, and I’ve reached the middle wondering if it was smart to do this alone. I’ve always kept going. I’ve always leaped. I’ve always climbed. I’ve always been rewarded.

Every time Christian and I bike together, his favorite thing to yell at me is a moving wheel doesn’t fall over. You just have to keep moving. Anxiety and nerves make me stop in my tracks. They make me fall over.

Right now isn’t the time to make my way back to the truck. It’s not the time to toss my bike aside. Right now is the time to embrace the experience. It’s time to live my husband’s advice.

Like a bicycle, like a wheel, life only builds momentum when you keep moving. In life when taking a leap of faith, you have to trust the motion of rolling. Sometimes faster. Sometimes slower. Sometimes with no clear direction. But always further than yesterday.

Defining Strength

Last October I crossed the finish line of the Chicago Marathon with a renewed love of running. I struggled emotionally through the entire training cycle. I cried during long runs by mile two. I questioned my strength, my ability and my worth. Over the course of 26.2 miles, I picked up all the broken pieces. I put myself back together.

While I finished the race feeling whole, my body felt weak. Physically I lacked strength. When race photos were delivered, I was shocked by my appearance. It wasn’t a reflection of me (but maybe it was). My body caved in on itself. I folded in at my shoulders. My body was sinking.

A new chapter began. I was on a quest to find my strength. I would become the one thing I’ve always doubted about myself. I would become strong. It was time to tell myself something new:

I am strong.

It started as a physical quest. I joined a local gym (Evofit). Like all great transformations, working out has little to do with me physically. In this new space, my strength is becoming deeply rooted in my being.

During the first week of April, I sat on the floor of the gym exhausted by the workout. In my training log, I wrote down the daily workout. Out of curiosity, I looked backwards. In March, I completed four workouts. In February, I completed two workouts. In January, four. In December, five. A seed was planted. Could I workout more during the first week of April than all of March? Could I workout more during April than the combined total since I joined the gym? I love a good challenge. My mission was set.

The first week I was in class every day. On Friday, I celebrated. My body ached more than it has ever ached. Muscles hurt that I didn’t know I possessed. The trend continued. Every day I showed up. I finished April with twenty workouts in my training log.

I’m carrying this new pattern with me through summer. Evofit sessions are the thing I log most on Strava. Running has taken a back burner.

Through this process, I’m becoming aware of so much. By making an area of weakness my priority, I’m growing. I’m seeing myself from a different perspective.

My greatest weakness was my weakness. My weakness is everything I saw in my pictures from Chicago. It’s caving in. It’s folding in on myself. It’s sinking. Physically. Emotionally. This is when I start to fall apart, and Evofit is showing me how to stay strong when this happens.

While I’m finding a new physical strength that has me feeling stronger and running faster, it also has me standing taller. On days when I’m sinking, I now have a place to go that makes me feel strong.

This journey to define my strength isn’t just bringing attention to areas of growth. It is also casting a spotlight on what has always made me strong. My strength has nothing to do with how many pounds I can lift or how quickly I can row 500 meters. The strength I’ve had inside of me this entire time is my ability to take on a challenge and welcome change. My strength is my ability to combine all aspects of growth and change. Transformation has to take place on every level, and I embrace this.

Physically I’m changing, but this change is so much more than physical. This new chapter has exposed me to a brand new place to call home.

“We can’t be brave in the big world without at least one small space to work through our fears and falls.” ~Brene Brown

How lucky am I that my space to work through all my fears and falls is my own body!

Chicago Marathon (October). ODU 5k (April). Corpoate 5k (May).

Corporate 5k – People, Puddles and Purpose

Running is my therapy. Being on the trails feeds my soul. But racing! Racing is a different story. Racing always leaves me feeling vulnerable and exposed. I show up to every start line committed to giving it my best on that day, yet there is so much you can’t control. Some race finishes leave me feeling triumphant while other races leave me feeling like I’m face down in a mud puddle.

I’m on a quest this summer to conquer the 5k PR I set in November 2013. The time to beat is 24:50 (7:59 pace). My plan is simple. Get strong. Run a 5k a month. Grab a new PR before I start training for half marathons this fall.

Yesterday I ran my May 5k at the inaugural J&A Racing Corporate 5k. This race was a little different than most 5ks in the area. With a focus on employee wellness and corporate involvement, it was a 5k race after work with a tailgate party to follow. The race kicked off at 6:30pm just outside our local baseball stadium.

I had all day to be nervous. I had all day to come up with scenarios of success and failure. Would I finish feeling triumphant or would I finish face down in the mud?

After a gentle reminder to let go of outcome expectations, I took a few deep breaths and made a mental list of my own expectations. What was I hoping to achieve?

Run faster than ODU 5k
Feel strong
Feel healthy
Run mentally strong

There is a reason my 5k PR is nearly three years old. There were a few years where I mentally struggled with racing. I was afraid to get uncomfortable. I shut down when it got hard. I may still be wiping some of that mud off my face. All day I felt vulnerable and exposed. Would I end up back in the mud puddle after I’ve worked so hard to lift myself out of it.

When I arrived in the parking lot of the race, rain decided to welcome me. It was nothing like a typical day in May in Virginia. Cold, wet and windy. My nerves would not relax.

Rain or shine, I was running. Good day or bad, I was going to run with all I had to give. It was time to race.

“I believe that vulnerability—the willingness to show up and be seen with no guarantee of outcome—is the only path to more love, belonging, and joy.” ~Brene Brown

With three great friends by my side, the race was off. The start was incredibly congested. Puddles filled the streets. My own personal game of leap frog started my race off strong.

Mile 1 – 8:24

Mile 1 arrived, and I felt great. Had I gone out too slow? My good friend Karen stuck by my side for the race. She knew my goal was to run faster than a 8:30 pace. With her on pacing duties, I promised to not look at my watch once. There is no room for second guessing in a 5k. Keep running hard.

Mile 2 – 8:24

With little running since Shamrock, I was shocked by how good my cardio felt. My quads were burning, but my entire body felt engaged. Instead of focusing on what hurt, I focused on what felt strong.

Get comfortable with being uncomfortable. Get comfortable being uncomfortable.

Mile 3 – 8:22

With the finish literally around the corner (around the baseball stadium straight towards home plate), I just focused on holding on.
Final stretch – 7:42 pace

Garmin finish – 3.22 miles, 26:51 (8:20 pace)

Official finish – 5k, 26:52 (8:39 pace

Love hearing him announce my name at the finish

While the official time is a few seconds slower than the ODU 5k, the course was longer. The growth is clearly there. My pacing (and pacer) was perfect. I don’t think I’ve ever run a race this consistent. My body feels strong. My confidence is growing.

This race was a huge win!

Pushing through the fear of the unknown, of expectations, and discomfort is worth it every time. Sometimes you do end up face down in the mud, but sometimes you soar! Showing up and giving your best is only way to learn to fly.

Twelve.

I was twenty four years old the day Cole was born. Looking back, I was a baby. I got pregnant the summer after college having never worked an adult job. I spent that summer, fall and winter loving every moment of being pregnant. I was fascinated by the process. I read every book I could find. I educated myself on choices I knew new moms needed to make for their newborns.

Always gravitating towards a more organic way of life, I was the black sheep in the small military town in lower Alabama. People thought I was crazy for wanting a natural child birth. A neighbor exclaimed that she prayed to God I’d only have girls because I didn’t support circumcision. I did my homework. I became a student of child birth. I became a student of how I wanted to birth and raise my baby.

Moments after Cole was born, he was taken away from me to be treated for fluid in his lungs. After six hours of labor, I sat in a room alone and lonely. Every inch of me needed my baby next to me. Cole recovered quickly and was nursing a hour later, but in that one hour my instincts came to life. This was the moment I was born. Giving birth to Cole welcomed me to my true self. Cole became my compass.

Cole has always been my compass. He has always been my guide.

Today, on Cole’s twelfth birthday, there is a change in our relationship. When he was a baby, he was comforted by my nurturing. As a toddler, kisses and hugs made things better. As a boy, distractions and giggles made his worries disappear. He’s not a boy any more. He’s growing and maturing. He’s establishing who he is as a person. I’m establishing who I am as a mother.

Cole has delivered me to where I belong, and now it’s my turn to guide him. It’s my turn to teach him all lessons he taught me. It’s my turn to be his compass. Nurturing, kisses, hugs, and giggles have been replaced with conversations and walks. We discuss breathing and what it feels like to be overwhelmed. He laughs at my guiding breathing instructions, but when I’m not looking I see him dileberately inhaling and exhaling.

In so many ways Cole and I have grown up together. Our lives have always been parallel. As he transitions into teenage years, I’m transition too. He’s finding his wings as I’m finding freedom in mothering. Together we are learning to fly.

Happy Birthday to the little boy who taught me how to live and love. Happy Birthday to the baby who made me a mother.