Most people look at me and assume I’ve been running my entire life. And while my childhood was filled with physical activities such as soccer, swimming, and cross-country, I didn’t fully understand the power of exercise until I laced up a pair of sneakers in an attempt to phase out a serious drug habit in my late 20s.
I remember being a happy kid, at least until I wasn’t. At 10, I had my first drink, and I was hospitalized with alcohol poisoning by 12. The same year, I started experimenting with drugs. The rest of my teenage and early-adult years were rife with bad decisions.
At 24, I overdosed on a combination of crack, meth, and pills in my South Florida apartment. I flatlined. Paramedics were able to restart my heart, and three days later I woke up from a coma with a tube down my throat, completely alone, having missed my older brother’s wedding.
After six weeks, I was running regularly, and the cloud of self-hatred and depression that surrounded me for most of my life started to evaporate.
It took three more years—during which I vacillated between being a functioning
addict (if there is such a thing; I somehow managed to make it through hairstyling school and maintain a pretty regular yoga practice) and being incapacitated—before I grew tired and scared enough of myself to make a change.
Around this time, my sister introduced me to a guy she thought I’d hit it off with. Looking back, I imagine she hoped he’d be a good influence on me. We didn’t seem to have anything in common. He told me he’d recently run a half-marathon. I thought, That’s it! I’ll start running; at least it’ll give us something to talk about. Little did I know that pounding the pavement would become a key tool in my recovery.
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I started by measuring a three-mile loop near my apartment in West Palm Beach with my car’s odometer. Then I set out on the streets, alternating between walking and jogging. It was hard. It was sticky-hot. But there was something intrinsic to running that appealed to me. I liked the focus on my breathing, the sound of each step, and the soothing crash of the ocean waves along the beach.
I didn’t think about anything except taking one step after another—run to that tree, walk to that sign, repeat. It took about a month before I could complete the full loop without stopping. Then I was curious to see what it felt like to go farther. I wondered if I could keep my mind quiet for even longer stretches of time. So I used a treadmill in my building’s gym to get through five miles for the first time. (It took about an hour.)
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After six weeks, I was running regularly, and the cloud of self-hatred and depression that had surrounded me for most of my life started to evaporate. This was a new feeling. During the many years I’d spent in the throes of addiction, I tried all of the traditional rehabilitation methods—nothing really worked. But as I slowly started replacing drugs like heroin with exercise, things looked brighter.
Eventually, I decided to move home to New York City, and I left my full-time job as a hairdresser to pursue a bigger involvement in the fitness community by becoming a certified trainer, Pilates instructor, and yoga teacher. I packed up my car and headed north on September 17, 2011. I haven’t shot up since.
When I began running, I honestly didn’t think it would take me anywhere. (To be clear, it has by no means been a linear trajectory. I still experience doubt on a daily basis.) But getting out there gave me the ability to power through my problem, and for that I am forever grateful.
What’s Exercise Got to Do With It?
A whole lot, in fact. Timothy Brennan, MD, director of the Addiction Institute at Mount Sinai West and Mount Sinai St. Luke’s in New York City, spells out why sweat can help with substance abuse disorders.
This article originally appeared in the November 2019 issue of Women’s Health.
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