Archive for the Category » fitness and health «

Wednesday, August 19th, 2015 | Author:

A quick story: I was out disk golfing (courtesy of my Jo’s 26 before 26 list I’m now a regular disk golfer). We came up to a pin and there was something in the pin.

“What is that?” I asked my friend Brian who was closer to it.

“It’s a crabapple.”

As I came closer I inspected it. “Ohh. That’s what a crabapple looks like. I’ve never seen one before.”

“You’ve never tasted one?” he asked seeming incredulous.

“No,” I said, surprised. “They’re edible? What do they taste like?”

“I don’t know… They’re pretty good.”

I retrieved my disk and we walked toward the next hole in silence for a minute until he looked at me with a smirk on his face. “They’re not edible, just so you know. Don’t go eat one.”

“What!? It’s good you told me!”

“I know. I realized, you’d bake a crabapple pie one day and I’d be like, “why on earth would you do that?” and you’d say, “I don’t know. I didn’t know what they tasted like so I put it on my Jo’s 26 before 26 list. I’m trying to get the most out of life.” “

“Yeah. I would do that,” I conceded, content.

I may be somewhat gullible. But at least I do try to get the most out of life. Hopefully I won’t die eating crabapple pie. But if I do, it’d be alright. There are worse ways to go.

And with that, I give you this years new goals:

Jo’s 27 before 27 List:

  1. Play a disk golf game w/ 4 holes at par
  2. Buy a house
  3. Walk a marathon distance
  4. Be able to do 3 pull ups
  5. Make 30 pitches for articles to be published
  6. Smoke a cigar
  7. Leave the country again (so far age 24 is the only age since I was 17 during which I haven’t left the country.)
  8. Go to a new state
  9. Go to a professional football game
  10. Learn to play tennis
  11. Run through or picnic in a field of sunflowers
  12. Do Lumosity for 30 days
  13. Take a pottery class
  14. Ride a camel or elephant
  15. Watch all of Seinfeld
  16. Finish watching Lost
  17. Watch the Matrix Trilogy
  18. Read another Steinbeck book
  19. Read Harry Potter Book 1
  20. Read 3 memoirs
  21. Read Catch 22
  22. Go on a backpacking trip
  23. Do “morning minutes” every day for 21 days (where you write for 10 minutes straight first thing upon waking)
  24. Try fruitcake
  25. Complete level 1 of Rosetta Stone for Italian
  26. Try Gin
  27. Learn to play poker

If you’d like to support the Story Project (to cover travel expenses, costs of Stories for those who can’t afford it, etc.) you can do so below or contact me at storyofjoblog@gmail.com if you’d like to send a check. Thank you for your support! 

 To Donate to Stories By Jo: The Story Project click below


Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.

Other places are

instagram: @jrolicious         twitter: @jrohanlon        storyofjoblog@gmail.com

Tuesday, July 14th, 2015 | Author:

It’s a weekend afternoon and I’m sitting out in the front yard, looking at my slack line slung between two trees while I write this.

I was just on it a moment ago. And again several moments before that. And again several moments before that. That’s how slack lining goes for me. I do several attempts to cross its length: Sometimes I make it, sometimes I fall after a step or four or ten. After several rounds of this my balance starts to suffer as my muscles and focus fatigue, so I go sit down and take a short break, and then I go back to it, and so on.

That’s the thing that slack lining has taught me. I put it on my birthday goals list this year to try slack lining before I turned 26. In between writing it down as “try slack lining” and getting the opportunity to try it at my neighbor’s in Denver several months later, I misremembered my goal as “learn how to slack line.”

Before I had ever tried the activity, I thought of those as being pretty much the same goal. Then I thought, like many things, it may just come easily and naturally to me. When I was young we didn’t have much money and I had friends who did gymnastics. I always wanted to do it, too, but we couldn’t afford it. So my dad made a “balance beam” for us kids to do our own gymnastics on. It was a 1×4 board nailed to a base. I learned how to balance really well by the time I ever got to visit the gymnastics gym for a birthday party and walk across their real balance beam. Turns out if you learn to balance on a 1” wide board, you can balance on the 5” balance beam without problems.

But fast forward 20 years and I stepped onto the 1” wide slack line and everything on my body, and the line itself began to shake uncontrollably. I fell off as soon as I let go before I could even take one step. But in my mis-remembrance of my goal, I committed to learning how to do this.

The biggest lesson was learning how to fall. The only time I got slightly injured while slack lining was near the beginning of my learning time, and it was because when I started to fall, I tried to prevent the fall by taking another step. My second foot caught on the wobbling line and I fell body first to the ground, no feet free to land with. I hit hard hurting my tail bone and my hip.

To fall well while slacklining, you have to be aware of yourself. Aware of your balance. Aware of your core muscles and your hands lifted high for balance. You have to be able to assess if you could try to salvage your balance or, if it’s time, to just give in to the fall.

Now that I’ve been doing it for a few months, I’m still not good at slack lining, but I’m great at falling. Each fall is an act of acceptance. Falling is part of it. I step into it now, feeling the fall starting, I just step down into a walking landing. I use my momentum of those exiting steps to direct me back to the end of the line, so that I can hop up and start trying again.

When I first started trying to learn, I would thud down heavy with each fall. Sometimes it would hurt my feet. Sometimes I’d try to stay on the line longer while I fell, not ready to accept defeat for that try. It is with the acceptance of loss, the acceptance of failure that I’ve begun to make headway and begun to spend more time on the line than off of it.

It’s a dance. On the line, falling, salvage it, falling again, I accept it, I take the step off while walking to the beginning and then I’m up, at it again.

It’s become clear to me that success at this activity, and in life, has less to do with how often you fail and fall, and more to do with whether you fall well and continue to head right back to try again.

I’m 25, and after knowing the gut-wrenching ache of loss of the big things in life, I’ve begun to notice that when littler things go wrong, I hold everything very loosely. As my muscles get stronger and I get more focus, I can sometimes salvage the fall, I can sometimes correct in time to stay on the line, I can also see when it’s worth it to just give in to the fall and use the momentum to keep moving forward to try again.

I thought I was learning the art of slack lining, but I’ve learned that failing and falling and persistence are the art.

Success and slack lining are what come as a result of doing the other three well.


 

If you’d like to support the Story Project (to cover travel expenses, costs of Stories for those who can’t afford it, etc.) you can do so below or contact me at storyofjoblog@gmail.com if you’d like to send a check. Thank you for your support! 

 To Donate to Stories By Jo: The Story Project click below


Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.

Other places are

instagram: @jrolicious         twitter: @jrohanlon        storyofjoblog@gmail.com

Tuesday, July 07th, 2015 | Author:

storyofjo Joanna O'Hanlon Mt Quandary Peak, CO

I wanted to climb another 14er. And I wanted to climb it alone.

Colorado calls mountains above 14,000 feet in elevation “14ers” and they have many of them in the state.

The previous fall I had climbed my first — Mt. Bierstadt, 14,060’ at the summit, 2840’ elevation gain from the trailhead, and a 7-ish mile trail. I say “ish” because Kate and I climbed it in the first weekend of Nov. 2013, and snow covered the entire mountain. There were many times where we had no idea where the trail was, let alone if we were near it.

A mountain that normally has thousands of hikers ascending and descending at a time in its summer days sat solitary and snow covered. We saw 6 other hikers on the mountain the entire day.

But we made it to the top, and back down again, despite very serious thoughts from Kate on how I was going to have to cut her frostbitten toes off. And despite the fact that my lips were literally blue by the time we got back to the car, and took about an hour of full-blast heat to get them to purple. All in all though, the trail was manageable for us (because we were in good shape to prepare for it), but the snow had made it difficult.

It had been a year since then and I’d wanted to hike another 14er, but had been told I shouldn’t go by myself. So I’d waited and tried to find times when Kate or someone else could go with me when there wasn’t snow on the roads and wasn’t too much snow on the mountains. But the season winded down and I still hadn’t gone, so I decided I wanted to go it alone.

I’d read “Wild” (which I would highly recommend, both the book and the movie) where she hikes the Pacific Crest Trail alone and it’s a soul journey for her as she works through her grief, through her brokkenness, and does hard things with her body as she processes the hard things of her heart. I’d thought about it and I really wanted that physical hardness to accompany the hard stuff I was wrestling through.

So I decided to climb Quandary Peak, 14,265’ summit, 3450’ elevation gain, and 6.75 mile trail. I thought, OK this mountain looks like it doesn’t have too much snow on it right now (which it didn’t for much of the trail, thankfully), and it looks like a similar kind of climb to Bierstadt, so I should be fine.

I knew I wasn’t in as great of shape as I had been. I’d been running much less since arriving in Colorado and I knew my lungs had still not really adjusted to exercising at the higher altitudes. But I had to have acclimated somewhat, right? And I’m a generally fit person. So I decided one night the next day was it. I packed myself some snacks, some warm clothes (which I didn’t need), and I went.

The parking lot had one other car in it, as it was again, one of, if not the last week of the season. That car had 2 hikers in it that I passed back and forth, leap frogging one another for the first mile or so, and then I said, “I’m gonna sit and take a break,” and they went on ahead. I wanted to be alone.

IMG_2717I saw one other hiker, a woman photographer who I passed about 2/3 of the way up the trail. She was distracted and hanging out photographing these beautiful mountain goats that were right there next to her. She stayed there the entire time it took me to summit and come back down.

Which was a long time. The last mile or so was extremely difficult. The trail up until that point had been fine, I’d even say easy. But the last mile is where you gain the majority of that elevation. Steep rocky step after steep rocky step led to me having to stop for breath every 15 or 20 steps. The last half mile was downright suffocating. That last bit felt like I was just going straight up. At that point I was stopping every 3-5 steps to bend over briefly trying to catch my breath. I hadn’t eaten since leaving the car and my plan was to eat my lunch at the summit, and then eat a snack on the way down.

This part being as difficult as it was, was taxing me though. Thoughts of “I don’t know if I can do this,” started to crawl into my brain as my throat began to feel swollen from all the wheezing I was doing. Soon I began to cough, and my throat went raw. Each breathe was laborious and painful. I finally compromised, I’d stop there where I was, near to the top, and I would eat my lunch there, take a bit of a break, and allow myself to get some energy to get the rest of the way up.

But when I opened my backpack and started rummaging around, I realized there was not a single ounce of food to be found. Before I had left the car I had taken my bag of food out to remove some of the excess warm layers I’d stored in the bag underneath the food. I knew I wouldn’t need those layers, but somehow I’d managed to accidentally not put the food back in.

I was most of the way up a mountain, exhausted, wheezing, starting to shake from hunger and low oxygen, and I didn’t have any food. And like I had set out to be — I was alone. No one was there to offer a part of a power bar or a stick of sugar-filled gum.

Despair and a bit of panic started to rise in my hurting throat. My raw, red nose ran as I was now in the snowy part of the mountain, and my head pounded from the cold. A single tear rolled down my cheek as I thought, “OK. I guess I’m not going to do this.”

I took a couple minutes sitting there on a snowy rock, watching a couple of mountain goats on a ridge farther down, and decided I’d at least take in the view before admitting defeat and beginning my shaky decent.

But somewhere in those moments, I started to think of the hard life journey I’d been on over the past 2 years. About the nights where breathing under the weight of grief was harder even than it was now. When I was alone for days on end, feeling shaky. Feeling dizzy. Feeling defeated. And I thought about the long, hard, arduous task of pulling myself out of the hole of brokenness and starting to rebuild. And how much of that — most of that — I had had to do alone.

And I looked up at the rest of that mountain, all the way to the summit, and I said out loud, “I have done harder things alone than this. I can handle a little mountain.”

Which was probably not wise. Emotionally, it was true. I had handled harder. But I may have been a little more driven than I ought to have been.

Either way though, I found a piece of sugarless gum and hoped maybe it would trick my mind into thinking that it was some sort of food and have it summon some energy. I took one treacherous step after another. By the end of the ascent I was taking a short pause after every single step to breathe. And then All of the sudden, I was there. At the top of the mountain. It was done.

It was also freezing, and my body was still wanting to shut down, so I only stayed a few moments. There was nowhere un-snowed-on to sit, so I crouched for a minute by the summit placard, I looked around at the 360 degree view, and let my breath finally, finally catch up with me, and then I did what you have to do in life — I got up, took another deep breath (as deep as I could) and I put one shaking step after another and started walking again.

The way down the mountain was much easier, but still not easy. I ended up rolling my ankle on a large rock and spraining it pretty badly about a half a mile down. That slowed me quite a bit.

By the time I had gotten back to the car, I was down at a warmer elevation and had been moving briskly enough that I was hot. I got to the car and stripped down to nothing and just sat there for a second. No one else was nearby and the one other car in the parking from earlier had left already. I took a drink of water. I ate a bite of salami. And then I redressed in fresh clothes I had brought along.

I was still shaking, but I felt good. My body had caught up to my heart, and together, they had proved that I somehow, deep down in the places you don’t want to have to summon strength, I have the strength to do hard things alone.

People may pass you or leap frog with you on the journey. They may even walk with you for a while. But there are some paths in life that you are forced to walk alone. It is those paths that reveal our deep guttural reserves of strength and resilience.

Should I have climbed that mountain alone? Maybe not. Was I in good enough shape and prepared for it? Definitely not.

Physically, nothing had changed, other than my throat being sore and having to cough often for a few days after. I walked with a slight limp for about a week. But it got my heart and my body back on the same, resilient page. It changed me. It reminded me that when I have to, I can climb the hard mountains of life, even if I have to do it alone.

Jo O'Hanlon storyofjo.com


If you’d like to support the Story Project (to cover travel expenses, costs of Stories for those who can’t afford it, etc.) you can do so below or contact me at storyofjoblog@gmail.com if you’d like to send a check. Thank you for your support! 

 To Donate to Stories By Jo: The Story Project click below


Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.

Other places are

instagram: @jrolicious         twitter: @jrohanlon        storyofjoblog@gmail.com

Tuesday, January 13th, 2015 | Author:

I have a tattoo that you don’t know about.

It is on the bottom of my foot, so you only see it if I am barefooted and have my feet up with the soles facing you.

But I sit barefooted with my legs crossed often, so it’s often visible to me, an important reminder:

“enough”

Simple word. Weird spelling. We use it in mostly negative or neutral ways. It’s hardly ever a positive thing when we breath it.

“I wasn’t driving slow enough.”

“I didn’t realize soon enough.”

“I didn’t tell her I loved her enough.”

“I’m not thin enough.”

“I’m not healthy enough.”

“I don’t have enough money.”

Often we use it in ways that connote that there could be more, but we’ll settle for this.

“I guess that’s good enough,” When we just want to be done.

“No, that’s fine, that’s enough,” when we’re conceding half-heartedly, like a bartering salesman over some agreement.

Or maybe you heard it a lot as a child when your mother/babysitter/teacher was so annoyed she couldn’t take another minute of your playing/fighting/arguing/crying: “Enough!” they would yell.

But the word, it’s real meaning, lends itself to the idea of being content. Which is not a thing we’re taught to want or seek. To just have enough sounds like settling, like you’re too lazy to go for more. Too apathetic to get the things ambition could earn you.

And it causes this “not enough” complex in us. Come time for New Year’s resolutions, they take that tone, too. I’m not skinny enough – so I will work out more. I’m not healthy enough, so I’ll eat better. I don’t read enough – I’ll read more. I don’t have enough money — I will save more. My life isn’t exciting enough – I will travel more.

But too often at the root of all of those thoughts and great goals is an ugly belief that I think the majority of us have learned to hold close to the chest, like a security blanket that chokes out the light of possible contentment — I am not enough.

Not good enough, thin enough, pretty enough, fast enough, strong enough, rich enough, powerful enough, friendly enough, sexy enough, funny enough, spiritual enough, important enough.

We have the gluttonous mentality that always wants “more.”  There’s always some way we could and should have more or be more. Which in all honesty, is true. There’s a world out there, and it could be your oyster. But what I’m finding is that the people I know who are happy are content. The people that I know who are successful are ambitious.

But the people who are both successful and happy — those people have learned something that doesn’t seem to come naturally: How to be content with what you have, yet still imagine that more might be attainable. It’s not the same relentless, never-ending drive that compels them. It’s curiosity, determination, true drive, not need.

The desire to better themselves is not based in a need to do so to feel valuable. It’s not because they’re not “enough” already. It’s the ambition that says “I could do even more,” not, “I have to do more.”

So if no one has ever told you let me do so now: You are enough.

The very fact that you’re alive and being, that means you’re enough. If you have goals to be more ______, by all means go for them! The problem is, many of us chase those goals out of a desire to feel more valuable as a human being at the end of the day, and that will always leave us dissatisfied.

When you start to finally forgive yourself for the ways you’ve claimed you’ve fallen short, and you start to believe that you are enough just as you are, you can begin to find contentment. It’s one of the most elusive currencies in our society. Contentment can drive you to want to better yourself without feeling like you’re not enough as you are.

Being content starts with accepting yourself, and being more than OK with what you have. I’m on a journey to strip the stigma from the word in my life.

“enough”

It sits there on the arch of my foot as a reminder: I am enough. You are enough. You are valuable, beautiful, loved. It says we’re valuable, just because we are.

Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.

Other places are

instagram: @jrolicious         twitter: @jrohanlon

storyofjoblog@gmail.com
Tuesday, September 30th, 2014 | Author:

Tackling Myths & Cliches: Whatever Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger

50 MPH speed limit. That seems fast for this road. But OK. I’ll go 50.

Shoot this hill is long. I hear my dad’s mantra: “Don’t ride your breaks. They’ll burn out.” Ok, I’ll keep it near 50. 53. 54. 55. 54. 53. 54.

Green lights all the way.

Intersection.

Large truck turning into our path. Going fast. Too fast. We’re going fast.

Break. Break! BREAK! My foot can’t move that fast.

This is it. We’re going to die.

I see the panic on the blond girl’s face through the passenger side window of the truck.

My world goes black as I hear the deafening sound of metal colliding.

Silence. I am gone.

I come to in a car filled with airbag dust. I look, horrified at the passenger seat. What will I find there?

I see Kate. Her eyes like deer in headlights. Staring at me. Alive. Conscious. In shock.

I see smoke starting to fill the car. More and more. I’m still looking into Kate’s wide eyes. She does not blink.

I look around at the smoke, and back to her. “GET OUT! GET OUT OF THE CAR NOW!” I order her. Movie scenes of cars exploding in flame race through my mind. No.

“GET OUT OF THE CAR!” I say again.

Our doors open. I step out of the car and struggle to stand. Something is wrong with my foot. I hobble to the median of the broad intersection. It is at Kate’s side of the car. She is there already.

I slump down. People flood to our sides. Are we OK?

What’s my name?

Who can we call?

I don’t know. We don’t live here.

Where are my shoes? I get up to walk. Can’t. You, fireman. Can you find my shoes? Where is my phone? Can you find my phone?

Ambulance. Kate and I laugh lots of shocky laughs that make us cry out from the pain of moving. Emergency Room. Exams. Long, painful night.

Two years ago I was in a head on collision at around 50 MPH. I broke my foot, and suffered what we later learned to be a concussion which began giving me daily migraines.

My foot healed within 8 weeks. My migraines, though I have made MUCH progress, still punctuate my life several times a month.

It is one of only two times that I was certain that was it, that I was going to die.

But we didn’t.

__________________________________________________________

Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Right?

No. I don’t accept that. That’s BS.

After my sister died, after my car accident, after my life imploded, after I moved because of a bad living situation — people told me I was so strong. And I’m starting to see that they were right. But I thought that they were saying these things were making me strong (some did say that). And deep down I knew that wasn’t true. These things, they were testing me, sometimes they threatened to destroy me. They weren’t making me strong. I was strong through them, not because of them. Those life obstacles were revealing to me the depth of strength that I had to find to survive those times, but they were devastating me in the process.

Pain doesn’t make you strong. It reveals your strength. You don’t actually need the painful things of life to be strong. But sometimes you don’t realize how strong you are without them. It’s the revealing that has value.

We should be honest that pain sucks. Bad things suck. That there are things that we wish we never had to live through.

It’s not about the positive spin. It’s about the true revealing of who we are so that we can go forward as the person we want to be or become.

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photo credit: mcandrea via photopin cc


But whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger is false.

The first person to ever run the distance of a marathon was actually running to the city of Marathon from the battle field to tell that the battle had been won. He ran the whole way, and the myth says that he died immediately after delivering the message.

Many strong people run marathons all the time now, but marathons don’t make you strong. Actually they temporarily damage your body, having pushed it so far. But they reveal the strength you’ve built up in training.

In the wake of the things that are destroying you, it is OK to not feel strong.

Sometimes, the strength that is revealed doesn’t feel like strength, it feels like taking one ragged breathe, one faltering step at a time, one after the other. And we slowly move forward. We slowly discover how much strength there is in us. And undoubtedly, we all have times where we feel too weak to carry on, and we have to sit down and take a break, or sometimes collapse and weep. But then we discover that we might have another morsel of strength. So we continue.

That is the true strength that is revealed when we think we might just die.

Marathon runners make it to the finish line, and their body takes a toll.

Broken bones, when re-healed, still ache sometimes, even years later. Strong people walk through the ache. But when they walked without ache, they were just as strong.

Our lives would be better without conflict. But the conflict reveals us to ourselves. And when we live as revealed people, we use the strength we’ve always had more fully.

Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.

Other places are

instagram: @jrolicious         twitter: @jrohanlon

storyofjoblog@gmail.com
Wednesday, May 07th, 2014 | Author:

Ask for what you need.


That was a mantra repeated again and again at Onsite when I was there a year ago this week.

Onsite is an intensive therapy workshop in Tennessee, and it was the setting for the most significant week of my life to date. I heard about it first from Donald Miller at the Storyline Conference (he also mentions it in the Storyline book).

“My assistant has been with me for 10 years, and Onsite was such a significant experience for me that she refers to me as pre-Onsite and post-Onsite,” Don said. “I didn’t even know how broken I was until I went and started to look at what it would be to get healed.”


I was in a place where I thought I knew exactly how broken I was — decimated was a term i used a lot. Turns out, I didn’t even know the depth of the broken places.


This small place in the country in Tennessee became holy ground for me as I waded through the most painful pieces of my life. As I grieved. As I found acceptance for truths I couldn’t see or stomach previously.


But, though it wasn’t the main theme of the week by any means, the underlying words that were breathed again and again just for the health and safety of everyone were, “Ask for what you need.”


And this has been a revolutionary thought, not just for me, but for me to articulate with the people I do life with.


It’s come out in my nuclear family’s dynamics. In my friendships. In my jobs.


I ask for what I need up front, instead of waiting until later when my needs haven’t been met to address it. And I encourage others to do the same.


Sometimes it’s about the temperature of the air conditioner in the car.

Sometimes it’s about expectations about traveling with a friend. Sometimes it’s “I need to share my story with you,” or “I need for you to not put a positive spin on everything.” Or sometimes, it’s the really painful stuff: “I need you out of my life,” or “I need you to be there for me in ways that you haven’t ever been there before.”


What happens is that those conversations change from being painful or awkward confrontations where someone has been let down, to being pre-emptive and healthy, and direct. (Because our relationships continue from places of hurt and dissapointment, though, there may still be some pain in these conversations. But as you practice this more, the points of pain decrease in frequency in my experience.)


The trick is, to do so, you have to know what you need. It takes self-examination, and taking the responsibility on yourself to know your needs, instead of expecting others to fulfill the needs that you may not have even been able to articulate to yourself.


I’m sure I’ll write more about Onsite throughout the months and years to come as it was so formational for me. But this week, as I am one year out, this is something that came to mind and into my conversations last night, and it’s been a part of my new rhythm of life in this past year.


It’s not easy to examine myself and figure out what I need, but it’s healthy, and it helps me have more realistic expectations of other people, and helps me communicate my needs directly. Sometimes, I can say “I need ___” and the person knows right there and then that they’re not going to be able to meet that need. And while that may be hard/sad/disappointing, it’s healthy. It gives us all the freedom to say what we need, and say what we can offer to others before the hurt and disappointments leaving us feeling in a lurch.


So the question is: What do you need?


Once you practice knowing your needs, practice asking for them. It may be intimidating for us at first, but I have seen significant amounts of health flourish into my relationships as we’ve started to use this honest, self-responsible, direct approach.  I invite you to try it, too. Feel free to share your thoughts/questions/and stories of how it goes.


If you’re interested in Onsite, I cannot say enough about the impact it had on my journey. If you feel stuck, or at rock bottom, or hopeless, or you just are interested in being the healthiest version of you, I would personally recommend their workshops. They have a variety of types and lengths of workshops. I was told before hand by a therapist not affiliated with them that it would be like a year or two of therapy in a week. For me, it was. https://www.onsiteworkshops.com/

Joanna O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.

Other places are

instagram: @jrolicious         twitter: @jrohanlon

storyofjoblog@gmail.com

Wednesday, January 29th, 2014 | Author:

“Walking in the light” — When I was supposed to be running at Crossfit

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I was on lap 15 around the track at crossfit last night at the end of our workout (don’t be impressed… these are small laps, 1/6 of a mile each) when I noticed something happen in me.

I was running at the moment, but lots of people were walking at all different points on the track, which I had just been doing, too.  Our trainer yelled across the dark parking lot, “Come on!  Stop walking!  Stop Cheating!  I can see you… you’re not hiding!”

I had fallen into the pattern on the last couple laps of running 3/4 of the lap and then walking around the the last bend (which was the darkest portion of the parking lot and most hidden from view from Troy, the trainer). After he yelled the comment about “I can see you” which wasn’t directed toward me, something happened inside of me without me even being conscious of it.

As I approached the last bend where I’d normally walk, I slowed to a walk for 3 steps to get a few deep breaths, and then I kept running until I was in the light, right in front of Troy. Then began to walk until I hit the next bend where it was dark — then I’d run again.  I kept that pattern for the last 4 laps I had to run.

At first, as I noticed it, I wondered, “what is this… am I being obstinate?” That is like me normally, but in Crossfit, I have a very different personality:  I am not very competitive, I don’t question or challenge, I just do as I’m told. So this seeming streak of obstinance was odd.  And I didn’t feel like I was doing it just to be stubborn. I just needed to walk a few steps each lap.

Then I realized…

I’m an open person. The people close to me know more about me than they may want to know. Believe me. (Ask them about the last time I had the stomach flu… they all know the gross, embarrassing details.) I don’t really keep secrets.  I am independent and I like to not feel tied down or trapped, but I am open and honest

The thing is, I had this one secret that no one knew. I wish I had told it, but I didn’t and the secret got out anyway. It ruined, shattered, decimated my life and the lives of many, many others.  The damage is still very much a part of everyday life for many of us that are left sorting through the ruins, trying to rebuild.  The damage is so much worse because it was a secret for so long.

I made a commitment after that to have no more secrets.  If I’m doing something right, if I’m doing something wrong but don’t want to change it… it doesn’t matter, but I want to be honest about it. It’s a self-protection thing as much as it is an integrity thing. And it’s a practice that I had in place in my life for the most part already, but now I have a knee-jerk reaction against secrecy or the indication of secrecy.

So, put that onto a track in a dark parking lot where we’re supposed to run a 5k after our crossfit workout, and you get me, deliberately walking in the lighted areas where I can be sure that our trainer can see me.

So that’s what I’m trying to do these days: to not pretend to be anything but what I am. In the good ways and the bad ways.

And I believe there’s value in that. I believe it’s even Biblical for those of us of a Christian faith: “But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus, his Son, purifies us from all sin” (1 John 1:7).

When we walk in the light, we can have fellowship — which means we can be real, be known, and be encouraging to one another.

I’m sure part of it had to do with me being new, too, but Troy never did yell at me for walking when I did. It would be silly to yell, “I can see you” when I was standing in front of him. Instead, he was able to speak words of encouragement at a normal decibal, “Come on, a few more laps, you can make it, good job.”

Joanna O’Hanlon is an adventurer and story-teller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.  Other places are

instagram: jrolicious       twitter: jrohanlon

storyofjoblog@gmail.com

photo credit: Thomas Hawk via photopin cc

Wednesday, January 22nd, 2014 | Author:

So I started Crossfit again last night.

I haven’t done Crossfit in a year and a half.  I stopped in July 2012 because of a car crash resulting in some medical difficulties that have landed me on a nasty drug called a beta blocker. Basically the beta blocker restricts your heart rate and blood pressure (which, I already have really low blood pressure). the downfall to that is that even when I exercise, my heart rate never really goes about 90. That sounds like I’m super healthy, but I’m not.  It just means that not enough blood gets to my brain, and thus not enough oxygen, and I start to get really light headed and the best part — my vision goes — sometimes it just gets blurry, but on the rare occasion, it goes totally black.

I broke my foot in the car accident too, which was the initial immediate reason I had to break from crossfit until it healed.   When my foot had healed, I tried to go on what I thought was going to be a good, pretty moderate run for having been inactive for 2 months. So I ran around my block.  2 miles. Flat. Middle of the day. Safe place to start, I thought.

I got almost to the end of the loop, I was about to turn the corner back onto my street when it happened: my vision went really blurry for about 4 seconds, and then I couldn’t see anything. Pitch black. I was still conscious, but not feeling steady, so I sat down on the side of the street and breathed with my head between my knees, waiting to be able to see anything. After a few minutes, I could see light again, and then I could see — it was extremely blurry, like when you wear the drunk glasses that distort everything — but I could see.  I stumbled home, opened my door, and then laid down across my threshold with the door to my apartment open so that if I passed out, someone would be able to see and get to me (the downside to living alone). I laid there like that just concentrating on breathing for about a half hour until my vision finally returned to normal. Luckily, I lived in a bad neighborhood down the street from the jail, so someone passed out like that didn’t seem out of the ordinary.

That’s when I first realized, though, what a challenge this new life on this new drug was going to be like if I wanted to stay healthy.

Starting a year ago, I began running regularly, which I had never done or enjoyed before.  When I was in Crossfit before, the running was always my least favorite, and most strugglesome part of any work out. Ask my trainer — he’ll tell you.

I’m still not a fast runner, and I don’t really pace myself, but I know how to breathe now, and I’ve been consistent about working on my progress. It’s easier to remember to be intentional about my breathing now, too, since my vision gets real blurry real quick if I don’t. Silver-lining.

I actually have seriously lagged in the health department since November (I reached one of my before-my-25th-birthday goals of climbing my first 14,000 foot mountain in November, and then I slumped). Just last week I started running again. And I could tell I had lost a lot of ground in those couple months off.

But when I went to crossfit last night, and the trainer said “OK. Run 1 mile for your warm up,” I went and I did it, and I almost ran the whole thing without walking, which is a big deal for me in the overall non-running scheme of my life.  (Due to the vegetable curry I had for lunch, I did have to walk a few steps 2 times to slow things down and make sure I didn’t become “THAT girl” on my first day.)  While I SUCKED at the rest of the work out, I walked out and I thought: You know, I can’t move my arms… but I ran a mile warm-up with no trouble at all. I would’ve huffed and puffed the whole way through that (and walked a lot) the last time I was in Crossfit.

It  was embarrassing how much I struggled with EVERY SINGLE pushup I was supposed to do. I quickly got to the point where my arms literally could not do more (I had to roll over and sit up in order to stand up for the next exercise).

It was pretty funny/sad that the trainer finally capped my work out when he had to go home (I believe he said it was at 1hr20min from when I started).

But while all that is true, I still can see that I have made fitness progress in the past year, and I’ve found ways around the effects of a drug that many people report becoming extremely depressed, lethargic, and overweight when they’re on it.

And actually, while I’m sore today, I feel better than I ever have before when I’ve gone back to crossfit after a break (even like a 2 week vacation). And I’m looking forward to the progress that is yet to come.

I did, however, have a comically difficult time trying to raise my arms to wash my hair in the shower last night, but you win some you lose some.

Joanna O’Hanlon is an adventurer and story-teller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.  Other places are

instagram: jrolicious       twitter: jrohanlon

storyofjoblog@gmail.com