Together AND Alone: A Paradox

At the beginning of my second marriage, I had a profound revelation. It came to me during a soaking Northwest rainstorm on a June morning. My new husband, Bill, and I had driven into Canada to participate in a half marathon in the beautiful city of Vancouver. Because we were newlyweds (and in spite of the fact that we'd both experienced a great deal of disillusionment through our respective divorces), my beloved and I were idealistic and determined to forge a life of harmonic tranquility. And to that end we'd concocted a plan to run races (mostly marathons) together—all around the world. Hand in hand, we believed would take on the marathon of life, keeping pace with one another peacefully and cohesively.

But that dreary, drizzling morning, I was about to become disenchanted with our ideal and at the same time learn a principle that has served me very well both in my marriage and in all my other relationships. As the starting gun sounded and we began the first mile of the course, the rain, which had been beating down since we'd left our home two hours earlier, pounded impossibly harder. It came upon us with resolve, and the wind blew steadier with each passing minute until we were being pelted with a sideways stream of relentless cold and wet.

We tried to buck up and keep a good attitude (at least I did) as we forged forward one soggy step at a time, but the chillier and more drenched we became, the harder it was to stay happy. My new husband, chilled to the bone, began to feel a reasonable urgency to pick up his pace and finish the race as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, being smaller and less athletic, I could go no faster. I struggled beside him as he became disgruntled and I felt ever more inadequate.

I shall only relate that a nasty argument ensued, the maddening details of which I shall spare the reader. But suffice it to say that by the end of the 13.1 miles, this runner was seriously questioning the bliss of her new relationship. I was soaked and sad as we crossed the finish line even though, true to our promise to one another, we were together as we puttered through the final yards of the race.

On the drive home, I struggled with my troubled thoughts, despairing of our ability to jog through life in tandem. Then I had my epiphany. We shouldn't do it! Bill and I were not meant to run together. We were different kinds of runners with vastly different paces and goals. Furthermore, running separately would not only NOT ruin our relationship, it would improve it. We could participate in running events alone and meet up at the end to swap stories. This way I could go at my own slow pace without apologizing for who I was, and he could race comfortably and feel he was doing his best. Bill agreed. This was a better plan.

So often, we insist others must be like us—fully be "with" us—in order to experience connection and solidarity. But this is nonsense, isn't it? Especially as we navigate midlife and find ourselves evaluating how we've done so far at living out our authentic dreams and values, there can be a great freedom in realizing we've got enough drive, fortitude, patience, or grace to go it alone (whatever "it" is for you). You can certainly appreciate support from your loved ones for both your grief and your victories, but the internal journey is yours alone. No one else is in there with you, after all. Just as no one else can complete a race for me, no one but you can fully/totally/absolutely share your internal life. This can be a sad but liberating realization!

Somehow, embracing the paradox I call "living together AND alone" frees us from seeking approval and then being shattered when it isn't perfectly forthcoming. Instead of looking for approval and enmeshment, we can learn respect for differences and experience healthy autonomy (I'm not saying it's easy, just important).

What is looming ahead for you? Is it seeing your child off to college? Is it a new job? A divorce? A diagnosis that scares the hell out of you? If you knew you could do it your own messy (or slow) way without apologizing for your inadequacies and still connect with important others for support, encouragement, and even deep understanding, would that free you up to move forward with more abandon? Would it give you permission to find your own groove while still admiring someone else's way of being or doing?

Just something to think about.