[rawr]

[/rawr]

To experience this piece, begin by playing the podcast.

Once you’ve started playing the podcast, click the image below to launch the slideshow. The podcast will guide you through advancing the images to experience the ride yourself.

[mediagrid cat=”20396″]

For years, a debilitating autoimmune disease has controlled the way I live my life. In high school, when it was at its worst, I was on “home hospital” for six months of senior year. Walking across a room unassisted was strenuous. My fatigue dominated my life and my choices. However, with the utmost precaution for balance and a healthy lifestyle, I’ve been able to achieve my goals in college and maintain relative health. It’s an accomplishment I don’t take lightly.

I don’t pity myself and have never asked anyone else to either. Pain and physical ailments have taught me resilience. By detaching my ideals for happiness from my body, I found freedom in my confinement. My happiness is in love and learning. I have discovered that I can do both of those things from a couch if I must. Most importantly, pain has taught me gratitude. The days that I walk the city pain-free make me feel like I’m flying. Even on the bad days, I am in awe of all the things my body can do.

Years ago, I made peace with that fact that I would never accomplish anything physically outstanding. I would never know what it feels like to score the winning goal or complete a triathlon. My goals were much smaller than that. My accomplishments were going dancing on Friday night or enduring a sleepless night to finish a paper.

This last year, I’ve been doing better than ever. I haven’t missed a class or a day of work due to ill health. Even though I knew I was turning a corner, my self-concept remained unchanged.

In my head, I’ll always be the sick kid. However, the events of this day challenged those beliefs.

On Sunday, I biked the route of the Boston Marathon.

My two best friends planned the outing, and I told them I’d tag along. I only got a bike one week ago, and I was planning on biking 10 miles or so and then bailing on the Commuter Rail. I just wanted to enjoy a sunny day. I never thought finishing this marathon was in the realm of possibilities for me.

However, there was something deep inside me that wondered, “What if I finished it? Could I even do that?”

Ten miles in, I felt pretty good. So I kept going. One mile-marker after another passed. It was painful, but I was capable. We had to reroute a bit to avoid highways and ended up biking 30 miles before we got to Heartbreak Hill. I was truly reaching exhaustion by this point, and my legs hurt like hell. I struggled to peddle, taking each breath one moment at a time.

At the peak of the hill, I saw my first glimpse of the city.

I burst into tears. Exhaustion and joy overtook me. My friends and I stopped and absorbed the moment. My sense of self was reawakened. I realized how much of my identity had been buried in my handicap all these years. My illness had become me.

At the top of Heartbreak Hill, I reclaimed my healing body and discovered I could do the impossible.

The last five miles to the finish line flew by. I had a surge of energy and empowerment. Crossing the finish line was one of the most surreal experiences of my life.

What started as an innocent bike ride turned into a life-changing experience.

On Sunday, I biked 35 miles.

Tomorrow, I can do absolutely anything.