“Were you kind to yourself during the race?” Colleen, my pain reprocessing coach, asks.
I gag.
“Is there another word that resonates better?”
“Maybe ‘not being an asshole to myself’?” I say.
She laughs. I laugh. We’re silent.
I’m perfectly content with being an asshole to myself. Why? It’s probably how I was raised. I’ve always thought that if I didn’t talk to myself like a drill sergeant, I’d get lazy.
I’d half-ass things. I wouldn’t get A’s or nail The Vagina Monologues script. It meant not forcing myself through intervals, exacerbating my head pain, or pushing myself to get to the finish line first.
Being an asshole to myself got me pretty damn good results.
It was also destroying my mental health.
If I talked to others like I do to myself, I’d have no friends. If I talked to a child like I do to myself, that kid’s self-esteem would be abysmal.
I read a post the other day that said something along the lines of, “If being mean to yourself worked, it would have by now.” I felt seen and attacked. I mean, forcing myself to finish my workout when my head was pounding meant I completed a session, which made me stronger for races. Telling myself to “get over it” when I didn’t feel great lining up for an event? I at least showed up to the starting line. Berating myself with “Jesus fucking Christ,” and “fuck, I suck at tech!” When I couldn’t get over technical sections, it pushed me to pedal faster once I crawled over the parts that held me up. Telling myself, “I’m slow. Why the fuck am I so slow?” when I come in second place in a grueling race pushes me to work harder in training so I won’t be second next year.
I thought that by being a dick to myself, it kept me working hard. But being kind to myself? Yuck.
Get your hippie, woo-woo, self-cheerleader, raw-raw-raw off my fucking lawn!
Self-Compassion and Neuroplastic Pain
So why is a pain reprocessing coach trying to teach me to be kind to myself? Because self-compassion can help eliminate neuroplastic pain.
I’ll back up a bit.
What the fuck is neuroplastic pain? Neuroplastic pain is a type of chronic pain where the brain misinterprets signals as painful. It’s kind of like your brain can’t quite tell what signals are good, neutral, or bad, and just sort of defaults into thinking that even safe messages from the body are a kind of threat, and therefore, creates pain because pain is a danger signal.
So, I’ve been exploring pain reprocessing therapy because I’ve had chronic migraine headaches since I was 16 – twenty years ago. I’ve likely tried every single thing, tool, drug, etc., you’d suggest. This seemed very woo-woo to me, this pain reprocessing therapy bit, but I’ve gotten to the point where I’ll try anything.
Funny enough, having compassion for myself is more challenging than getting Botox injections in my head, across my forehead, along my temples and my jaw, or occipital nerve blocks, or dry needling in my temples. I will take physical pain before I offer any sort of kindness or compassion for myself.
The Connection Between Self-Talk and Pain
Okay, but how does self-compassion help reduce or eliminate pain? And what does this have to do with bike racing? Well, when someone’s nice, respectful, and encouraging toward you, you feel pretty good. You smile, laugh, and feel warm and fuzzy inside. When someone’s a prick to you, your defenses come up. You’re stressed. Your fight-or-flight kicks in. You feel hot. Tense.
Constantly being a dick to myself keeps my body tense, and it’s on high alert for any dangers. My brain thinks these self-flagellations are dangerous, resulting in pain.
I’m probably the meanest to myself during competition. I worry that if I’m kind or compassionate, I’ll slow down and treat it like a joyride. It’s like I fear that if I’m okay with myself getting passed by a competitor, I’ll lose the spark that gets me on the podium. Or if I’m nice to myself, like “It’s okay, you didn’t get over that feature. Keep it up, buddy,” I’ll lose my competitive edge. I worry that if I’m compassionate with myself, I will slow down and not win, and not winning to me is damn near shameful. (Okay, I’m working on that with my therapist—my other therapist.)
Shifting the Narrative
I start worrying about the results and my performance days in advance of a race, pushing my pain higher and higher. This level of negative self-talk bleeds into other areas of my life, too. Getting angry with myself if I’m not perfect, if I make one mistake at work, I assume I’ll get fired. If I feel like I wasn’t good company, I worry I’ll lose friends. I’m in a constant state of anxiety. And yes, I’ve tried many-a-meds for this too.
After bike races, my head pain is raging, and I still haven’t figured out how to prevent migraine attacks after hard efforts. But I’m learning to be nicer to myself when I do have them, like telling myself it’s okay that I have pain right now; that I’m not in danger and that I will keep myself say. I massage my neck. I meditate. I focus on a neutral spot on my body that doesn’t feel anything to distract from the pain.
I told Colleen about the Growler Race and how I struggled to get over tech features and feeling like I was going so slow. And—this was a big step—I decided not to scold myself, but to stick to the facts instead.
When I didn’t have the energy to push over a giant rock, I told myself, “You don’t have to get over every feature. Just keep moving forward.”
When men asked to pass me, instead of calling myself slow and doubting my worth as an athlete, I said to myself, “You’re not racing against them. It’s fine.”
When I came in 15 minutes behind first place, I wanted to yell at myself, call myself a fucking joke for thinking I could compete in a race that packages all of my weaknesses into one course. I stuck with the facts:
- Two years ago, I crashed.
- Two years ago, I came in 10th place.
- I’m still working on technical terrain, and other racers will have that skill that I don’t.
- I don’t even like the course, so why am I putting all this energy into making myself feel bad for not coming in first?
I’m not at a place yet where I can show myself kindness. It still feels very much like I am being too lenient with myself. Too fake. But I also know there’s a part of me that desperately longs for compassion, to hear that I’m doing a fucking fantastic job racing with chronic pain, TBI, anxiety, depression, chronic fatigue, and fucking asthma. I want to pat myself on the back and be proud of myself for being encouraging, even if I don’t get over every technical feature, and to treat my body lovingly (and it grosses me out saying “lovingly”) after I put it through hell, just like I would for a friend.
And maybe with enough self-compassion, I can turn down the danger signals and finally reduce my pain, or better yet, be pain-free.
A Call for Kindness
I share this with you, dear reader, dear listener, because just like conquering technical features, being kind to yourself when you’ve always been a dick takes time, practice, and patience. Don’t beat yourself up over your finishing results or a feature you couldn’t get over. Don’t criticize yourself when you make a mistake. Don’t apologize for being slow or taking up space on the trail.
And for those of us who can’t get there yet, be kind to yourself before, during, and after you race your guts out.