TOO MUCH

“You don’t understand.”

When I say that, please know: It’s not a criticism of you … it’s an admission by me.
I’m too afraid to tell you every thought spiraling in my head.

There are parts of my life where I document everything to the point that what I’m requesting is explicit. Keith’s case belongs in that category.

There are relationships in my life where it’s been harder to be direct. Transparent. Clear about what I need and want.

And there are projects in my life that are hybrids — creative ambitions made deeply personal because I’ve invested years of volunteer effort into them, sometimes at the expense of my family.

I don’t complain about problems unless I’m willing to help fix them. That’s how I operate. I’m action-oriented. I like to get things done. I value honesty above almost anything else, and when I believe in something deeply, it’s hard for me to pretend I don’t care. I’m also better at writing than talking, which means my thoughts often arrive as essays instead of conversations.

I either send too many long emails filtered by AI to remove all emotion (Keith’s case) or I send vulnerable and honest emails that explain my unfiltered motivations.

I can’t win.

It’s something my husband says to me a lot. He doesn't know what to say when I’m in distress. It’s always the wrong thing.

That’s what my brain says to me when I’m spiraling:

“Nothing I say will be right.”

At some point, I realized the entire situation with Grafton could have been resolved in four emails. I ended up writing a separate piece documenting that — not because I enjoy reliving it, but because the disconnect between the simplicity of the request and the complexity that followed made me question myself constantly.

So when I finally spoke on the phone with Grafton’s lawyer and he said I was being unclear or confusing, I lost my composure.

I raised my voice. He accused me of yelling, though I would argue I was still holding my true feelings back.

After I got off the phone, I felt gaslighted. He made me genuinely question whether I had sent contradictory emails. So I reread them. Again. And again.

And the truth was: my requests evolved because the circumstances evolved. My original request was larger. Once I realized the shipment itself had become the obstacle, I reduced my request to the smallest and most defensible version possible because I wanted this to end.

All of this finally overflowed on Tuesday … exactly 10 weeks since the day I had to call my husband to tell him his brother was dead.

I didn’t have AI strip out my emotions that day. For the first time in nearly two months, I wrote exactly what I was thinking and feeling.

I wanted this to end today. I’d accept the most limited request of sentimental items, but I was not going to pay for shipment.

“You operate differently than most people — more honest, more direct, more invested — and that is both why people value you and why you get hurt when others don’t meet that same standard.”  --a wise friend 

I am too much.

I’m detailed. It’s too much.
I’m emotional. It’s too much.
I’m persistent. It’s too much.
I’m passionate. It’s too much.

I’m strong. It hurts.

And maybe the hardest part is how often people try to separate me from the things I care about most.

“Don’t take this personally.”
“It’s not personal.”

Andy said it on the phone during the Grafton situation. Someone else said it face-to-face during a conversation about the Charlottesville Ten Miler and what I kept referring to as my “legacy” with the race. 

I understand why people say those things. Institutions need boundaries. Organizations need governance. Lawyers need emotional distance.

But some things are personal.

Calling my husband to tell him his brother was dead was personal.

Spending nearly two decades helping shape the visual identity of a race that became intertwined with my life in Charlottesville is personal.

That doesn’t mean I think I own those things. It means I care about them deeply.

I recognize myself in characters whose urgency is treated like a problem. People who can’t stop trying to protect the things they love.

Maybe that’s why Mabel from the movie “Hoppers” resonates so much with me.

It doesn’t feel like a coincidence that I saw that movie with my twin sister immediately after the Charlottesville Ten Miler.

At the time I didn’t know if we laughed so hard because it was legitimately hysterical or because we were desperate for a laugh.

I watched “Hoppers” again this past weekend with my son. It is that funny, but it’s more than that.

Mabel’s determination to save her nature preserve resonates with my need to preserve a part of Keith … and maybe with my need to leave a part of myself behind in the place I’ve called home for 22 years.

Runleahruncville.

It’s been my Facebook username for years. Running and Charlottesville have been intertwined with my identity since 2007 when I ran my first race in nearly 15 years.
I became involved with the local running community when I found myself quietly complaining that race results weren’t posted quickly enough and registering for training programs wasn’t online.

Those were problems I fixed by becoming involved. By volunteering. By becoming personally invested. 

At times, some may experience my efforts as overstepping. I see it as stewardship.
When I noticed the SSL problem on the Ten Miler website, I immediately felt compelled to fix it. That is my nature. I see a problem and I want to help solve it, especially when it’s difficult.

The irony of trying to secure the C10M website only to make my role with the race feel insecure is not lost on me. I don’t even know if that’s irony exactly, but it sucks.
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The only way I know how to solve a problem like this is to work through it. 

Literally.

I’ve spent hours updating a presentation on my vision for improved branding and other ideas for the race.

I never did the work for public accolades. I felt compelled to do it because if it mattered deeply to me, maybe my contributions could be useful to someone else too.

When you dedicate nearly 20 years of your life to something, it’s hard not to think of it as part of your legacy.

The key word is part.

My work within the running community — logos, race branding, websites, emails, design work — isn’t my entire legacy.

My children, my twin, my sister, my friends, my family … the impact I’ve had on them matters infinitely more.

But it’s still hard not to smile when I see someone wearing a race shirt I designed.

Especially when it’s my son.