On Limits: Why They're So Cliché

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wanted to come to Spain.  I could have climbed Mt. Everest in the hours I spent as a little girl looking up how much it would cost to fly to Madrid (when I “grew up”). I think part of it stemmed from wanting to have some kind of connection to my Dad, who lived in the Spanish Canary Islands earlier as a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.  Spanish culture is so assuredly European, but at the same time so distinct from any other European country.  The Spanish, as a people, are passionate, loud, opinionated, and stubborn, and I love that.

And here I am! I’m currently studying in Alcalá de Henares, a suburb of Madrid, Spain, through Brigham Young University’s Study Abroad program.  I have about two weeks left in my program, and it’s been such a crazy ride!  I’ve had so many amazing experiences and learned a lot; both about Spain and about myself. Chief among these things: limits and borders and labels are to be left in the seventh grade with the training bras, because they have no place in real life.

Case in point: running. I’ll be the first to tell you that I am not a runner in any sense of the word.  I’ve often said that the only appropriate time to run is when a known serial killer is chasing you, and even then only if an axe is clearly visible (because if there’s no axe, maybe he really does just want to chat).  This comes from a series of beliefs that had, until recently, firm control over my perspective of myself: I’m not a runner, I can’t run, I’m not athletic, I’m not coordinated, I’m not cut out for sports, I’m not the fitness type. But since I’ve been in Spain, I’ve discovered that while it’s super cheesy to say it out loud, the only limits I have are the ones I put on myself.  I can run.  I can be athletic.  If I want to be a runner, I can be.  I’ve been running a couple of times, and now I’m working on a 5K training program.  (Disclaimer to the runners: 5K is a really, really big deal for me! I’ve never even run a mile straight through.)

In high school, people always talked about putting people “in their place”, with the jocks, or the nerds, or the dancers, or the pretty girls. But I think the most dangerous labels are the ones we give ourselves: I’m not a runner, I’m just a nerd, I’m not this, I’m just that.  Limits are ridiculous, and comfort zones are for losers.  I’m not sarcastic or sweet or angry or tranquil, lazy or active, soft-spoken or blunt.  I’m not a reader or a runner or an outcast.  I’m just me, and that’s just whatever I decide to make out of myself.  If I had to come all the way across the Atlantic just to learn that, then it’s been worth it.