put the phone down — Steph Corbell

At my core level of being, I’m a distance runner. Not because I’m trying to run away, not because I’m trying to lose weight, and certainly not because I want to look like someone’s perception of an athlete. I’m a distance runner because it’s how I’m able to quiet my mind. It’s how I’m able to “be here now,” to exercise in mindfulness as well as in a physical form. Running is my spiritual practice above all else. I’ve never - despite the most ardent of attempts - been able to “sit” in meditation. For whatever reason, due to however my wacky brain is wired, my body has to be in motion, my breath forcibly measured and regulated at intervals. A few other activities have helped me achieve the same “flow state” as running, tattooing being one of them. But running has always been the most efficient, and has been my most lasting practice, as I began distance running in the fall of 1989, nearly 30 years ago, when I joined my junior high school’s cross country team.

running on the white line to the middle of nowhere

I love running virtually more than anything else in the world. I mean it. Even during my years racing as an ultrarunner, I enjoyed my solo 20-30 mile runs in the mountains or group treks with my crew of girlfriends much more so than my podium finishes at races, including 100-milers. I’m proud of those accomplishments, but even a 100 mile win never brought me the same sense of peace as a long trek in the woods. No music, no headphones, no conversation - just communion with something greater than myself. Nothing gave me more clarity than my attempted trans-continental run in 2015, where I realized: 1. I needed to leave my then-marriage, 2. I honestly never wanted to have children, and 3. If I was ever going to be successfully and happily employed, it had to be in a business of my own making, not someone else’s. Crazy that running by myself more than 30 miles a day across the barren landscape of Nevada brought me that clarity, but it did...until my tibia snapped 13 miles from the border of Utah. That’s another story entirely.

I went through some highly traumatic experiences immediately upon the conclusion of that attempted transcon, and ended up moving three times within the span of only a year, partially due to threats to my physical well being. (One of those moves involved relocating to the opposite side of the country, to a place where I didn’t know a single soul besides my now-partner.) Then my mother - with whom I had a very complex relationship - died after a long struggle with Lewy Body Dementia. One doesn’t simply relocate and move on; it takes time to recover from seismic shifts in one’s emotional landscape. After my big move out west, any time I would run an extended distance, my mind would spin out on every possible topic centered on my darkest fears. “Fantasized experiences appearing real” - so true! I often would have to stop, to walk, sometimes even to cry. My body changed from one of an endurance athlete to the body of a very normal, somewhat fit 40-something. I gained more than 20 pounds, went up two dress sizes, and expanded by many inches around my hips. I’ve embraced the change, the normalcy of it, the lovely squishiness of a few extra curves. I still loved my body. But I missed the running and the quietude of my mind. My inner soundtrack felt inescapable.

During the time immediately following my move, I always carried my phone with me on runs, presumably to take pictures of my beautiful surroundings. My relocation was to paradise - on the Ventura County coast in Southern California. I would run typically at dawn, on the beach. There’s nothing like sunrise at the coast. I used the excuse of needing to capture those moments on my phone’s camera, had to share many on Facebook and Instagram. I reveled in the likes, the comments, the “thumbs ups” and the “loves.” After all, isn’t that how social media sucks us in, how it’s designed? I couldn’t go without my daily dopamine, since - after all - I literally couldn’t calm my mind through running. I craved constant connection, as if I was going to crumble without perpetual digital validation of my daily experiences. If no one sees me, do I even exist? I had heard about the anxiety of going without a smartphone; I know now that’s a real phenomenon, as during that time, I could rarely go more than five or ten minutes without checking my notifications. I replaced quietude with digital validation. Meditation with technological “noise.” Self-love with affirmation from afar as a coping mechanism.

Recovery from trauma, loss, and grief is slow to achieve. It’s only been in the past few months that I’ve been able to run continuously once again without the emotional flooding that became like a familiar blanket, a cocoon of sorrow and mourning. Some things just take time and distance - one of the greatest lessons of adulting is that things happen in their own time. There are some things that you just can’t force. Yet there comes a time when you need to let go, as a familiar warm, comforting blanket becomes a suffocating force.

I’m so grateful each and every day now that I’m able to run even a few miles without my smartphone in hand. It started again by building up with one mile. Then two miles. Then a 5K. Now up to 5 miles. I know - from experience - that before I know it, I’ll be back up to a few hours again likely by the end of the year. I can feel it again, that familiar headspace of a calm “there’s so much more to existence than what I see before me and I don’t need all the answers.” I don’t need that headspace disturbed by the ping of constant notification alerts.

There’s such a difference between my running now that I’m firmly planted in what I call “Life 2.0” versus before my transcon. It’s been a gradual awakening. I think of that Tobey Maguire and Reese Witherspoon movie Pleasantville, where the characters went from black and white to technicolor. I’m living life in full spectrum color these days, not just on my old black and white analog set with rabbit ears adorned with tin foil. I see more. I hear more. I feel - aware. Awake. Fully conscious, firing on all cylinders.

I observe so much more now. Other runners. Walkers on the beach. The homeless. Drug addicts. Birds. Flowers. Smells. Ocean waves. Surfers. Breaks. Some things are beautiful, some things are tragic - the full gamut of life experiences.

The one thing I notice above all else that’s a change from me pre-Life 2.0 is the overwhelming omnipresence of the smartphone. Here I am, on the Ventura pier. And here is 90% of everyone else, staring down at a tiny screen. Some are taking pictures, but many are walking and staring down - while if they only chose to look up, they could see the vast expanse of the Pacific before them, the infinitesimal beauty of an endless horizon. The thing that is greater than ourselves.

I see runners, phone in hand, texting while running.

I see moms with jogging strollers, phone attached to said stroller, blasting Spotify playlists.

Kids taking selfies on the beach.

Elderly men - loud talkers - having intimate conversations in the open air.

I’m not judging. I’m observing. How our world has changed in just a few short years! And I wonder - how many others are hurting? How many others feel isolated, and use their phone - as I did - as an anchor to the perceived sanity of an outside world, however illusory?

How much are we missing that is literally right in front of us? How much privacy are we relinquishing through our lack of public boundaries and our preponderance of over-sharing? How many opportunities are we passing by to engage with nature, with each other? Are our in-person relationships suffering?

I don’t have answers - just simple observations and a virtual boatload of questions. I actually still love social media, and am grateful to it for bringing new relationships and business opportunities into my life. But I do question most of our boundaries and practices with it.

Much in the way it took me to build up to running several miles again in quietude, maybe we need to set the phone down. Five minutes, 10 minutes, more? I feel that we simply have to build up our endurance with simple practice. Look outside. Breathe. Realize that this moment is finite. It won’t last more than it lasts, and then we will have to move on. Maybe we need to relish the beauty inherent in this one fleeting second, grateful that we still are breathing, that we still are existing and observing. I know I do. I’ve never been more grateful to be alive.

What are your thoughts? How do you balance your interaction with your smartphone and your in-person life? What do you observe?