For me, that little thing was roasting a chicken. It seemed like such an intimidating recipe, filled to the brim with risk of salmonella poisoning. Roasting a chicken was something that mothers do, real moms, ones who make their first attempt under the careful supervision of their own moms, adult hands cupping the outside of their own. A lesson I never received, thereby making me dangerously unqualified to roast a chicken for my own family. But one day I set my fear of failure aside and finally just tried it. And now I’m a master. Not Alice Waters level or anything but the kind that feels triumphant and exudes confidence. There is such a calm relief in knowing you can count on yourself. Sure, sometimes you’d rather curl up in a ball and let someone else take care of you while you throw your own pity party, but that chicken’s not going to roast itself. And guess what? You tried and you didn’t die. And life goes on. And if we’re lucky, on and on.
Alexi, what you have shared here is no less than brave. It is incredibly human and vulnerable and shows an uncompromising spirit. And what makes it so deeply personal is what makes it so relatable. I am grateful to have found you and to be able to hold a mirror up for you the way your courage has done for me. Thank you for sharing your beautiful aches and pains and triumphs with all of us. I still believe that you are superhuman, but that is truly because of who you are. Your ability to examine your life is a generous gift. You are a true Bravey. And since reading this book, I can now confidently say that I am a Bravey, too.
Your friend,
Maya
Introduction
BE A BRAVEY
My earliest memory of running was in the first grade when a boy in my class made fun of my best friend, and I not only chased him down but caught him and stabbed him with a pencil to make sure he knew I wasn’t fucking around. In middle school I channeled my athletic ability in a more productive way: the track team. Organized chasing. We had weekly meets at the local high-school dirt track, which was very exciting to us twelve-year-olds. The meets were coed and I won them all. I liked the feeling of winning. It made me feel like I mattered. All I’ve ever wanted in my life is to matter.
* * *
I was born in Berkeley, and I grew up in a safe slice of suburbia outside of San Francisco with my remarkable father and loving older brother. But despite the privilege and security of my upbringing, my bright future was not guaranteed. My first five years of life coincided with my mom’s last. Shortly after I came into the world my mom became so mentally ill that she had to be hospitalized. For all I know, I was the last straw that sent her over the edge. I am always saddened by the sense that I came at just the wrong time.
She was diagnosed as bipolar with manic depression, and after developing an addiction to pain pills originally prescribed to treat a back injury due to pregnancy complications, she became suicidal—unsuccessfully at first and then, eventually, successfully. But my mom succeeded in other things long before she succeeded at suicide. She was an accomplished athlete and one of the first female software consultants at her company. What I now understand is that a successful person can be successful in anything, the good and the bad. This is both empowering and heartbreaking.
Living with my mom for my first five years of childhood forced me to learn how to survive in a different way. I had an awareness of just how extreme life can be. Like all kids, the thing I wanted most in the world was attention. But when you’re a toddler and the person throwing temper tantrums in your house is your mom instead of you, attention is hard to come by. It was easy to feel like I didn’t matter.
When I saw how my dad and the parade of doctors were always crowding around my mom and paying attention to her, my four-year-old brain could only think: Why don’t people pay attention to me like that? It wasn’t that my dad didn’t want to give me all the attention in the world, it was just that he couldn’t. All of my early memories, even the happy ones, are tinted with this feeling that I’m the least interesting thing in the room.
Mattering taunted me because it felt like it was not for me. I remember feeling desperate to do whatever it took to get the attention I craved. And so I decided that I would need to become the most interesting thing in the room. I decided that even though I didn’t matter enough for my mom to choose to stay with me, I would matter to everyone else. I would become great. I translated my internal desires into external effort. I would learn, in time, how painful and unsustainable it is to be fueled by trauma like this. But I am where I am because of it.
* * *
In those early middle school years, whether I won a race or not was purely a question of how hard I could push myself. It was a contest of me versus my own pain tolerance. This is why I love to run. Because it is a way for me to push on and explore the outermost limits of myself, mentally and physically, in a way that is fundamentally good. That basic principle has held true throughout my running career, from my time as a young natural to when I was the worst on my college team all the way up to competing in the Olympics. The same dynamic applies to my creative pursuits: How much pain, how much uncertainty, how much discomfort am I brave enough to endure before I give up? Being brave is the best way to survive, and I’ve always been about survival.
As I grew into a decorated college athlete and then into an Olympian (with some major ups and downs along the way), I began to attract a modest but loyal following of younger athletes on social media. However small my audience was at first, I was keenly aware that being a role model is a privilege and a responsibility. When I was growing up, I sought out female role models shamelessly, watched them wide-eyed, and leaned on them hard. The best tools are the ones you have with you, not the ones you don’t, and as a motherless daughter I have always been very forthcoming about my desire for mentorship. I idolized Mia Hamm and I mailed fan letters to the Spice Girls; the girls on the Cal Berkeley women’s soccer team were like gods to me. I looked up to my friends’ mothers, my college professors, and then, as I began my running career and making movies, I looked up to Olympians and artists.
I knew there would be kids, much like the little girl I had once been, who would pore over every word I posted and try their best to imitate it. I didn’t want them trying to replicate my hundred-plus-miles-a-week training regimen; I wanted to give them something they could healthily adopt as their own. So instead of posting workout splits, I posted poems.
The poems were whimsical, silly thoughts, sometimes from the perspective of a runner but just as often from the perspective of two shoes in love or a trail that misses the runner after she’s gone. One night, before a particularly daunting workout, I typed out this poem:
run like a bravey
sleep like a baby
dream like a crazy
replace can’t with maybe
It was the first time I used the word bravey, and it stuck. It became the label for a mini-movement, a self-identifier for those who are willing to chase their dreams even though it can be intimidating and scary. It celebrates the choice to pursue a goal and even relishes the pain that comes with effort. There is nobility to it; it’s something to be celebrated.