I pulled into the parking lot of a coffee shop to see my friend Kuay. I’d met her at the local gym a few years back, when she invited me to join a group of swimmers she was coaching. Afterwards, I hit the weights, saw her pedaling away on the stationary bike, learned that she was training for her next triathlon.
Now, as Kuay and I sat down at an outside table, I asked about the knee brace. It provided much-appreciated support, she explained, following her run that morning, adding that her knee replacement surgery was scheduled in two weeks’ time. She’d done her research and thought through the options. Whether she’d be able to keep running was an open question. Over the years, running had been a major part of her life, and she thought she would miss it. Although she didn’t always enjoy it.
“I like getting to the end,” she explained. But not every step along the way. Especially the long training runs.
“Then why did you do so much?” I asked.
She thought about the question for a moment. Acknowledged some of it might have been ego-driven, because she liked how she felt when she raced well. But then observed that ego can be a valuable source of motivation. Because she also raced for her daughters. “When they started playing sports in school, I wanted to set an example.”
“So, you’re a warrior mom,” I said.
By way of explanation, I shared a story from many years ago of how I’d encountered a woman somewhere in the middle of a 50-mile ultramarathon, marching along with a weary but determined expression. Myriam mentioned that she’d signed up for this race, incidentally, on her 50th birthday. Now she was still moving purposefully, although beginning to struggle, having never run more than 10 miles before.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
She told me that her son had recently joined the Army and volunteered for the Special Forces. His training would be rigorous. It would require him to complete multiple assessments, and he might be tempted to quit. Frankly, she was unhappy with his decision, both as his mother and as a dedicated pacifist. Regardless, she was out here now with a specific purpose — to pass along her determination. To give him “something to take with him when things got rough.” To remind him that once you set your mind on something, you reach your goal “by sticking to it,” even if this requires moving beyond perceived limitations.[i]
Women like Kuay and Myriam remind me of the stories about the Spartan moms of ancient Greece. Sparta was different from other Greek city-states in that Spartan women were equals of the men. As girls, they wrestled, practiced archery, threw javelins, rode horseback, raced barefoot on the trails, and also learned to sing and write poetry. As wives and mothers, they upheld the moral standards of the community. Spartan women demanded that their men fight with honor on the battlefield, famously calling for them to return victorious with their shields — or carried home on them.[ii]
Contemporary America is a very different place from ancient Sparta, but if you look around, you’ll find there are Spartan moms amongst us. The book Violence of Action: Untold Stories of the 75th Ranger Regiment, includes the story of Scoti Domeji, whose son, Sergeant First Class Kristoffer Domeji served in the 2nd Ranger Battalion. Which made Scoti a “Ranger Mom.”
Scoti was a strict mother. “Start anything you want,” she told her sons when they were growing up – “If you hate it, don’t whine to quit. Mom’s not negotiable; you will finish your commitment.” She taught her sons never to start fights, but always to finish them. She never allowed them to say “I can’t.” She always expected them to try. She was a single mom, acting as both mother and father. Her friends called her “lioness.” A priest explained to her that “not everyone can raise a warrior.”
It was nearly midnight when she heard the insistent banging on the door. She opened it reluctantly, saw two soldiers in dress uniform with news from the battlefield.
At the funeral, she tried to hold herself together. To act strong, as her son would have wanted her to. She told the young Rangers at the service, “you are all my sons now.”
The physical toll of grief was intense. To manage the pain, she took up CrossFit. It was her way “to soldier on.” To “keep pushing my limits.”[iii]
In contemporary culture, we tend to associate the word “warrior” with active-duty military personnel, especially those in combat arms roles, like the Rangers. The word has powerful connotations. It is not to be bandied about loosely, although it can signify attributes beyond those required for combat operations. When she was a young girl, Tiana Bighorse used to listen to the stories of her father, Gus Bighorse, who’d fought the US Army during the 1860s resistance movement which culminated in the formation of the Navajo Nation. Years later, Tiana decided to publish her father’s stories. “These are brave stories,” she explained in the introduction to the book. “Knowing them can make you brave. I don’t want to just throw away what he told us.” Also, she was concerned about the younger generation. They acted as if the Navajo homeland had been gifted to them by the Great Spirit. They didn’t understand – “The reservation was fought for.”
As she was working with the editor, Tiana wanted to clarify something. What does it mean in the Navajo culture to be a warrior? In her words, warrior means “someone who can get through the snowstorm when no one else can.” Someone who can tend to the sick because they don’t get the flu when everyone else does. In the Navajo community, a warrior is the one “who can use words so everyone knows they are part of the same family.” The warrior says what is in the people’s hearts. Talks about the land. Brings the people together when it is necessary to fight.[iv]
My mom is 86. She is highly intelligent, curious, and somewhat high-strung, with a nervous energy, some of which I’ve inherited. A few years back she was put into a difficult position. We noticed that Dad’s opinions on certain subjects had hardened. There were rumors of controversy at work. Suddenly he resigned. Then there was a car accident. He became irritable and unpredictable, making him hard to live with. As is often the case in these situations, he was reluctant to undergo diagnosis, recognizing the loss of agency that would ensue. My mom struggled with feelings of anxiety, guilt, and anger that became nearly overwhelming. Eventually there was no choice but to move him to a facility that could provide round-the-clock supervision. She hired a caretaker to look after him. Made sure he had the right medical treatments for a growing list of physical ailments. Visited him regularly. The last time I was in town, she took me along. At the facility, we guided Dad on a short walk. Sat down at a table in the dining room. Mom engaged him with a stream of commentary and questions. Showed him pictures of family members. He said little. Sometimes smiled. Sometimes cringed. Once or twice registered surprise and laughed quietly. In his eyes I thought I saw recognition of the comic absurdity of life, together with a sense of acceptance and grace…. and possibly a hint that he appreciated the irony of this strange predicament for someone who in his prime had been a brilliant academic and jurist.
It had not been an easy journey, but thanks to Mom, the situation had been managed as best it could be. I told he that she is the hero of the family.
The other day I led a barefoot hike in the Catskills Mountains organized by the local peak-bagging club. One of the participants was a young woman with dark hair and a bright smile. “I’m ready for some pain,” she said, but going barefoot didn’t seem to faze her, notwithstanding the 1,500-foot climb to the summit along rocky trails laced with roots (and acorns hiding under fallen leaves). Indeed, she was a picture of natural athleticism and strength; in some places I struggled to keep up.
Later I found her on Instagram. Saw that she’d already climbed a number of the Catskills high peaks – she’d posted pictures from the summits of Slide, Balsam Lake, Eagle, Big Indian, and several other mountains. She was quite a serious hiker, even working on the Grid, a peak-bagging project that entails roughly 400 separate climbs. In one of her summit posts, she was holding up the photograph of an infant — a tiny baby with closed eyes, swaddled in a blanket. I wondered about the significance. In another post, I learned his name was Dalton. Read that he had been born with severe Hypoxic-Ischemic Encephalopathy, a rare complication during labor (lack of oxygen to the brain). Two weeks after being born, he passed away.
I suppose these climbs are part of her healing process and a way to honor Dalton’s short life, although honestly I’m just guessing. Yet there is one thing I do know, and of this there is no question – that Dalton would have been so proud of his mountain-climbing mom.
Any person would be.
[i] https://thelongbrownpath.com/2015/05/12/team-red-white-blue-rocks-the-ridge/
[ii] https://www.worldhistory.org/article/123/spartan-women/
[iii] https://thelongbrownpath.com/2015/04/15/what-a-runner-could-learn-from-a-ranger-mom/
[iv] https://thelongbrownpath.com/2024/08/27/peak-bagging-in-az-and-co/
Chasing the Grid is available on Amazon!
The Long Brown Path 