Posted in Reflections
Note: This post may contain affiliate links, and this site displays ads to support the content. If you make a purchase or click on certain links, I may earn a small commission at no extra cost to you. Ads may be personalized. Read more here.
There was a time I could run eight miles without stopping.
I didn’t look like someone who could.
In fact, I still saw the same soft body in the mirror most days. But that didn’t matter as much then. I was fast enough to catch my dogs when they got loose. Strong enough to carry groceries up the stairs without thinking twice. Alive enough to feel that quiet confidence that comes from knowing your body can move—really move.
Running gave me that. It gave me breath. It gave me rhythm. And maybe most importantly, it gave me control—something I hadn’t felt in years.
But that’s the funny thing about progress. If you don’t protect it, it slips through your fingers. A few days off turned into weeks. Then months. One day during COVID, I found myself out of breath jogging across a parking lot. Just a few steps. Chest burning. Head spinning. The kind of pain that doesn’t just make you tired—it makes you ashamed.
That was the moment I realized: I’d lost something. And getting it back wouldn’t be easy.
But here’s the other thing I’ve learned: you don’t have to get it all back overnight. You just have to keep going.
It took about a year before I started to feel like myself again. I didn’t jump straight back into long runs. At first, I just tried to stay moving. Walking. Stretching. Reminding my body that it still had work to do.
By 2021, I ran my first 5K—The Inner Harbor 5K. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t pretty. But I crossed that finish line. And that mattered.
Since then, I’ve run in the Syracuse Workforce Run every year. Not because I’m trying to prove something to anyone else. But because it reminds me of what I’ve come back from. And that I’m still going.
Some changes weren’t about running at all. Somewhere in the middle of all this, I noticed I was losing strength in my legs. My knees would buckle on the stairs. I couldn’t stand on one foot for too long without losing my balance. That scared me more than I admitted. So I paid closer attention. I added more protein. I got intentional. And slowly, I got my balance back—literally. Now, climbing stairs doesn’t make me feel weak—it makes me feel grateful.
This post isn’t about a big transformation photo. It’s about the truth behind them—the days where you fight to stay consistent, even when the mirror doesn’t give you a pat on the back. The mornings you get up and move anyway. Because somewhere along the way, you start to believe it:
You can do it. Maybe not all at once. But one committed step at a time, you can.