The first time I experienced discomfort while running was back in the fall of ’88. After hitting puberty, eighth-grade gym class became a chore rather than a joy. My once agile body, which could sprint effortlessly across the playground, had vanished. Now, every lap around the track felt like I was lugging a boulder, and I swore off running for good—or so I thought.
Throughout high school, I dodged sports (thanks to my aversion to running). Occasionally, my friends and I would don our trendy Spandex and scamper around downtown, our high ponytails bobbing in sync until we reached our limits—usually after a mile. By “occasionally,” I mean we managed this feat three times over six years, followed by a trip to the local Dairy Bar for hot fudge sundaes, which, let’s be honest, was the only reason I participated. I still thought running was the worst, but hey, ice cream and girl talk were worth it.
In college, I walked a lot and even taught step aerobics, but running? Nope. I held on to the false belief that you were either born a runner or you weren’t, and I was definitely in the latter camp.
That mindset changed when I was 35 and spotted an effortlessly graceful woman running down the street as I wrangled my kids into our car after school. She was clad in sleek black leggings, gliding up a hill with a smile that radiated pure joy. I was cocooned in my warm SUV, peering down at the freezing temperature—2 degrees! She seemed so wild and free, and I longed to feel that freedom too. I vowed I would become a runner someday.
Fast forward a few years, and just after I turned 39, my kids were older and less physically demanding. They were in school full-time, and one day, I finally decided to give running a shot. I didn’t just want to; I needed to. I was slower than a sloth on a leisurely stroll, but I didn’t care. I was determined to prove myself wrong and give myself a good kick in the rear.
When I finished that first run, I felt both exhausted and invigorated at the same time. It sounds cliché, but it marked the beginning of a transformative journey—mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. I hadn’t realized how much I needed it until I was finally ready. The key was doing it for me, out of love for myself and my body, not because I despised my reflection in the mirror.
Since that fateful day, I haven’t stopped running. Now that my kids are older, I often rise early, slip into my running gear, and stand on my front porch, soaking in the sunrise while the rest of my family snoozes. But only for a moment! I embrace each new day by running toward it. After my morning ritual, I find it easier to tackle the daily chaos because I know that tomorrow brings my special time to unwind and get lost in my thoughts—no anxiety, no nagging to-do lists, and nobody calling my name.
So, if you’re knee-deep in parenting and life, yearning for a moment of exhilaration—whether it’s biking, running, skiing, or anything that makes you feel alive—give yourself grace. Trust that you will discover your passion, the one thing you can’t live without. And don’t tell yourself you can’t or that it’s too tough because you absolutely can.
How do I know this? Because you’re raising kids, and once you handle that, you can conquer anything.
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In summary, I started running later in life, and it has become an essential part of who I am. It’s a reminder that it’s never too late to embrace something new and transformative, especially when it’s done out of self-love and joy.