Running Toward Freedom...

When I think about running, I think about freedom.

I think about the ability to get up and go whenever I want. To head down a trail, around the neighborhood, or toward some destination that doesn't really matter. I think about movement without limits. About possibility. About trust.

Ironically, running was never something I particularly loved.

When I was younger, I could run, but that doesn't mean I enjoyed it. Most of the time, running was just exercise. Something I felt like I had to do to stay in shape. It was often uncomfortable, sometimes miserable, and rarely something I looked forward to.

I didn't think much about the fact that my body could run because I assumed it always would.

Like many things in life, I took it for granted.

It's funny how often gratitude arrives after loss.

When something has always been available to us, it's easy to overlook it. We assume it will always be there. We focus on its imperfections rather than its gifts.

For years, I viewed running as exercise. A chore. Something to endure. Something I should do.

I rarely stopped to appreciate the simple miracle that my body could do it at all.

Then, in 2018, everything changed.

What followed were years of health challenges that dramatically limited my energy, capacity, and confidence in my body.

There were times when simply getting through the day felt like enough of an accomplishment. The things I had once taken for granted suddenly became precious. Energy became precious. Movement became precious.

Perhaps the hardest part wasn't the physical limitations themselves. It was what happened to my confidence.

For most of my life, my body had a way of surprising me. More often than not, it was capable of more than I thought. Whether it was a long day, a difficult challenge, or something physically demanding, I generally trusted that my body would rise to the occasion.

Then suddenly, it couldn't.

The confidence I had carried for decades was replaced by doubt. The trust I had in my body was replaced by fears.

And that may have been one of the biggest losses of all.

My world became smaller.

And when your world becomes smaller, you begin to see things differently.

The abilities you once ignored become treasures. The things you once complained about become things you long for.

It's a little sad, really. Sometimes it takes losing something before we fully recognize its value.

But maybe there is a gift hidden in that realization too.

Because when something returns—or even begins to return—you don't experience it the same way. You experience it with gratitude.

Over the years, I have worked hard to rebuild.

Slowly. Patiently. One step at a time.

Today I can do things that once felt impossible. I play pickleball. I exercise regularly. I move more freely than I did during some of my most difficult years.

Yet there is one thing I have never fully reclaimed.

Running.

Not because I can't run. In fact, I do a little bit of running every time I step onto a pickleball court.

But true running—running simply for the joy of it—still feels like unfinished business.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that this journey is not really about my legs, lungs, or cardiovascular fitness.

It's about trust.

After years of symptoms, setbacks, and uncertainty, part of my brain still seems to associate running with danger. It learned to be cautious. It learned to conserve energy. It learned to pay attention to every signal.

And honestly, that makes sense.

My brain was trying to protect me.

But I also know something else.

I know I am stronger than I was.

I know my capacity is greater than it was.

I know I am more resilient than I once believed.

And deep down, I know I am safe enough to begin teaching my brain a new story.

That is why I have decided to start training for a 5K fun run.

Notice I didn't say race.

I'm intentionally calling it a fun run because this journey is not about pressure, performance, or proving anything. There is no timeline. No deadline. No expectation for how quickly I should get there.

This is simply an experiment in possibility.

I plan to use incremental training along with brain retraining to help both my body and nervous system feel safe with running again. The goal is not to force progress. The goal is to allow progress.

And perhaps the most surprising part of all of this is how excited I am.

If you had told me years ago that I would be excited about running, I probably would have laughed.

Running was never something I loved. It was never something I looked forward to. It was simply exercise.

But today it means something entirely different.

Today, running represents possibility.

It represents freedom.

It represents trust, healing, and the expansion of a life that once felt very small.

I never imagined I would be so excited about the combination of possibility and running, but here I am.

Not because I need to prove anything.

Not because I need to hit a certain pace or finish by a certain date.

But because I have reached a place where this feels possible again.

And that, in itself, feels worth celebrating.

This journal will be my way of documenting that process.

Some updates may be exciting. Others may seem small. Some may involve setbacks, doubts, or unexpected lessons. But every step forward matters, no matter how small.

My hope is that these progress reports will serve as a reminder—not only for me, but for anyone rebuilding after illness—that healing is not always about getting back to who we were.

Sometimes it's about discovering who we can become.

Or perhaps learning to appreciate gifts that were there all along.

Today is simply the first step.

Not toward a finish line.

Toward freedom.