In late 2012, the spirit, for whatever reason, moved me to get off my butt and celebrate my new, drama free and happy life by running 1,000 miles by my 34th birthday. I had been an athlete my whole life, so it wasn’t about fitness or losing weight, or the usual reasons we get up and start moving, but because I was craving a journey of some kind. Something in my core wanted something different than what I already had, but I just didn’t know what it was yet.
The first time I went out for a run, I puked in my bushes. It had been 10 years and three kids since I had run my last race. Not to mention all of the life that had happened since then. But something inside said, “Keep Going.”
When I made it my first 100 miles, I can’t tell you what that did for me. It was like I had finally gone somewhere. That month I ran a five mile trail race on a trail that was more ice than actual ground, in a driving rain. I got second place. I was back. Life was better, I was better, I felt more intune with what my purpose was…and my skinny jeans fit!
Then horrible things started to happen. My best friend was murdered. I lost my house and everything in it to a flood. By the beginning of the summer, I was pretty much homeless in a hotel room.
But I kept on running. I put all of those feelings of sadness, frustration, anger and the like on the pavement, where I left it so I could be that wife and partner my family needed to get through these tough times. Gone were the days of self destructing and spiraling out of control. I had made a promise to myself to go 1,000 Miles before my birthday. I was going to get there.
I did get there. Two days before my birthday on June 25th in a thunderstorm. As I was rounding the last stretch of my route to the new home we were living in, a lyric from my father’s song, “Just a Road” came to mind.
“It’s only…just a road. Coming to take me home.”
Life is just a road. We all have our own road, but sometimes we travel together. Welcome to mine.