Starting over is really hard. 

I’m a lifelong runner; born into, rather, adopted into, a family of runners. The only non-All-American (in more ways than one), running was simply a part of who we all were—shaping our extracurriculars, our social circles, our decisions about where to go to school.

Some might use the “nature” argument to say that, growing up in a family of runners, I acclimated to my surroundings and eventually became one because that’s what I was raised to be. And while that might be partly true, I know deep inside; the first bones in my body to be formed, the first muscles to develop, were created with a calling. 

I was never fast; the second leg in relays, and middle of the pack on the cross-country course. I realized early in my life that I didn’t run hoping to be fantastic. I ran because, as Eric Little famously says in Chariots of Fire, “When I run, I feel God’s pleasure.”

I ran with increasing frequency and fervor, feeling drawn to lace up and hit the road, breathing in that first ruach of the day. While never competitive in college, I trained for a race I knew was coming somewhere down the line. I knew its distance, and what milestones it would take to get there. I knew the finish line was the kind you cross with the sure knowledge that the next race had really only begun. 

The first marathon came after college in 2008, and then a second, and a third. But training soon hit one unforeseen roadblock after another. Some were certainly joyful—pregnancies and births of children, new jobs that demanded more time and attention in that particular season. But some were really challenging—health issues for our burgeoning family, the kind of fullness in life that, instead of feeling like a bubbling, brimming cup, feels like trying to stop a fire hose with a Dixie cup.

After years of starts and stops, longings and laments, I hung up my racing shoes. They dangled in front of me for the next decade. Sometimes whispering encouragement, “You were born a runner, that won’t change.” Sometimes they whispered doubt “Who told you?”

I drew up my laces again 14 years after my first race, in the summer of 2022. 

I’m a creature of habit—running the same route every day. And while some might find that tedious and boring, I find great comfort in the predictability of it. I know where the path is uneven, where the footing is slippery, and I need to be careful. I see the same people who, though we know nothing about each other, we share a bond of being fellow runners/walkers on the path. I notice changes, big and small. A tree falls down, and somebody notices it, giving lament to its crestfallen state. I see the ache of a dried-up riverbed and whisper a prayer for rain. I notice as soon as the temperature changes enough to push buds from the branches, or begin the miraculous display of fall. I know it, inside and out. 

The trail closed. The warning signs started popping up in the form of written notices, painted boundary lines, and the presence of strangers walking around pointing out what they deemed in need of repair. At first it was just a small section, enough that you could maneuver around it and keep going. But larger sections kept getting blocked off until eventually a barrier went up with clear signage. Trail closed. My fellow runners and I would run up to its edge, forgetting, in denial, and deeply saddened. 

I don’t know how long construction will last, or what it will look like when it’s over. I pass by it often and stop to peer at the construction being done. It’s such a beautiful trail, offering an unsurpassed gift to the community around it. It draws not just from this neighborhood, but has drawn together travelers from all over who have discovered its beauty, all that it has to offer, and the strength of its footing. This is a loss we feel in our bones. I hope and pray it reopens. 

After the trail closed, it felt like an integral part of me closed with it. Instead of hanging up the shoes, they were thrown into the corner of the closet. Others around me seemed to maneuver quickly, finding new places to run. Others decided to try pickleball instead. That looked like fun. The runner in me was too weary to do either, and I made peace with a season of very slow walking. Progress in inches, not miles. Milestones marked by simply putting one foot in front of the other. By going a little farther than I had the day before. 

Starting over is really hard. 

I’ve found my way to a new trail. I don’t yet know its footing, so I cautiously watch each step, making sure it’s safe. I don’t know any of the folks I pass by, though we are becoming familiar with each new day. I’m beginning to notice a new beauty, waiting to be discovered and treasured. 

As I lace up and draw the first ruach of the day, the runner in me is waking up. I’m drawing breaths once again from the bottom of my lungs. My arms swing (and raise) again in step with a Spirit I cannot see. And I realize: I am and always will be a runner. 

Header photo by Taylor Friehl on Unsplash