origins

We all begin somewhere.

I was bitten by the running bug after I had my daughter, over five years ago.

Up until that point, jogging was an occasional activity.

When I gave birth to my daughter, and spent those first few tender months at home, I was consumed by depression. Taking care of a newborn did not come naturally to me. One day, I was a career woman with a busy schedule. The next day, I was sleep deprived to an extreme I did not think possible. I remember one occasion when we finally left the house to run an errand. In the light of day, my husband gently suggested that I might have a streak of baby poop on my cheek, and he wiped it with his sleeve.

I cried. I wept. I felt lonely.

I discovered, a few weeks in to this new life, that walking would be my medicine. No matter what had transpired the night before, no matter how demoralizing the patterns of the day, I could find salvation in walking.

At that point, we lived in a house in the woods—a good 30 minute drive from most hallmarks of civilization, including decent grocery stores. Nevertheless, the summer was relatively cool, and I spent many hours pushing a stroller around winding bends and pathways, exploring our community. Sometimes, the walks were the only time that the baby would sleep, and I could move freely, both hands unencumbered by the weight of flesh.

The walks became more frequent, and the baby also began to grow. As the summer petered out, my depression lifted, and I started to fall in love with my child. Somewhere in that span of time, the walks migrated toward runs. I left the baby at home with her loving father, and took off… exploring nearby lake trails and taking the daring risks of leaving pumped milk at home in exchange for an hour of freedom.

For me, running was born out of the growing pains of early parenthood. Each jog yanked my sanity back to earth, returning me home with renewed hope. My daughter grew in her early years, watching mama leave for runs and come back. The evening post-run shower became a ritual. First, to wash the sweat off my skin quickly before settling in to a nursing session. Later, I stumbled over rubber duckies and pitchers as my toddler sat at my feet keeping me company. These days, the bathroom door remains unlocked, and she will sit on the closed toilet lid, telling me about her school day while I rinse off my suds.

I feel pangs in my heart every year at this time, reflecting on the journey to this point. Fall has always seemed to me a time for renewal, despite the decomposition of nature’s greenery around me. Perhaps it is because I know that the hardest earned gifts often start from dark places.

We all begin somewhere.

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