Today was non-stop. I was up early to take my son to baseball practice, then back home to tackle laundry, cut up fruit (so my kids might actually eat it instead of letting it turn into a science experiment in the fridge), and bake a loaf of blueberry bread. Then it was off to my daughter’s violin lesson before coming home to whip up a batch of monster cookies—because, well, why not?

And as if that wasn’t enough, I had to get dinner prepped and into the crockpot so everyone could eat before 8 p.m. The last thing I wanted to do after all that? Go for a run.

Yet there I was—somewhere between dropping my daughter off at her violin lesson and convincing myself to skip the run—heading toward the track. My Beats Fit Pro nestled snugly in my ears, hair pulled back into a high, tight ponytail, with my bangs secured beneath an Under Armour headband to keep them from whipping into my face.

Playlist ready, I opened my Nike running app and began my run. I wasn’t expecting much from this run. Other than to feel as if it was just another task that I would complete today, just as I had completed all the others. But at least I had shown up, right?

The weather was amazing, 78 degrees and partly cloudy, with the sun peeking through the clouds every now and then, making me question my running attire- why I decided to wear a hoodie when it was almost 80 degrees is beyond me.

I was slow. I didn’t even run a ten-minute mile. It was depressing, but I tried not to be too hard on myself, considering it was my first time running outside in a while.

Still, each step felt heavier than I remembered, my legs protesting every stride. The rhythm of my breath was uneven, my body adjusting to the reality that treadmill runs just didn’t hit the same as pavement. I could feel the extra effort in my calves, in my lungs, in the way my arms swung a little too stiffly at first.

But then, something shifted. Maybe it was the music syncing up with my pace, or the way the breeze picked up just when I needed it most. Maybe it was the simple fact that I was out here, moving, proving to myself that I could.

By the time I rounded the last lap, my pace hadn’t magically improved, and I wasn’t suddenly feeling like an Olympic athlete. But I had finished. And that counted for something.

As I cooled down, hoodie drenched in sweat and legs like jelly, I reminded myself why I started this in the first place. Not to be the fastest. Not to set records. But to show up, to put in the work, to keep going—even when I didn’t want to.

One run down. Plenty more to go.