I’ve run three half marathons. Three times, I have successfully run 13.1 miles at a time and lived to tell about it.
That was another season. A season before babies and a husband and a 1.5 hour daily commute. A season when I could spare an hour and a half for a long run on Saturday.
Confession time. Last year, running was hard. Real hard. I tried to slug it out. I struggled. I had hip issues that landed me at a physical therapist who did something with needles and trigger points that I still don’t fully understand, but that seemed to work! But I could not seem to get into a rhythm for working out. I tried the treadmill and a running path and the road. I do not think I ever made it more than a mile at a time. It was miserable and frustrating and defeating. I was tempted to listen to the voice in my head that told me my running days were behind me and I might as well give up now.
Then 2018 rolled around and I went to the gym the second week in January and ran 1.5 miles. I almost cried I was so proud of myself. Figuring it must have been a fluke, I went back and, low and behold, I did it again. And again. And holy crap, it didn’t even feel that hard.
Will I run a half marathon this year? I really doubt it. Will I keep trying I add miles and push myself as much as I can? You bet.
But most importantly, I will remember that the hard times are only a season. That one day, we will open our eyes and all of a sudden, it will seem easier. We will be able to push harder and go farther and overcome more than we were able to do last year or last week or yesterday. We just have to keep going. Keep fighting. Keep believing.
So I will celebrate proudly. Because it’s about so much more than the 1.5 miles.