What a slow mile, two kids, and a pair of new shoes taught me about starting over
On September 18, I laced up my new shoes and went back to the track for the first time in over a decade.
I had forgotten how to run. Forgotten how to start, what to expect, what distances and times might be possible. The first time I began running was in 2012, and it feels like a lifetime ago. I don’t remember the training plans or the splits, but I remember the feelings. The first mile I ran straight through without stopping. The first time I broke ten minutes on a mile. The amazement of every milestone. I remember how invincible it made me feel.
So I decided to try again. I started to prepare. New shoes. Special workout gear. MapMyRun, a long-ago deleted app, re-downloaded to my phone. A playlist waiting to start in my ears. It felt like it should be this big to-do, with the way I prepared and the buildup in my head, but in the end it came down to one small decision: today is the day. Ready or not, I was going.
The kids and I headed to the track.
We did one mile. A 21:11 mile. I jogged in short spurts and walked the rest. My first jogging steps felt foreign, as though my legs had turned to wood. Stiff, awkward, almost unrecognizable. I got sweaty. I got blisters. But I did it.
At one point I thought: maybe I can’t do this. But then I reminded myself: you already did it once. You can do it again.
The first time around, I was childless and in my twenties. Now I’m in my thirties, with two kids who run alongside me. My body has since carried and birthed them. It has stretched, shifted, survived. It isn’t the same body that once ran a half marathon. But maybe that doesn’t matter. Because running has always been more mental than physical.
Holden encouraged me the whole way, while Caleb sped ahead. That’s how it usually goes — Caleb out front, while Holden and I trudge through together. We stop to catch our breath. We slow to rest our legs. We push forward, even when it feels easier to quit. Every Thanksgiving, we participate in the Turkey Trot — it’s tradition — and after this run, the boys were already buzzing with excitement about this year’s race. Their energy carried me when my legs couldn’t.
When we finished, we all felt lighter. Stronger. Energized. Just a week earlier, Caleb had told me he didn’t want to do the Turkey Trot this year — a decision that broke my heart a little. But after our mile at the track, he was back in. All in.
And so was I.
Even though my legs hurt. Even though it’s hard. Even though it would be easier to stay home, to let myself quit. I’m in again.
For them.
For myself.
For the girl I used to be, and for the woman I’m still becoming.
I am reclaiming a part of myself I thought I had forgotten many years ago.
I don’t know how I’ll keep myself motivated. I don’t know what pace I’ll ever reach again. But I know this: I showed up, even when it was hard. I did it once, and I can do it again. Because sometimes starting over — that very first mile — is the bravest mile of all.
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