On raising a kid who doesn’t quit, even when it rains
The rain started soft, the kind that feels more like mist than warning. The track glistened under the lights, and for a moment it felt almost peaceful.
So we started running.
For a while, it wasn’t bad. The three of us circled the track together, our footsteps steady against the drizzle. After half an hour, it turned heavier: chill creeping in, sleeves soaked, hair plastered to our faces. Holden and I called it quits.
But Caleb didn’t.
From across the field, I called to him that it was raining harder, that we were heading to the gate. He didn’t even slow down. He said he wanted to hit three miles first.
So he did.
I watched him go, small and determined against the rain, each lap an act of quiet defiance, tenacious in a way that felt achingly familiar. The lights caught the mist around him, and for a moment it took me back to another night, years ago, when I ran through falling snow. The track was empty then, too. I remember the sting of the flakes on my face, the sound of my breathing in the cold, the rhythm of my shoes on frozen ground. I hadn’t wanted to skip a day. I had miles to hit.
And I did.
Now here he was, running through the rain for the same reason I once ran through snow: because sometimes you just have to finish what you started.
He is so much like me. Obsessive. Stubborn. Anxious. I’ve often wished I hadn’t passed those parts of myself on to him: the restless brain, the refusal to quit even when no one’s asking him to keep going.
But he’s like me in the best ways, too. Determined. Driven. Unshakable once he decides. Watching him run lap after lap in the pouring rain, I realized maybe the traits I’ve spent years trying to soften aren’t flaws at all. Maybe they’re the reason we both keep showing up.
Some people slow down when the weather turns.
We just keep running.
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