I’ve always loved to run.
To lose myself in the pounding of feet on pavement.
I love when I take off and suddenly feel every muscle in my body, every cell, every ounce of energy pulsing through my veins.
I love the way an open road feels, or even on a treadmill, how time seems endless, unbreakable.
I love the catch in my breathing, especially right before my natural adrenaline kicks in and pushes me beyond my limits.
I even love the irony of running: the freedom of an open road, yet the control of my breathing, of my footing, of every single step.
I like knowing that I’m the one who controls the outcome.
That with every intake of breath, I can speed up or slow.
I like knowing that I set the pace. That I am the one who knows just how far I can push, or when to quiet my mind and let my body take over.
Running makes me feel grounded, safe.
But running also makes me feel wild.
I am steady, consistent, strong.
But I am also free.
One foot in front of the other with no set destination, no map.
Just feet on pavement, moving forward, letting go.
I’ve never been good at staying in one place.