I Actually Ran Three Miles and Didn't Die

So apparently I’m a runner now?

I Actually Ran Three Miles and Didn’t Die

I mean, I use the term “runner” very loosely because until six months ago the only time I ran was when I was late for class or chasing Sophie around the playground. But this morning I laced up my shoes (okay, Marcus’s old sneakers that are two sizes too big) and just… went.

Three miles. Without stopping. Without crying. Without questioning every life choice that led me to voluntarily torture myself before 7 AM. My legs are currently staging a revolt and I may not be able to walk tomorrow, but guys - I did it. ME. The girl who used to skip PE by claiming mysterious stomach ailments.

I think I started running because I needed somewhere to put all the noise in my head. New mom brain is real and it’s LOUD. Between nursing school stress, wedding planning, and a toddler who thinks sleep is optional, running has become my version of screaming into the void. Except it’s socially acceptable and I end up with endorphins instead of a sore throat.

Marcus thinks I’ve lost my mind. Sophie thinks Mama is silly for running when there’s no playground at the end. But for thirty-seven minutes this morning, it was just me and the pavement and the sound of my own breathing. And for the first time in months, the noise in my head went quiet.