It Started as Weight Loss. It Became My Sanity.

I started running for all the reasons people usually do.

To lose weight.

To change my body.

To fix something I was convinced was deeply broken.

What I did not start with was any athletic dignity.

The very first time I tried to run, it was on a treadmill at the gym. I stepped on feeling cautiously brave until I noticed her. 

A cute little college girl next to me, ponytail bouncing, running fast like she had somewhere important to be and unlimited oxygen in her lungs.

I thought, I can do that.

Dear reader, I could not.

About 15 seconds in, my lungs caught fire, my legs filed a formal complaint, and I became genuinely concerned that I might be the first person to perish on a treadmill in front of strangers. 

I hit the stop button, stumbled off, and immediately questioned every life choice that led me there.

Then I cried.

Like… sobbed.

I went home to Travis and fully unraveled. 

I whined about how I would never be able to run, how my body was clearly not built for this, and how everyone else made it look suspiciously easy. 

I was dramatic. 

Emotional. 

Certain this was the end of my running career before it even began.

Travis did what Travis does.

He hugged me.

He let me cry for a minute.

No. Quite literally he let me cry for a MINUTE. Like 60 seconds. 

He listened.

And then—after exactly the right amount of sympathy—a few awkward pats on the back- he gave me tough love and told me to suck it up. 

Lesson one: Sometimes encouragement sounds like “you’ve got this,” and sometimes it sounds like “Suck it up.”

So I did. Begrudgingly. 

Not confidently. Not gracefully. 

I went back and did the most unathletic thing imaginable.

I walked.

Then I ran a little.

Then I walked again.

Run. Walk. Breathe. Try not to die.

I kept showing up even when it wasn’t impressive. Even when my pace was laughable and my run looked like a determined shuffle powered mostly by stubbornness. 

I stopped racing the girl next to me and started racing the version of myself that wanted to quit.

Slowly—annoyingly—it worked.

A few months later, I ran a full mile without stopping. No fanfare. No medals. Just the quiet realization that the thing that once took me out in 15 seconds was now something I could do.

Lesson two: Progress rarely looks heroic while it’s happening.

Here’s the funny part.

That girl who cried on her husband’s shoulder. 

She went on to run four full marathons—where I once again questioned every single life decision I’d ever made, usually around mile 20.

She ran countless half marathons.

And more 5Ks than I can count, some for fun, some for charity, some because I apparently enjoy paying to suffer with other people.

Every single race—short or long—came with its own internal meltdown. There were moments of pride, moments of panic, and moments where I promised myself I would never do this again… until I signed up for the next one.

Lesson three: You don’t have to stop questioning your life choices to keep moving forward.

Somewhere along the way, running stopped being about weight loss.

It became my therapy with sneakers on.

My quiet time.

My reset button.

Running became where I processed stress, grief, change, and the constant noise of life. Where my mind finally shut up and my breath took over. 

Where I remembered that I am capable of hard things—even when I cry first, complain loudly, and need a push.

Thanks Travis. 🙄

I still run most everyday. 

Not to punish my body.

Not to shrink myself.

I run because it reminds me that growth often starts with embarrassment, tears, and a very humbling treadmill moment.

What started as weight loss became my sanity.

And honestly?

 If 15-second me could see marathon me now, she’d still cry… but this time, for very different reasons. ❤️