I drive home. I feel the slight breeze on my arms from the car window. I want to run, to fly, to be alone. I think it is a good day for a jog. To go running. I am not a runner – it is hard for me. My legs feel heavy and thick. I feel uncoordinated. But there is one thing from a workout that I like – to push myself harder, further than I have in the past. I like to hear the clomp, clomp of my feet hitting the pavement. The huff of my breathing. My heart is pounding and I want to stop and walk and take the easy way out. I glance down, my training clock says I have another 1:30 to run before I can walk again. I think, “I can do this.” I decide to get into the music and I look down and focus on my feet. Each step. Each step I take is another step closer to the end of the “run” time on my phone’s training program.

I focus on the song lyrics and whisper them along. I hope no one is watching this slightly ungainly sight. I am not a pretty runner. But I am running and I think that is a start, that is enough for me for now. I like it when the beat of the music matches my footfalls. I like it when a favorite song comes on and I think, “Yes, I want to run to this.” And out I go, on a run. I tell my boys, “Be good for a bit so I can go and run.” It’s just me and the music and the training program. Just me telling myself to do this, to push myself along. And so I do. I want my boys seeing me do this. I want them to see it is important to me. That I think I am worth it. And I am.