It was a great morning for a run.
The air was crisp. The stars in the sky were bright. The humidity was low.
And as I took my first few strides, my worries faded away.
I was in my element. I felt strong. I felt free.
But I knew it wouldn’t last.
I sensed the change around the two-mile mark. I ignored the beeping of my watch, telling me how far I’d come. But I couldn’t avoid the tightness in my calf muscles, telling me I didn’t have much more left to go.
It was the same tightness I’d felt at this point – or earlier – on every run I’d been on for the past eight months. If I didn’t stop and stretch soon, my stride would start to falter. My legs would lock up, leading my feet to feel like anvils. The discomfort would prove excruciating – and potentially damage-inducing.
I managed to make it another mile this time, stopping as my watch beeped its Mile 3 warning. As I stretched, I felt the chilly air hit my body. I was shivering and sweating at the same time.
I’d never contended with this dueling sensation before. Because in autumns past, I would never have broken stride this early. On crisp mornings like this, I’d have gone six or seven miles before I even considered stopping. And by then, even the coolest air would have felt balmy.
But those days were long gone. This was my reality now.
And it wasn’t likely to change.
A friend of mine once spoke of the significance of the age of 26.
There’s nothing given to us at that age. By the time we hit 26, we can already do everything from buying a lottery ticket to renting a car.
But 26, my friend posited, is when life starts to take for the first time.
Young adults might be able to party as voraciously as they did in college without consequence. But 26 hits different. Newly minted 26-year-olds need a minute, an hour, even a whole day to recover.
I can’t speak to this all that well. By the time I’d hit my mid-twenties, my wildest days were behind me. I was hitting the gym more. I was going to bed earlier. And I had given up fast food.
But now, more than a decade later, I feel the weight of my friend’s words.
For despite my best efforts, time has caught up with me. The force of its impact has sent me hurtling to the ground. And it’s taking me longer and longer to get back up.
I’m consistently exhausted now, often irritable, and immensely perplexed. How is everything that was once so easy now so difficult?
There are no easy answers. Only more unsettling questions.
As I stood there stretching my calves, I took a moment to consider what had been.
On those autumn mornings of yesteryear, the miles flew by because I was chasing something greater.
I was a competitive runner back then. I entered in several distance races a year. And I brought back hardware in most of them.
I had the talent and the willpower to deliver excellence. But I had no idea how quickly the sand would run out of the hourglass.
When my first injury hit, I moped about it for a week. But then I thrust myself into the rehab process, determined to come back stronger than before.
My zeal backfired. I picked up two new injuries in short order, one of which required surgery. Two months in a walking boot ensured, followed by four months of physical therapy.
By now, my fiery defiance had been doused. Just getting back to running regularly would be a victory, considering how far I’d fallen.
Amazingly, I achieved that victory, and even began a race training block. But I sustained two more injuries in the ensuing months, forcing me to shelve my plans once again.
I was now in the valley of that prolonged disaster. I was a shell of my former self. And I was growing more and more certain that I’d remain in that state.
But instead of wallowing in self-pity for my present, I was full of indignation for my past.
Sure, my exploits back then had put plenty of silverware on the wall. Medals for podium finishes and age group wins. A plaque for breaking the tape in a backwoods 5K.
But those mementos represented only a fraction of my potential.
I could have done better, I told myself. I could have dreamed bigger, tried harder, achieved more.
If I had gone all-in during those peak years, maybe I wouldn’t feel so hollow. There would be no unfinished business festering as Father Time stripped my speed and stamina away.
But I hadn’t.
And now, I was out in the cold. Literally.
I was left reckoning with the wreckage of it all.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
The words of The Serenity Prayer are omnipresent in my mind. I’ve leaned on their wisdom countless times throughout the years.
Much is made of the middle and the end of the prayer. After all, courage and wisdom are desirable traits in our society.
But it all starts with acceptance. Which – according to the Kubler-Ross Model – is where the grieving process ends.
I don’t think this is a coincidence.
Grief is the one of the most powerful emotions we experience in life. It’s visceral, multifaceted, and inevitable. It washes over us, regardless of whether we’re ready for the force of its mighty wave.
It’s only when the tide has gone back out that we can see what’s left behind. And that we can use those odds and ends to build back up anew.
This is the evident when we lose loved ones. While we miss them dearly, we must find some way to propel ourselves forward.
Yet, it’s just as applicable when the loss is less existential — such as our youth, our ability, or our potential.
I am finding that out firsthand.
I was once a great runner. Just as I was once an emerging marketer. Just as I was once a young man.
I am none of those things anymore. Time and its companions have taken much of the shine off me.
I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. I’ve grieved it.
But now is the time to get off the mat.
Now is the time for me to accept it all. What I was. What I am. What I can still become.
And now is the time to follow that revised path.
Reckoning with the wreckage might be a solemn obligation. But it’s an obligation, nonetheless.
Mile by mile, I’m honored to take the mantle of its responsibility.