It’s an adventure.
That’s what my aunt said, as my father and I sat at her kitchen table.
My car was out in the driveway, loaded with as many of my possessions that could possibly fit inside it. My father and I were heading halfway across the country to Texas, where I was set to start a job as a TV news producer. And we’d stopped at my aunt’s house near the start of our journey.
This whole endeavor was hard to fathom. Sure, plenty of people have set out for greener pastures somewhere across our fair land over the years. But not in our family.
That’s why my aunt called the whole endeavor an adventure. The word evoked an expectation that my foray to Texas would be short on time and long on memories.
As I sat at that kitchen table, I didn’t disagree with my auut. How could I?
After all, I had no idea what lay in front of me. I’d never been to the city I was moving to. I’d had no real career experience or adulthood experience. Add it all up, and it was hard to envision my move as anything more than temporary.
And yet, I never made that return trek by my aunt’s house, with my belongings in the back of my car. Instead, I made Texas my home for good.
That TV job? It’s long gone. And yet, I remain.
It might have seemed like an adventure at the start. But I ended up finding what I didn’t know I was looking for under the Lone Star flag.
Never again.
Those words were on my mind as I walked away from the finish line on a sunny fall morning.
I’d just medaled in a state championship cross-country meet, finishing in the Top 25 of the final race of my freshman year. But I was tired.
I was done with sweating through late afternoon workouts. I was done with sore legs and side stitches. I was done with my gray New Balance 880’s, which could never be as stylish as a pair of Nikes.
I quit the cross-country team that day. There would be no more running for me.
And for a good decade or so, I stayed true to that prognostication.
But gradually, I came back around.
I started by running 10 minutes on the treadmill twice a week after I lifted weights. Soon, I took the workout outdoors, running a mile on the road. And eventually, I convinced myself to sign up for a 5K.
It wasn’t pretty.
My medal-winning form from high school was a distant memory. I lumbered along for a couple of miles until I started seeing green flashes and hyperventilating. I had to stop for a couple of minutes to catch my breath before struggling my way to the finish line.
I was humbled by this ordeal and determined not to repeat it. But the scars of my cross-country days still festered. So, I kept doing what I had done before — running a mile or two after lifting weights. I entered a few more 5K races and did marginally better — making it to the finish line in one go. But my abilities were nothing to write home about.
Then, a global pandemic shut my neighborhood gym. Lifting weights was now impossible; running outside was my only option for exercise. So, I started running slightly longer distances more often.
It didn’t take long for me to notice the difference. I was stronger. I was faster.
But I was also bored.
And so, when an opportunity about for me to join a local running club, I didn’t hesitate.
My first run with the club was a 10-miler on a hot summer morning. I’d never ran that far in my life, but I managed to stick with the group the entire time. And, to my surprise, I enjoyed the experience.
Pretty soon, I was running with the group three times a week, putting more miles on my legs than ever before. And these efforts paid dividends.
I started medaling in races, putting up times I would have found unfathomable a year earlier. This inspired me to start a training regimen, which made me even faster.
Now, I’m signing up for half marathons all over the country. I’m spending a big chunk of my salary on workout gear. And I’m dreaming of the day when I can toe the line in the New York City Marathon.
I never could have imagined that putting one foot in front of another would get me so far.
These outcomes I’ve lived — they’re far different than anything I would have imagined back in my aunt’s kitchen.
They weren’t on the script. And yet, they’re now an indelible part of who I am.
What did I miss back then? Was I too young, too stupid, too naïve to anticipate what was around the bend?
Hardly.
Truth be told, there was no way I could have known what life would have in store for me. No matter how straight a course I’d chart for my future, there were always bound to be some twists and turns along the way.
Embracing those twists and turns is critical. For some of the greatest joys in life involve what you don’t see coming. Appreciation needn’t stem from anticipation.
Yet, even as I write these words — seeing their reflection in my own narrative — I struggle to adhere to them.
For I am predisposed to seek control. To chart a path for myself and follow that path to a T.
I struggle to leave things as they are. To sit still and let the waves crash over me. To allow the twists and turns to catch me off-guard.
This means my gratification is delayed. I can only experience the joy of the unexpected after the panic of being thrown off-course has dissipated.
It’s been like this for me for decades. But it needn’t be this way forever.
So, I’m adding a twist and turn of my own. Instead of charting my future, I’m simply committing to living my values. And I’m letting the chips fall where they may.
Life happens on its own terms. It’s about time I embrace the beauty in that.