"The first half hour of my run is for my body.
The last half hour, for my soul."
-George Sheehan

I've learned that runners on personal quests do not define themselves by past, present or future accomplishments. 

Each day's run takes us right back to zero. 

This past Saturday I ran the Little River Trail Race (http://www.trailheads.org/our-races/little-river-trail-run/) in Rougemont, North Carolina. A 10 miler that followed a single-track terrain of roots, rocks, mud, and leaves: up, over, around, behind, and along the Little River's spiny back.

It was a gratifying and personally rewarding 10 mile race, but it didn't give me a leg up on the next day's run when I found myself facing again the same rush of adrenaline, anticipation, and trepidation as I set off for a few easy miles vs 10 long ones. Regardless of the previous day's accomplishments, I was once again a beginner setting off to see what I was made of.

Perhaps that is what keeps me running; I'm constantly becoming, and there are no limits to what is achievable. 

How did I come to this sole journey?

I ran during college - a time in my life I'll save for another day.

I hadn't been running in almost 10 years when I decided to try a little run late July 2012.

Regardless of how fit I thought I was at 32, I had to relearn the fundamentals of pacing my body, there was learning how to breathe through cramps and those beginner stitches-in-the-side, and how to break down small achievable goals like running for five minutes, walking for 2, running for 10, walking for 3, and so on until I had retaught my body how to focus on one foot-fall, breath, and moment at a time.

Reaching a solid 5k run was about pushing myself beyond a set comfort zone, and find what I was capable of.

No matter what I mentally thought I could do, I found the physical reality had to be accepted and understood.

It would require patience and willingness to push myself and keep trying until I could achieve those small goals, but I was ready for that challenge, because the timing was right.
After six years of full-time mothering, freelance journalism and facing my past with its messy biological family abandonment issues, and closure through becoming an adopted daughter as an adult woman, I needed more than a couch with a therapist taking notes and saying, "Hmm. How did that make you feel?"

Returning to running coincided with my daughter beginning kindergarten; I finally had more me time then I had had in six years.

Before  kindergarten, my daughter was mostly in my care except for those 3.5 hours of preschool each day. 

As she began her own journey of independence and learning, I had to step-back, let her fly and reexamine myself beyond the role of mothering. Freelancing throughout her first six years, I had plenty of outlets to maintain my own non-mothering identity, but having her go off to school for a much longer day left me grieving for that precious period we'd shared.

It was a phase of her life as a child that was closing for the next phase; a cyclic dance of parenting: holding close and letting go.

Dropping her off at school, I'd write for a good chunk of time, then by the hour I usually picked her up, I became restless, and unable to focus.

I missed her companionship, I missed her chatter and giggles, and warm little hugs and kisses. I missed filling those afternoon hours with shared art, nature, and whatever we decided to tackle activities.
So I followed an instinctive way to cope.
When the clock hit noon,  I was lacing up my shoes, hydrating, and finding a trail to explore. The physical challenges of returning to running overrode the emotional ache of releasing my daughter to test her wings.

Running is a cleansing effort; there's the physical aspect from sweating, but there's a mental cleansing that takes place - I think of it as a realignment of mind, body and soul. No matter what's on my mind, after that first mile of focusing on stride, pace, breathing and finding my rhythm, I begin to slowly unspool away from the worries, deadlines, and to-do's. I lose the internal chatter; the loops of thoughts playing over and over, and begin to come back to a space of quietude.