There are races where everything goes according to plan.

And then there are races that teach you something.

The Marquette Marathon taught me how to race.

I went into Saturday feeling ready. Not perfectly rested, not without nerves, but ready. I had trained. I had done the long runs. I had trusted my body through the taper. And more than anything, I was just incredibly grateful that I got to stand at another starting line and run 26.2 miles.

The day before the race, I ran four hilariously slow miles and smiled almost the entire time.

It was humbling.

Because the thought that kept coming back to me was:

I get to do this.

I get to run.

I get to line up.

I get to test myself.

I get to feel all of it.

And then race morning came.

There is an energy at the start of a marathon that I don’t know how to explain unless you’ve been around runners on race day.

It was STRONG.

You could feel it between people.

Everyone had their own goal, their own nerves, their own reason for being there and their own story that brought them to that starting line. But for those first miles, we were all moving in the same direction together.

There were little comments between runners. Encouragement. Smiles. People settling into pace beside each other.

No one really has to explain why we’re voluntarily waking up early to run 26.2 miles.

We all just get it.

And that energy carried me.

The first half felt good.

Like, really good.

Probably a little too good. 🤣

Mile 1: 8:38
Mile 2: 8:36
Mile 3: 8:16
Mile 4: 8:18
Mile 5: 8:38
Mile 6: 8:32
Mile 7: 8:53

And then apparently at mile 8 I decided we were racing a 10K:

7:58.

😂😂😂

Ma’am.

This is a marathon.

But okay.

From there I settled back in:

Mile 9: 9:14
Mile 10: 9:07
Mile 11: 9:13
Mile 12: 8:49
Mile 13: 8:29

I felt strong.

I wasn’t forcing anything. I was just moving.

And honestly?

I was having so much fun.

That is one of my favorite things about running. There are moments where everything else gets quiet and it is just you, your feet, your breath, the people around you and the road underneath you.

For a while, I felt like I could run forever.

And then…

the sun came out.

Somewhere around mile 18, it became absolutely brutal.

Like, ohhh, there you are.

Apparently the sun had also registered for the marathon and was saving everything for the second half.

There is a very specific moment in a marathon when you realize the race you planned to run is no longer the race you’re running.

That was mine.

Mile 18: 10:44.

Mile 19: 13:03.

THIRTEEN. MINUTES. AND. THREE. SECONDS.

For reference, this is the same woman who apparently thought a 7:58 mile at mile 8 was an excellent life choice.

🤣

And I remember basically thinking:

Oh.

Okay.

This is what we’re doing now.

The heat had gotten to me. My body was tired. Everything that had felt effortless earlier suddenly required a negotiation.

Keep moving.

Get to the next aid station.

Drink.

Walk if you need to.

Run when you can.

Just keep going forward.

And as if the sun wasn’t enough, somewhere in those later miles I became very aware of the amount of pressure happening in my lady parts.

Because naturally, my period was also getting ready to start.

Nothing says female endurance athlete quite like running a marathon while your uterus is simultaneously preparing for its own event. 😂

So now we’re somewhere around mile 18.

The sun has chosen violence.

My legs are questioning my earlier decision to casually throw down a 7:58 mile.

And there is so much pelvic pressure that I’m having an entirely separate internal conversation with my reproductive system.

Like…

Girls.

We have enough going on right now.

Could we perhaps reschedule?

Apparently not.

So we continued. 😂

And this is also where the energy of the runners around me started to mean even more.

Everyone was hurting in their own way by then.

You could feel the race change around you.

People who had been chatting earlier got quieter.

Paces shifted.

Some people walked.

Some dug in.

And somehow, people who were clearly struggling themselves could still find enough energy to encourage the person next to them.

That part of racing gets me.

You can be absolutely exhausted and still have something to give another person.

A few words.

A smile.

A “you’ve got this.”

And somehow, giving it to someone else helps you keep going too.

There is something incredibly humbling about a marathon because you cannot fake your way through the last eight miles.

You can’t negotiate with 26.2.

Eventually, the marathon strips everything down to what you are willing to do when the plan falls apart.

And apparently, I was willing to keep going.

Miles 20 through 24 weren’t pretty.

Mile 20: 11:52
Mile 21: 11:06
Mile 22: 12:45
Mile 23: 12:34
Mile 24: 11:21

But here’s the thing:

They counted exactly the same.

Running has taught me this over and over again.

The ugly miles count too.

The slow ones.

The ones where you question everything.

The ones where you have to change the plan.

The ones where your only goal becomes forward.

They all count.

And weirdly, that’s another part of this race that makes me proud.

My body wasn’t operating under perfect conditions.

It was hot.

I was tired.

My hormones were doing their thing.

My pelvis felt heavy.

My pace had fallen apart.

But my body was still carrying me.

Maybe not at the pace I had envisioned.

But forward.

And that became enough.

Then something happened.

Mile 25:

10:25.

Okay.

And then mile 26:

9:30.

EXCUSE ME?!

🤣

Apparently my legs came back.

Or maybe my brain finally realized we were almost home.

Either way, I ran.

And I am ridiculously proud of that 9:30 mile.

Not because 9:30 is some extraordinary pace for me.

But because of everything that came before it.

Because after overheating, hurting, slowing down, walking, questioning everything, having a full-blown conversation with my uterus and watching the race I thought I was going to run disappear…

I still had something left.

I could hear more people.

I could feel the finish getting closer.

And once again, the energy changed.

That finish-line pull is real.

Everyone around you is exhausted, but suddenly there is this collective shift.

We’re almost there.

We made it through the hard part.

Now go.

So I did.

I finished the Marquette Marathon in:

4:18:47.

Was that the time I thought I was capable of going into the race?

No.

And strangely, that doesn’t bother me nearly as much as I would have expected.

Because this race gave me something better than the perfect time.

It gave me experience.

It taught me what happens when I go out aggressively.

It taught me what the sun can do after 18 miles.

It taught me that fueling matters.

Pacing matters.

Weather matters.

Patience matters.

It taught me how much the energy of the people around me can carry me.

And mostly, it reminded me that I can have a really hard stretch and still finish strong.

That’s probably the part I’ll remember.

There were miles Saturday where I felt incredible.

There were miles where I absolutely did not.

Both were part of the same race.

Both belonged there.

And maybe that’s why I love the marathon.

You don’t get to pick only the beautiful miles.

You run all of them.

The fast ones.

The slow ones.

The easy ones.

The brutal ones.

The loud ones.

The lonely ones.

The ones where strangers somehow make you feel less alone.

The 7:58s and the 13:03s.

They all count.

And somewhere along the way, you learn a little more about yourself.

And then, after the race, I went back and looked at my previous marathons.

That stopped me for a minute.

The first one?

I was seven weeks pregnant.

5:20.

The following year, I did it again—this time five months postpartum.

4:46.

And now?

4:18:47.

I looked at those three numbers for a while.

Because they’re race times.

But they’re also not.

They’re little timestamps of my life.

5:20.

Seven weeks pregnant. My body was already doing something extraordinary while I was asking it to run 26.2 miles.

Which, in hindsight, is completely unhinged and also apparently very on brand. 😂

4:46.

Five months postpartum. A body that had grown and delivered a baby only months earlier, lining up and doing it all over again.

And then…

4:18:47.

This body.

This version of me.

Years and babies and life and change later.

I could look at those three numbers and simply say:

I got faster.

But that feels like it misses the entire point.

Because there is so much life between 5:20 and 4:18:47.

Those are three completely different versions of me.

Three different seasons of life.

And every single one of them showed up at a starting line and said:

Let’s see what we can do.

I’m proud of the woman who ran 26.2 miles seven weeks pregnant.

I’m proud of the woman who came back five months postpartum and did it again.

And I’m really freaking proud of the woman who stood at that starting line Saturday.

Because she has lived a whole lot of life since those first two finish lines.

And there is something very different about her now.

Her faith.

There was a time when I thought strength meant pushing harder, controlling more, figuring everything out myself.

Today, strength looks a whole lot more like surrender.

Trusting God.

Staying where my feet are.

Taking the next right step.

And when I think about it, that is exactly what this marathon asked of me.

I had a plan.

Then the plan changed.

I could spend the rest of the race fighting the fact that it wasn’t going the way I wanted it to, or I could accept the mile I was in and keep moving.

I didn’t need to know how I was going to get through all eight miles that were left.

I just needed to take the next step.

And then the next one.

And trust.

That sounds an awful lot like what God has been teaching me outside of running too.

I don’t have to see the whole road.

I don’t have to control the outcome.

I don’t have to understand why every mile looks the way it does.

I just have to trust Him enough to keep moving.

Maybe that’s why the 7:58s and the 13:03s mean even more to me now.

God was there in both.

My worth wasn’t greater when I was flying.

I wasn’t failing when I was walking.

The fast miles counted.

The ugly miles counted.

The miles where I felt powerful counted.

The miles where I had nothing impressive left to give counted.

They all counted.

Just like the seasons of my life.

When I look at:

5:20 → 4:46 → 4:18:47

I don’t just see a runner getting faster.

I see growth.

I see motherhood.

I see resilience.

I see a body that has carried babies and carried me.

I see prayers.

I see surrender.

I see years of becoming.

I see moments I never would have chosen that somehow became part of the road that brought me here.

And I see God woven through all of it.

Maybe that’s the biggest difference between those three women.

Not the pace.

Not the finish time.

Gratitude.

This version of me finally understands:

I get to run.

I get to move this body.

I get to experience hard things.

I get to stand beside other people doing hard things.

I get to hurt.

I get to laugh.

I get to keep going.

I get another day to become the woman God is asking me to be.

Also, because I am apparently incapable of being normal about any of this, I still refused to cut a single corner.

Not one.

If there was a turn, I took the whole freaking turn.

It is a superstition at this point and I stand by it. 😂

So yes.

26.2.

No corners cut.

Literally.

I didn’t run the marathon I pictured.

I ran the marathon I was given.

And maybe that is the bigger lesson God keeps putting in front of me:

I don’t need everything to unfold according to my plan to trust that He is still in it.

And then this morning, two days after the marathon, I put my running shoes back on.

Six miles.

On some VERY sore quads. 😂

There was no pace to chase.

No workout to nail.

No marathon waiting at the end of this training block anymore.

I just ran.

And I found myself looking around at the beauty of so many of the same places that held my training miles.

These roads saw the long runs.

The fast runs.

The tired runs.

The runs where I had to convince myself to keep going.

The runs where I worked things out in my head.

The runs where I prayed.

The runs where I had absolutely no idea what God was doing in my life but kept putting one foot in front of the other anyway.

And this morning?

They got the sore-quad victory lap. 😂

Six miles where I could slow down enough to look around and think:

We did it.

The marathon gets the medal.

The finish line gets the pictures.

The official time gets recorded.

But so much of the transformation happened out here.

On ordinary mornings.

On roads where nobody was cheering.

One mile at a time.

One prayer at a time.

One next right step at a time.

Saturday, I crossed a finish line.

This morning, I got to return to the roads that helped me get there.

And I didn’t miss the significance of that.

I get to do this.

Thank you, God.

For this body.

For these very sore legs. 😂

For every starting line.

For every finish line.

For the people who shared those 26.2 miles with me.

For 5:20.

For 4:46.

For 4:18:47.

For the beautiful miles.

For the brutal ones.

For every version of me who kept showing up.

And for reminding me that I don’t need to see the entire road ahead.

I just need enough faith to take the next step.

There will be another starting line.

And when there is, I’ll show up grateful.

I’ll make a plan.

I’ll probably run at least one mile significantly faster than I have any business running it. 😂

And then I’ll do what I’m learning to do—in running, in faith and in life:

Trust God.

Stay where my feet are.

Take the next right step.

And, obviously…

Never cut the freaking corner. 😂

Yesterday, I ran Mackinac Island for one of my final training runs before the marathon.

It was “raining.”

And I put that in quotation marks because, really, it was sprinkling. 😂

It would have been incredibly easy to look outside, decide the weather wasn’t ideal, and give myself permission not to go.

Instead, I started running.

And I am so glad I did.

There was something almost magical about it. The light rain downtown, the quieter stretches around the island, the water beside me, and this body that I’ve asked so much of over the last several months just… going.

I intended to run around a 9:30 pace.

That was the plan.

This wasn’t supposed to be a race or a test. I just wanted to get some miles in, enjoy Mackinac Island, and trust where I am in my training.

But my body felt good.

Really good.

My legs wanted to move. My breathing felt controlled. My energy was there. And mile after mile, I kept having the same thought:

I have so much gas left in the tank.

I finished with an average pace of 8:42.

And then, coming back into downtown Mackinac Island, I finished my last mile in under eight minutes.

I couldn’t stop smiling.

Not because I needed to prove I could run fast.

It actually felt like the opposite.

It felt like my body saying:

We’re ready.

And maybe that’s why today feels so strange.

Today, I’m walking while I write this because everything in me wants to run.

My body wants to GO.

But this is prep week.

I still have a couple of small runs this week, just enough to keep my legs moving and remind them what they already know. There isn’t any more fitness to build before Saturday. The big work has been done.

The early mornings happened.

The long runs happened.

The tired runs happened.

The amazing runs happened.

The runs where my legs felt heavy and the runs where I felt like I could go forever, they all counted.

Now my job is different.

Move a little. Rest a lot. Eat. Hydrate. Recover. Trust. Pray. Repeat.

And show up Saturday ready to race.

I don’t know that I’ve ever felt this ready for a race mentally, and mostly physically.

I do have a couple of angry tendons in my right calf reminding me that I have, in fact, been marathon training. 😂 But they actually feel better when I open up my stride.

So I’m excited.

And nervous.

And READY.

But right now?

I trust the taper.

And apparently, trusting the process is the theme of my life this week.

Because while I’m preparing for one starting line on Saturday, our family is approaching another one next Tuesday.

The kids go back to school.

Schedules change.

Routines change.

Summer ends.

The twins are going to Junior Kindergarten.

And Tate is going to preschool.

My baby is going to preschool.

That one gets me.

There are so many adjustments coming at once, and today I’m emotional but grateful about all of it.

There’s a part of me that wants to grab onto summer and say, Wait. I’m not ready yet.

But then I think about yesterday’s run.

I didn’t become ready for Saturday yesterday.

Yesterday simply showed me what all those ordinary days had already built.

And maybe life works like that, too.

Our kids don’t suddenly grow up the morning we drop them off at preschool.

They’ve been growing right in front of us.

Little by little.

Ordinary day by ordinary day.

Until suddenly we reach one of those moments that makes us stop and realize just how far we’ve come.

Maybe that’s why transitions can hurt even when they’re beautiful.

We can be ready for what’s next and still grieve what’s ending.

We can be excited and nervous.

Grateful and emotional.

Ready and still wish we could freeze time for just a little while longer.

Two things can be true at the same time.

And somewhere between running around Mackinac Island in the rain and thinking about sending my baby to preschool, I started thinking about perspective.

Yesterday, I could have looked outside and said:

It’s raining. I’m not running.

Or I could say:

It’s sprinkling. Let’s go run around an island.

Same weather.

Same day.

Same circumstances.

Completely different experience.

And isn’t that so much of life?

I have to send my baby to preschool.

Or—

I get to watch my baby grow.

Summer is over.

Or—

We got another beautiful summer together.

Everything is changing.

Or—

Look at how much we’re growing.

Nothing outside of me had to change for the experience to change.

My perspective did.

And it made me wonder:

Why do we wait to change our habits?

Why do we wait until we’re miserable?

Why do we wait for Monday?

For January?

For the kids to go back to school?

For work to slow down?

For the scale to scare us?

For the doctor to tell us something we don’t want to hear?

For life to become uncomfortable enough that changing finally feels easier than staying the same?

We tell ourselves:

I’ll start when things calm down.

I’ll take care of myself when I have more time.

I’ll be more present when life isn’t so chaotic.

I’ll trust when I know what’s going to happen.

But what if we don’t need our circumstances to change first?

What if we need to change the way we’re looking at them?

Because perspective is a habit.

Gratitude is a habit.

Movement is a habit.

Trust is a habit.

Showing up when conditions aren’t perfect is a habit.

And allowing ourselves to enter a new season without believing something has gone wrong is a habit, too.

Running has taught me this over and over again.

You don’t become a runner because of one incredible run.

You don’t become marathon-ready because you crushed one of your final training days.

It’s the ordinary stuff.

It’s getting up when you don’t feel like it.

It’s running slower when your ego wants to go faster.

And then—maybe the lesson I need most this week—it’s resting when your body wants to move.

For months, the habit has been to get up and do the work.

This week, doing the work looks different.

Doing the work means trusting that I don’t need to cram in one more long run.

I don’t need one more hard workout to prove I’m ready.

I don’t need to keep testing myself.

I already did the work.

Maybe that’s part of growth, too.

Knowing when to push.

Knowing when to rest.

Knowing when to hold on.

And knowing when it’s time to let the next season come.

Because habits aren’t always about doing more.

Sometimes the healthier habit is learning to trust more.

Yesterday, I ran around an island in a little bit of rain.

I looked down at my watch.

I realized I had averaged an 8:42 pace and finished my final mile under eight minutes.

And I thought:

Oh.

All of those little choices were doing something.

Life is like that, too.

The habits we’re building today are preparing us for starting lines we can’t even see yet.

Saturday, I’ll stand at one starting line with months of training behind me.

Tuesday, I’ll stand at another as my kids walk into a new school year and my baby goes to preschool.

Two completely different starting lines.

And I know I’ll feel nervous at both.

But I’m learning something:

Nervous doesn’t mean unprepared.

Emotional doesn’t mean I’m not ready.

And an ending doesn’t mean I’m losing something.

Sometimes it simply means the season did exactly what it was supposed to do.

It grew us.

It prepared us.

And now it’s time to see what’s next.

So this week, I’m not running from the transition.

Literally or figuratively. 😂

I’m walking today.

I’ll run a little this week.

I’ll rest.

I’ll let myself feel all of it.

I’ll change my perspective when I need to.

And I’ll trust the work that’s already been done.

Because Saturday, when it’s finally time to race, I know my body is ready to go.

And Tuesday, when it’s time to watch my babies walk into their next season, maybe my heart will be ready, too.

And if it isn’t completely ready?

That’s okay.

I don’t have to resist the next season just because I loved the one before it.

I can be sad that something is ending and grateful that something new is beginning.

I can trust the training.

I can trust the taper.

I can trust the transition.

I can trust what all those ordinary days have built.

And I can remember that sometimes the biggest change we need to make isn’t our schedule, our circumstances, our bodies, or our lives.

Sometimes we simply need to change the way we’re looking at them.

And then take the next step.

There’s still plenty of gas left in the tank.

🤍🙏🏻✨

Mondays since I got sober are no longer manic.

That sentence hit me this morning while I was running.

Because I remember exactly what Mondays used to feel like.

Even when nothing was technically wrong, there was this frantic energy inside me. I needed to get my life together. Fix everything. Start over. Eat perfectly. Work out harder. Be more productive. Make plans. Change plans. Get ahead.

Monday felt like another opportunity to reinvent my entire life before noon.

Today?

Monday is just Monday.

And I think that says more about what sobriety has given me than almost anything else.

I’ve been thinking lately about how much emphasis we put on whether someone technically has an alcohol problem.

Was I really that bad?
Did I actually have a problem?
Could I probably drink normally?
Was alcohol really the issue?

And maybe those questions matter.

But I’m not sure they matter nearly as much as this one:

Do I make better choices when alcohol isn’t in my life?

For me, the answer is overwhelmingly yes.

And I don’t just mean that I avoid bad decisions while drinking.

I mean I make better choices all around.

I’m more thoughtful about my relationships.

I’m more present with my family.

I take better care of my body.

I pay attention to what my gut is telling me.

I pause more.

I react less.

I can recognize when I’m trying to control an outcome instead of surrendering it.

I can feel something uncomfortable without immediately needing to escape it.

And maybe most importantly, I can hear God in my life in a way I couldn’t when everything inside of me was so loud.

One of the things I’m also deeply grateful for is having someone beside me who chose to remove alcohol from their life too.

I can say that being supported in sobriety by someone willing to make meaningful changes alongside me has mattered more than I can explain.

Sometimes love looks like words.

Sometimes it looks like action.

And that’s really what sobriety has become for me too.

Action.

Sobriety didn’t magically make me peaceful.

I’ve still had messy days.

I’ve still made mistakes.

I’ve gotten scared. I’ve spun out. I’ve tried to control things I had absolutely no business trying to control. I’ve hurt people. I’ve been hurt.

I’ve had moments when I desperately wanted relief from what I was feeling.

The difference is that now I have to stay.

I have to feel it.

I have to look at my part.

I have to make amends when they’re mine to make.

I have to pray.

I have to call someone.

I have to take the next right action instead of reaching for the fastest escape.

And slowly, those choices have changed me.

That’s what I didn’t understand about sobriety in the beginning.

I thought getting sober meant learning how not to drink.

It has actually been about learning how to live.

It’s learning that peace doesn’t come from controlling everything around me.

It’s learning that an uncomfortable feeling isn’t an emergency.

It’s learning that I don’t have to know what happens next.

It’s learning that I don’t have to solve my entire life on a Monday morning.

I can stay where my feet are.

I can do the next right thing.

I can trust God.

And then I can wake up tomorrow and do it again.

So maybe you have an alcohol use problem.

Maybe you don’t.

That’s not mine to decide for anyone else.

But I do think there’s another question worth asking:

Does alcohol help you become the person you want to be?

Because if your relationships are healthier without it…

If your mornings are better without it…

If you make clearer decisions without it…

If you’re more present without it…

If you’re more honest, accountable, grounded and connected to the people you love without it…

Then maybe you don’t need a dramatic enough reason to choose a life without alcohol.

Maybe you don’t need to prove that it was bad enough.

Maybe realizing that your life is better without it is enough.

I know mine is.

And today, on an ordinary Monday morning, I’m incredibly grateful that I don’t feel the need to reinvent my entire life before noon anymore.

I just get to live it.

And that feels a whole lot like freedom.

923 days sober one day at a time.

🙏🏻🤍

A few days ago, my mind was everywhere.

Future-tripping. Looking backward. Trying to control outcomes that were never mine to control.

I could feel it in my body, too. My heart rate was up. My thoughts were racing. Even running felt harder because my nervous system was carrying what my legs couldn’t fix.

Recovery has taught me that healing isn’t about never getting overwhelmed.

It’s about knowing what to do when I am.

So I went back to the basics.

Prayer.

Therapy.

Communication.

Breathing.

Grounding.

Rest.

Letting myself feel what I was feeling instead of trying to outrun it.

And then yesterday morning, I laced up my shoes and went.

Nine miles.
1:16:59.
8:33 average pace.
Mile eight: 8:08.

My glucose stayed between 99 and 125.

No gel.

No gummies.

No quick sugar rescue.

I got stronger as the miles went on.

And THAT was the moment.

Not because a fast run means everything is fixed.

But because two days ago, my mind and body were fighting each other.

Yesterday, they worked together.

That is the comeback.

The comeback happened before I ever started running.

It happened when I stopped trying to control everything.

It happened when I asked for help.

It happened when I prayed.

It happened when I took care of myself mentally, physically, and spiritually.

And then my body said:

Okay. We’re ready.

Recovery is so much bigger than putting down the substance.

It is learning how to live.

Learning how to stay.

Learning how to walk through the hard days without destroying yourself trying to escape them.

And sometimes, after all of that work, you get a morning where you look at what you just did and think:

Damn. Look at me go.

Faith over fear.

One day at a time.

Day 919 of living sober.

Some days, the hardest thing I do is not the workout.

It’s getting my mind to stop running faster than my feet.

Today, I only made it five miles.

Not because my body couldn’t keep going.

My mind was spinning.

Life felt heavy. My thoughts were moving in ten different directions at once. I was trying to understand things I may never fully understand, trying to solve things that are not mine to solve today, trying to find certainty in places where certainty simply does not exist yet.

And somewhere in those five miles, I realized something.

I keep asking God to lead me while simultaneously trying to grab the steering wheel.

I pray for direction, and then I start analyzing every possible outcome.

I ask for peace, and then I rehearse every fear.

I tell God I trust Him, and five minutes later I’m trying to figure out exactly how everything is going to work out.

Maybe faith isn’t knowing how this ends.

Maybe faith is continuing to walk when I don’t.

TRUST. TRUST. TRUST.

That word keeps finding me.

Trust that what is meant to be revealed will be revealed.

Trust that I do not have to uncover every answer today.

Trust that God can work in circumstances I cannot control.

Trust that another person’s choices do not determine my peace.

Trust that I will know what to do when it is time to know.

Trust that God has carried me through things I once believed would destroy me—and He has never abandoned me in the middle of them.

My family is beyond important to me.

They are at the center of nearly every decision I make, every prayer I pray, and so much of the reason I fight so hard to become a healthier version of myself.

And sometimes that is exactly why my mind spins.

Because when you love people this deeply, you want to protect them.

You want to make the right choices.

You want to know the outcome before you take the next step.

You want to make sure the people you love are okay.

But I am learning that I cannot control my way into peace.

I have to trust my way there.

I don’t want fear making decisions for me.

I don’t want anger making decisions for me.

I don’t want someone else’s choices determining the atmosphere of my home.

I want God at the center of my family.

And sometimes that means trusting Him with the people I love most, too.

Trust that I don’t have to fix everything today.

Trust that protecting my family does not require controlling every outcome.

Trust that God can show me the next right thing.

Trust that truth will make the path clearer.

My family is worth fighting for.

But so is honesty.

Peace.

Safety.

Faith.

And the kind of love I want my children to grow up believing in.

I have spent so much of my life believing strength meant pushing harder.

Run farther.

Figure it out.

Fix it.

Control it.

Hold everything together.

But recovery has taught me something completely different.

Sometimes strength is surrender.

Sometimes strength is saying,

“God, I cannot carry this one today. You’re going to have to.”

Sometimes five miles is enough.

Sometimes crying is enough.

Sometimes prayer is enough.

Sometimes the next right thing is simply refusing to make a permanent decision from a temporary storm.

My brain wants answers.

My fear wants guarantees.

My ego wants control.

But my spirit keeps whispering:

Trust.

I don’t know how every broken thing will be repaired.

But I know this:

God has never asked me to see the entire road.

He has only asked me to take the next step with Him.

So today, the next step was five miles.

Then food.

Then rest.

Then prayer.

Then staying where my feet are.

Tomorrow may look completely different.

And I don’t need to know yet.

God, help me trust what You are doing when I cannot understand what I am seeing. Help me stop trying to force clarity before its time. Help me remember that surrender is not giving up—it is giving You what I was never meant to carry alone.

Trust the process.

Trust the timing.

Trust the unfolding.

Trust God.

And when fear creeps back in—

trust Him again.

Healing doesn’t mean I never want to escape again.
It means I recognize the moment I want to run, and instead of reaching for the thing that once numbed me, I reach for God.

MONDAY THOUGHT: Sometimes you just have to do it before you feel ready.

Coming home from vacation, I’m incredibly grateful for the time off and also grateful to be home.

There’s something so sweet about August mornings here, the cooler air, the quiet, and absolutely perfect running weather.

But my body? It’s still trying to figure out what time zone we’re in. 😂

Just as I adjusted to Pacific Time, we came home. And this morning, my alarm and I apparently had different plans.

I had a meeting from 6–7 AM that I needed to be prepared for and present at.

I woke up at 5:48.

So: two minutes of meditation. Espresso. Coffee. Meeting.

And then I had a 16-mile run to do.

Was I perfectly rested? Nope.
Did I feel completely ready? Also nope.

But sometimes we spend so much time waiting to feel ready that we forget something important:

You don’t always need to feel ready. Sometimes you just need to start.

So I started.

And I ran 16 miles with an average pace of 9:05/mile.

That doesn’t mean every day is about pushing harder or proving something.

For me, today was about finding out where I am.

New territory. A body still adjusting. A routine that’s not quite routine again yet.

And one foot in front of the other anyway.

Maybe that’s your Monday reminder, too:

You may never feel completely ready. Do it anyway. You might surprise yourself with where you already are. ❤️

💪🏼

There is a transparency that comes with living life honestly. The more I heal, the more I realize that growth isn’t about controlling every outcome—it’s about learning to act despite fear, trusting discernment, and surrendering to the changes I can’t control.

People will always be people. They’ll disappoint us, surprise us, teach us, and sometimes hurt us. But my peace no longer depends on changing them. It depends on changing me.

I’ve found that this truth stretches into every part of life—fitness, nutrition, wellness, recovery, relationships, and spirituality. None of them are really separate. They’re all invitations to become a little more honest, a little more willing, and a little more present.

“Move a muscle, change a thought” has become more than a recovery slogan to me. It’s a reminder that action creates clarity. We don’t think our way into a new life—we live our way into one. All while trusting. 

Change is uncomfortable, and many of us naturally resist it because the familiar feels safer than the unknown. But healing begins when we’re willing to surrender what no longer serves us and trust that growth is found on the other side of willingness.

That’s the journey I’m choosing—not perfection, but progress. One honest action at a time.

Have a wonderful Monday!

A little Saturday rant…

I’ve seen a lot of comments saying, “Imagine if we were in Canada. We should just be grateful.”

Two things can be true at once.

Yes, my heart hurts for the people directly impacted by the wildfires.

And yes, our feelings here are still valid.

As someone training for a full marathon, it’s frustrating to have another long run canceled because the air isn’t safe. It’s hard for kids who just want to play outside during the few precious weeks of a U.P. summer. It’s hard on restaurants, small businesses, and everyone who depends on tourism.

For my family, this isn’t just an inconvenience. My son has respiratory challenges after spending part of his life with a trach, so air quality is something we have to take seriously. Please be kind. You never know what someone else’s family is navigating.

We spend months waiting for summer, and now it feels like life is on pause again—just like it does during winter.

Having empathy for others doesn’t mean we’re not allowed to acknowledge our own disappointment.

So instead of telling people to “just be grateful,” maybe let’s extend a little grace. We can care deeply about what’s happening in Canada while also recognizing that this is affecting our own communities.

And if you’re going stir-crazy, here’s your reminder that TM Fitness has $10 day passes this weekend! Come move your body, release some endorphins, and take care of your mental health. We could all use a little more movement and a little less arguing on Facebook. ❤️

One of the biggest misconceptions I hear is, “I’ll start when things calm down.”

After the kids are back in school.

After vacation.

After work gets less busy.

After the holidays.

After Monday.

But here’s the truth: life rarely slows down. It simply changes.

The people who see lasting results aren’t the ones who wait for the perfect time, they’re the ones who decide to start in the middle of real life. They begin while they’re busy. They learn to make healthy choices even when life isn’t perfect. And little by little, those choices become habits.

You don’t have to overhaul your entire life overnight. You just have to take the next step.

If you’ve been thinking about making a change, maybe this is your sign that you don’t need another Monday or another month. You just need today.

Good news! I currently have a few openings for one-on-one training and coaching or spaces in my accountability group! Whether your goal is building strength, losing weight, improving your health, or simply feeling more confident, I’d love to help you create a plan that fits your life.

Message me if you’ve been waiting for the “right time.” Let’s make today Day One.

💪🏼🫶🏻

Me on a Friday morning. ❤️

The alarm goes off at 4:00 a.m.

Before my 5:00 a.m. client arrives, I pour a cup of coffee, spend time with God in my office, meditate, and clean the gym.

It’s become one of my favorite parts of the day.

Completely different than when I was drinking.

I used to think life happened on Friday nights. Now I realize some of life’s greatest gifts happen before most people are even awake.

Recovery didn’t just remove alcohol. It gave me mornings.

It gave me purpose before sunrise.
It gave me peace instead of chaos.
It gave me habits that build the life I prayed for instead of trying to escape the one I had.

Sometimes I just stand in my gym, coffee in hand, grateful.

I can’t help but chuckle at how much of life I missed but beyond grateful for where I’m at now.

Today, I don’t wake up wondering how I’ll get through the day.

I wake up excited to live it.

One day at a time!

❤️

#Recovery #OneDayAtATime #MorningRoutine #Gratitude #Sobriety #Faith #Fitness #RecoveryWorks