Choosing Your Hard, Asking Better Questions, and Learning to Live Differently

Lately, I’ve found myself having some really interesting conversations about health.

Not just physical health, but mental, emotional, and spiritual health, too.

And the more conversations I have, the more I find myself asking a question:

When did we become so focused on treating symptoms that we stopped asking why those symptoms were happening in the first place?

Now, before anyone takes that the wrong way, let me be clear. I believe there is absolutely a time and place for medication. I believe in modern medicine. I’ve witnessed firsthand what incredible medical advancements can do.

But I also believe we need to be willing to ask more questions.

What are we eating? How are we sleeping? Are we moving our bodies? What does our stress look like? What are we putting into our bodies and onto our bodies? Are we addressing the things that contribute to how we feel, or are we simply looking for the quickest way to feel better?

Sometimes medication is necessary. Sometimes lifestyle changes can make an enormous difference. And sometimes we need both.

I don’t think those things have to be mutually exclusive.

Looking Beyond the Symptoms

I’ve been thinking a lot about hormones, gut health, nutrition, and how interconnected our bodies really are.

Especially as women.

Our bodies change throughout our lives. Pregnancy, postpartum recovery, aging, stress, perimenopause, and menopause can all bring changes that deserve attention.

And yet, how often do women walk into an appointment, describe what they’re experiencing, and leave feeling like they still don’t understand what’s happening?

I don’t believe every symptom can be explained by a hormonal imbalance or an issue with gut health. And I certainly don’t believe every health problem can be solved with a supplement, a diet, or an exercise routine.

But I do believe there’s value in understanding the whole picture.

Sometimes that means bloodwork. Sometimes it means taking a closer look at nutrition, sleep, stress, and activity. Sometimes it means asking for another opinion.

And sometimes it means accepting that there isn’t one simple answer.

I think we owe it to ourselves to be curious about our health rather than simply accepting that feeling poorly is part of getting older.

Normal doesn’t always mean optimal. But different doesn’t automatically mean something is wrong, either.

There’s a balance there, and I think that balance gets lost when everyone is trying to sell us a solution.

The Things We Put Into Our Bodies

We live in a world where convenience is everywhere.

Convenient food. Convenient entertainment. Convenient solutions to uncomfortable feelings.

And I’m not sitting here pretending that I eat perfectly, that my children eat perfectly, or that I never choose convenience.

I have six children. I understand convenience!

But I also understand that the choices we make repeatedly matter.

What we eat affects our bodies. Movement affects our bodies. Sleep matters. Stress matters.

And none of those things exists in isolation.

We can become so focused on finding the perfect supplement, the perfect hormone protocol, or the perfect nutrition plan that we overlook some of the most basic habits that support our health.

I’m not saying those other things don’t have a place.

I’m saying that we can’t ignore the foundation.

And I’m also not interested in living in fear of every ingredient, every product, or every medical recommendation.

I want to be informed, not consumed.

There’s a difference.

When Health Becomes a Sales Pitch

And while I’m questioning the healthcare industry, I think it’s only fair that I question my own industry, too.

I’ve been involved in the fitness industry since 2008, and I’ve watched it evolve in ways that have been both incredible and disappointing.

I started in a business where so much of the focus was on selling.

Sell, sell, sell, sell, sell.

Sell the membership. Sell the training package. Sell the next program. Sell someone on the idea that whatever you’re offering is the solution they’ve been looking for.

And quite honestly?

That never brought me joy.

Because what I loved about fitness was never the sale.

It was watching someone discover what their body was capable of.

It was seeing a woman become stronger, not just physically, but mentally.

It was helping someone realize that they didn’t need to completely overhaul their life overnight to make meaningful changes.

They needed somewhere to start.

And then they needed to keep showing up.

For a long time, I was told to exercise in one particular way. I followed the advice I was given, but strength training came later, when Travis and I started going to the YMCA together.

And over the years, my relationship with fitness continued to evolve.

I started running. I started challenging myself in ways I never imagined. I learned to appreciate strength, endurance, recovery, and what my body could accomplish rather than simply what it looked like.

And something changed.

Fitness became less about appearance and more about living.

It became something I genuinely loved.

Not because I was trying to sell it to somebody.

Because I experienced what it could do for me.

When Faith Becomes Part of the Sales Pitch

Something else has been weighing on my mind lately.

I’ve watched people promote wellness products while simultaneously speaking about God, prayer, faith, and spirituality.

And I want to be careful here, because my faith is incredibly important to me.

I believe in prayer. I believe God works through people. I believe we are called to share our gifts and help one another.

But I also believe we need to examine our intentions.

At what point does sharing our faith become using our faith to sell something?

There’s nothing inherently wrong with someone having a business, earning an income, and being open about their relationship with God.

But when a message about faith and helping others repeatedly leads back to a product, a purchase, or a financial opportunity, I start asking questions.

Are we genuinely trying to serve people?

Or are we using something as deeply personal as faith to build trust that ultimately leads to a sale?

Because those are two very different things.

And this is where I think the wellness industry, the fitness industry, and even the broader world of personal development can become complicated.

We take things that people genuinely need—hope, healing, belonging, encouragement, connection—and sometimes turn them into something to market.

I’ve seen it in fitness.

I’ve seen it in wellness.

And now I find myself noticing it when spirituality becomes part of the conversation.

I don’t believe God needs a marketing strategy.

I don’t believe prayer should come with a sales pitch.

And I certainly don’t believe someone should feel that buying a product is necessary to experience healing, growth, or spiritual connection.

My recovery has taught me a great deal about service.

Some of the people who have had the greatest impact on my life have never asked me for a dollar.

They’ve given me their time.

They’ve listened.

They’ve prayed with me.

They’ve shared their experiences.

They’ve shown up when life was difficult.

And they’ve helped me understand that some of the most meaningful things we can offer another human being cannot be purchased.

That doesn’t mean people shouldn’t be compensated for their work.

It means I think we need to be honest about the difference between serving someone and selling to someone.

Faith without works is dead. But faith isn’t a sales funnel, either.

And perhaps that’s the question we should all be willing to ask ourselves, regardless of the industry we’re in:

Am I sharing this because I genuinely believe it can help someone?

Or am I sharing it because I stand to gain something financially?

Maybe both can be true.

But I think we owe it to ourselves, and to the people who trust us, to recognize the difference.

Because when everything becomes a business opportunity, we risk losing sight of the very things that make us human.

Compassion. Connection. Integrity. Service.

And sometimes the most powerful thing we can give someone is something that doesn’t cost them anything at all.

You Cannot Purchase Consistency

This might be one of the biggest things I’ve learned over the years.

You cannot purchase consistency.

You can purchase a gym membership.

You can purchase a workout program.

You can purchase supplements, equipment, meal plans, and all the things someone tells you that you need.

But you cannot purchase the willingness to show up for yourself.

And that’s the part that matters.

Consistency isn’t glamorous.

It’s not always exciting.

Sometimes it’s going for a walk when you don’t feel like it.

Sometimes it’s choosing to go to bed instead of scrolling on your phone.

Sometimes it’s preparing a meal at home.

Sometimes it’s lifting weights.

Sometimes it’s resting because your body genuinely needs rest.

And sometimes it’s doing the same seemingly insignificant thing over and over until you realize those little choices have completely changed your life.

Consistency is something we practice, not something we purchase.

And that applies to so much more than fitness.

Choosing Your Hard

I’ve talked about this before, but life is hard.

It just is.

Marriage is hard. Parenting is hard. Recovery is hard. Taking care of yourself is hard. Facing uncomfortable emotions is hard.

But so is living with the consequences of avoiding those things.

For years, I chose alcohol as a way to escape what I didn’t want to feel.

I didn’t want to sit with discomfort.

I didn’t want to face certain emotions.

And for a while, drinking seemed like an easier answer.

Until it wasn’t.

Because eventually the things I was trying to avoid were still there.

And now I had even more to face.

Recovery required me to start doing things differently.

I had to become honest with myself.

I had to ask for help.

I had to go to meetings, work a program, go to therapy, examine my behaviors, and learn how to establish boundaries.

I had to accept that I couldn’t control other people.

And I had to learn that feelings weren’t something I needed to run away from.

I could feel them without allowing them to dictate every decision I made.

Was any of that easy?

Absolutely not.

But neither was the way I had been living.

I was going to experience hard things either way. I just had to decide which hard was going to help me grow.

The Body That Carried Me Through It All

Motherhood has given me an entirely different appreciation for the human body.

I’ve carried children, experienced loss, navigated complicated pregnancies, and watched my babies fight battles that no parent ever wants to witness.

When Tripp and Tanner were born at 29 weeks, our world changed.

There were medical decisions, uncertainty, appointments, and moments when the only thing I could do was trust the people caring for them and take life one day at a time.

I’ve seen modern medicine do extraordinary things.

I’ve also learned that our bodies and minds carry stress in ways we don’t always recognize while we’re living through it.

Sometimes you’re so busy surviving that you don’t realize how much you’ve been carrying until much later.

And when I look back on those seasons of my life, I can see how much of my energy went into taking care of everyone and everything around me.

Somewhere along the way, I had to learn that taking care of myself wasn’t selfish.

It was necessary.

Not because I needed to look a certain way.

Not because I needed to prove anything.

But because I wanted to be present for the life I had been given.

I wanted to feel strong.

I wanted to be healthy.

I wanted to live, not simply get through each day.

And I wanted my children to see what it looks like to keep growing, even when life doesn’t unfold the way you imagined.

Running Toward Something, Not Away From It

Running has become one of the greatest gifts in my life.

And I think what’s most beautiful about it is how much my relationship with it has changed.

There was a time when I wanted to escape my feelings.

Now I can go for a run and actually be present with them.

Some runs are incredible.

Some are uncomfortable.

Some are slow.

Some remind me that I am capable of far more than I ever gave myself credit for.

And some remind me that I’m human.

I can’t control the weather. I can’t control every ache or pain. I can’t control whether every training day goes according to plan.

But I can control how I respond.

I can listen to my body.

I can practice patience.

I can show up again tomorrow.

And in so many ways, running has become a reflection of recovery.

You don’t get stronger by doing everything perfectly.

You get stronger by continuing to show up, learning from what doesn’t work, and being willing to make adjustments.

There is no finish line where suddenly everything in life becomes easy.

There is simply the opportunity to keep growing.

Recovery Is About So Much More Than Not Drinking

One of the greatest misconceptions about recovery is that it’s simply about removing alcohol.

For me, not drinking was only the beginning.

Recovery has been about learning how to live.

How to communicate.

How to be honest.

How to accept people for who they are.

How to recognize resentment before it consumes me.

How to pause before reacting.

How to make amends when I’m wrong.

How to love people without trying to control them.

And how to understand that I can have boundaries and still have compassion.

I still have feelings.

My feelings still get hurt.

I still experience fear, frustration, sadness, and disappointment.

Recovery didn’t remove my humanity.

It taught me that I don’t have to respond to every emotion immediately.

Sometimes the pause is a few minutes.

Sometimes it’s a few hours.

Sometimes it’s a few days.

And that’s okay.

Because the goal isn’t to never experience discomfort.

The goal is to stop allowing discomfort to control my life.

And that has changed everything.

Faith Without Works

My faith has become a foundation in my life.

But faith doesn’t mean sitting around waiting for everything to magically change.

There’s a reason the words faith without works is dead resonate so deeply with me.

I can pray for peace, but I also have to practice the behaviors that allow peace into my life.

I can pray for better health, but I also have to take responsibility for the things within my control.

I can pray for stronger relationships, but I have to be willing to communicate honestly, forgive, and examine my own actions.

I can pray for growth, but I have to be willing to do the work.

And I have to accept that doing the work doesn’t guarantee a particular outcome.

Sometimes the answer looks different from what I expected.

Sometimes the growth happens in the waiting.

Sometimes the lesson is learning to let go.

And sometimes the greatest change happens when I stop trying to control everything around me and start paying attention to what’s happening within me.

Prevention Isn’t Perfection

I think this is where so much of the conversation about health gets complicated.

We hear about prevention, and suddenly it becomes another thing we’re supposed to do perfectly.

Eat perfectly.

Exercise perfectly.

Sleep perfectly.

Manage stress perfectly.

Have perfect hormones.

Have perfect gut health.

Never get sick.

Never struggle.

Never age.

And that’s simply not realistic.

You can make healthy choices and still develop a medical condition.

You can exercise regularly and still experience illness.

You can eat nutritious foods and still need medication.

You can do everything you know how to do and still face circumstances completely outside your control.

I’ve lived enough life to understand that.

Prevention isn’t a guarantee.

And health should never become another way to shame people for circumstances they didn’t choose.

But that doesn’t mean our daily habits are meaningless.

Quite the opposite.

I believe the things we do consistently can have an enormous impact on our quality of life, even when they can’t prevent every problem.

We deserve healthcare that takes our concerns seriously.

We deserve access to reliable information.

And we deserve to make informed decisions without feeling pressured by fear, shame, or someone’s sales pitch.

What Are We Really Selling?

Maybe that’s the question I’ve been coming back to the most.

Whether it’s healthcare, fitness, supplements, wellness programs, or the latest trend promising to change your life.

What are we really selling?

Are we helping people become healthier and more informed?

Or are we convincing them that something is wrong with them so we can sell them the next solution?

Because I don’t want to be part of an industry that profits from making people feel inadequate.

I want to be part of something that helps people recognize their own potential.

I want women to understand that strength training isn’t just about appearance.

I want people to know that movement doesn’t have to be punishment.

I want mothers to know that taking care of themselves matters, too.

I want people in recovery to understand that their lives can become so much bigger than the substance they once depended on.

And I want people to realize that meaningful change doesn’t always come from something we purchase.

Sometimes it comes from a decision.

A decision to be honest.

A decision to ask questions.

A decision to make an appointment.

A decision to go for a walk.

A decision to ask for help.

A decision to stop running away from something that needs our attention.

A decision to show up again tomorrow.

A Different Kind of Healthy

At 37 years old, I’ve learned that health looks very different to me than it once did.

It’s not just a number on a scale.

It’s not a clothing size.

It’s not how fast I run or how much weight I can lift.

It’s being able to get up in the morning and be present for my children.

It’s having the energy to live my life.

It’s being able to sit with uncomfortable feelings without needing to escape them.

It’s knowing when to push myself and when to rest.

It’s having boundaries that protect my peace.

It’s maintaining relationships that encourage growth.

It’s accepting that I will continue to make mistakes and that I can learn from them.

It’s being willing to ask questions without believing I have all the answers.

And it’s understanding that physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual health all deserve attention.

I don’t want to spend my life chasing perfection.

I want to spend it actually living.

And maybe that’s what all of these conversations have been leading me back to.

We don’t need another person telling us we’re not enough.

We don’t need another product promising to fix everything.

We don’t need to be afraid of every symptom or convinced that every struggle requires a purchase.

We need curiosity.

We need compassion.

We need good information.

We need accountability.

We need support.

And we need to recognize that the small choices we make every day really do add up.

Not because they guarantee us a perfect life.

But because they give us an opportunity to participate in the life we’ve been given.

I’ve spent enough time looking for ways to escape discomfort.

Today, I’d rather grow through it.

I’d rather ask the hard questions.

I’d rather take responsibility for what I can change and surrender what I cannot.

I’d rather keep showing up, imperfectly, consistently, and with gratitude.

Because the greatest transformation in my life didn’t come from something someone sold me.

It came from finally becoming willing to live differently.

And that is something no one can sell you.

God is good. 🙏🏻

Are we actually getting healthier, or are we just getting better at buying into the next trend?

I’ve been noticing something lately in the wellness world, and I can’t help but shake my head a little.

Everywhere you look, someone is talking about the latest way they’ve healed their body.

An elimination diet. A detox. A supplement protocol. A complete lifestyle overhaul.

And listen, I’m all for people feeling better.

But what fascinates me is how often the message starts with everything we supposedly need to eliminate from our lives, only to eventually circle back to being able to eat whatever we want again.

So what exactly was the lesson?

Was it that certain foods were the problem? Was it that our bodies needed time? Was it that we made several changes at once and aren’t entirely sure which one helped?

Or is it possible that sometimes we’re so eager to find an answer that we turn one person’s experience into a universal solution?

Because one minute we’re being told to eliminate everything, and the next we’re celebrating being able to eat everything again.

Maybe the goal should have been balance all along.

Now, I’m not dismissing anyone’s experience. There are legitimate reasons to eliminate certain foods, and some people genuinely benefit from doing so.

But somewhere along the way, wellness became less about understanding our individual bodies and more about following whatever the latest trend tells us to do.

And conveniently, there’s often something being sold along the way.

Funny how that works. 😂

When Did Food Become the Enemy?

Seriously, when did eating become so complicated?

One week carbohydrates are the enemy. The next week they’re essential.

Eggs are good. Eggs are bad. Wait, eggs are good again.

Fruit has too much sugar. Dairy is inflammatory. Gluten is apparently responsible for every ailment known to mankind.

And don’t even get me started on the number of people who suddenly believe they have a gut problem because someone on Instagram told them their bloating isn’t normal.

Newsflash: Sometimes bodies do body things.

That doesn’t mean we should ignore persistent symptoms. It means we should stop assuming every normal bodily function requires a diagnosis, a detox, or a $79 supplement.

Do food allergies, intolerances, and legitimate gastrointestinal conditions exist? Absolutely.

Can elimination diets be useful when medically appropriate? Of course.

But eliminating half the grocery store doesn’t automatically mean you’re healthier.

And feeling better after changing your diet doesn’t necessarily prove that every food you eliminated was causing inflammation.

Sometimes you’ve changed your overall eating habits. Sometimes symptoms fluctuate. Sometimes you’ve actually identified a trigger.

But feeling better isn’t the same thing as proving a diagnosis.

And someone’s personal experience isn’t automatically a prescription for everyone else.

The Wellness Industry Has a Consistency Problem

Here’s where I really start scratching my head.

We live in a world where wellness advice seems to change faster than the weather in Michigan.

One minute we’re being told to cut something out completely.

The next minute there’s a new study, a new trend, a new influencer, or a new product promising the exact opposite.

And somehow we’re supposed to keep up?

No wonder people are confused.

Listen, I own a fitness business.

I believe in movement. I believe in nutrition. I believe in taking care of the body we’ve been given.

But I also believe in birthday cake.

I believe in pizza with my kids.

I believe in enjoying food without needing to research whether I’m destroying my gut microbiome.

And as someone who runs marathons, I can promise you that carbohydrates are not my enemy.

They’re fuel.

I’ve learned that eating less isn’t always the answer.

Sometimes the answer is eating MORE.

Sometimes the answer is resting.

Sometimes it’s recognizing that our bodies are asking for something rather than assuming they’re doing something wrong.

I believe health should give us more freedom, not less.

Your Body Isn’t a Problem That Needs to Be Marketed Back to You

I think women, especially mothers, are particularly vulnerable to these messages.

We’re tired.

We’re juggling families, careers, relationships, and responsibilities.

Our bodies change. Our hormones fluctuate. Sometimes we don’t feel our best.

And then someone comes along and tells us that everything we’re experiencing can be fixed if we just eliminate enough foods, buy the right supplements, or follow their special protocol.

It’s appealing because it offers an answer.

And sometimes, when you’re exhausted or frustrated and nobody seems to be listening to your concerns, an answer feels like exactly what you’ve been searching for.

I understand that.

I’ve experienced the frustration of wanting to better understand my own body and feeling like getting answers wasn’t as simple as it should be.

But not every uncomfortable symptom has a simple explanation.

And not every solution comes in a package with an affiliate link.

We deserve information that helps us make informed decisions, not messaging that makes us afraid of our own bodies.

The More You Know, the More You Grow

Here’s something else I’ve come to appreciate.

Knowledge is powerful.

But not necessarily the kind of knowledge that comes from watching a 30-second reel telling you that everything you’re eating is slowly destroying your body.

I’m talking about actually getting to know yourself.

Get appropriate bloodwork when your symptoms, medical history, or preventive care needs warrant it.

Ask questions about your results.

Advocate for yourself when something doesn’t feel right.

Use your fitness tracker to learn about your activity, recovery, sleep, and training patterns.

But remember, those numbers are tools, not a measure of your worth.

Go to therapy.

Find a support group.

Surround yourself with people who encourage you to grow, who challenge your thinking, and who support you through the uncomfortable parts of life.

Learn about nutrition.

Learn about movement.

Learn about mental health.

Learn how stress can affect your body.

And perhaps most importantly, learn to recognize the difference between someone educating you and someone trying to sell you something.

Because health isn’t just about what you’re putting into your body.

It’s also about what you’re carrying emotionally.

It’s about the relationships you’re maintaining, the boundaries you’re setting, the sleep you’re getting, and the support you’re willing to accept.

And no, I’m not suggesting that therapy, bloodwork, a fitness tracker, or a support group is going to magically fix everything either.

I’m suggesting that we have so many ways to better understand ourselves, and we should be willing to explore them thoughtfully.

The goal isn’t to collect more data so we can find more things wrong with ourselves. The goal is to use what we learn to take better care of ourselves.

What Running, Recovery, and Motherhood Have Taught Me

I can tell you that running has taught me things about my body that no elimination diet ever could.

I’ve learned how to push myself.

I’ve learned how to rest.

I’ve learned that fueling properly matters just as much as the miles I’m putting in.

And I’ve learned that my body is capable of far more than I sometimes give it credit for.

Recovery has taught me something equally important.

I cannot control everything.

I cannot fix everything.

And I certainly cannot find peace by obsessing over every little thing that might go wrong.

Recovery has taught me to look inward.

To be honest with myself.

To seek support.

To recognize unhealthy patterns.

To accept what I cannot change while taking responsibility for the things I can.

And motherhood?

Well, motherhood has taught me that sometimes the healthiest thing I can do is stop trying to make everything perfect.

Sometimes it’s sitting down and eating dinner with my kids.

Sometimes it’s choosing sleep over another workout.

Sometimes it’s recognizing that being present matters more than checking every box on a wellness checklist.

And sometimes it’s eating a piece of cake without giving it a second thought.

None of these experiences has given me all the answers.

But they’ve taught me to ask better questions.

Maybe Health Isn’t Supposed to Be So Complicated

You know what I’ve learned through fitness, running, motherhood, recovery, and life?

Consistency matters.

Eating enough matters.

Moving your body matters.

Sleeping matters.

Managing stress matters.

Having people you can lean on matters.

And having a healthy relationship with food matters.

There’s room for intentional nutrition and a piece of cake.

There’s room for taking your health seriously and enjoying your life.

There’s room for science, individual needs, and common sense.

We don’t have to turn every meal into a moral decision.

We don’t have to fear every ingredient we can’t pronounce.

We don’t have to assume that every symptom means our bodies are failing us.

And we certainly don’t have to purchase someone else’s version of wellness to be healthy.

I’m not saying we should ignore our bodies or stop asking questions.

Quite the opposite.

Ask MORE questions.

Learn MORE.

Advocate for yourself MORE.

But be mindful of where your information is coming from, who benefits from the message, and whether the advice is actually appropriate for you.

Because the more you know about yourself, the less likely you are to blindly follow someone else’s idea of what healthy should look like.

And maybe the healthiest thing we can do is stop allowing the wellness industry to convince us that we’re constantly in need of fixing.

Choose Your Hard

And here’s the thing I keep coming back to.

None of this is EASY.

Taking care of yourself isn’t always easy.

Making time to move your body isn’t easy.

Learning how to properly fuel yourself isn’t easy.

Going to therapy and facing the parts of yourself you’d rather avoid isn’t easy.

Recovery isn’t easy.

Motherhood isn’t easy.

Quitting an addiction is not easy.

Setting boundaries, asking questions, advocating for yourself, and making changes that actually last?

None of it is easy.

But neither is living in a constant cycle of restriction, frustration, confusion, and starting over every Monday.

Neither is spending your life convinced that something is wrong with you because someone on the internet told you so.

And neither is chasing the next quick fix, hoping this will finally be the thing that changes everything.

Choose your hard.

Choose the hard that teaches you something.

Choose the hard that helps you grow.

Choose the hard that builds confidence instead of fear.

Choose the hard that allows you to look back six months, a year, or five years from now and recognize just how far you’ve come.

Because I’ve learned that the things that have changed my life the most weren’t necessarily the easiest.

They required consistency. Patience. Honesty. Support. And a willingness to keep showing up, even when I didn’t feel like it.

And no, I’m not suggesting we need to make life harder than it already is. There’s no prize for suffering unnecessarily.

I’m saying that if we’re going to put effort into something, let’s put it into building a life we actually enjoy living.

I don’t want to spend my life eliminating everything that might hurt me. I want to spend my life learning what helps me live fully.

And if that includes a piece of birthday cake, pizza with my kids, a whole lot of carbohydrates before my next marathon, or a bag of Albanese gummy worms?

I’m good with that.

Because life’s too short to be afraid of a gummy worm. It’s a moderation thing. 😉

And it’s certainly too short to spend it chasing someone else’s definition of healthy.

Choose your hard. But make sure it’s leading you toward a life you actually want to live.

Food for thought. Pun absolutely intended. ❤️

God is good!

Recovery has taught me that I don’t need the whole staircase. I need the next step.

And then the next one.

And then the next one.

Some days you won’t understand why you’re doing any of it.

Keep going anyway.

Because eventually there will be a morning, a conversation, a moment of peace, or some tiny ordinary piece of your life when you suddenly realize:

Oh.

This is why.

I wrote this on my phone, but I have to post the link from my computer because I deleted my Facebook app because social media continues to have more toxic content and fear mongering than positivity. And like our almost 13-year-old says, “you can’t have a positive life with a negative mindset.”

We are headed to visit Family this weekend. A weekend to be present with our children.

To put the phones down.

To laugh.

To make memories.

To actually be where our feet are instead of constantly consuming what everyone else is doing, saying, arguing about or buying.

And I am just so damn grateful.

Not because everything in my life is perfect. It isn’t.

But because I am finally learning that peace doesn’t come from getting everything I want, having everyone understand me, or being validated by the world around me.

Sometimes peace is incredibly simple.

It’s my kids.

It’s my family.

It’s a book instead of a scroll.

It’s prayer instead of panic.

It’s presence instead of distraction.

It’s trusting God instead of trying to control the outcome.

It’s realizing that the life I kept searching outside of myself for is happening right in front of me.

This is why.

Maybe choosing your hard was never really about proving how tough you are.

Maybe it’s about choosing, over and over again, the things that bring you back to what matters.

And maybe, if you do that long enough, you realize something pretty incredible:

You weren’t missing out at all.

You were finally learning how to be here.

962 days without alcohol.

But God, it has become so much more than that.

Because somewhere along the way, recovery stopped being only about what I gave up.

It became about everything I got back.

My faith.
My presence.
My health.
My mornings.
My family.
Myself.

962 days without alcohol—and a life I no longer need to escape from.

God, I am grateful.

🙏🏻🫶🏻🥺🤍

Sometimes life has a strange way of bringing things full circle.

The woman involved in the whole “shit incident” came back. She deleted her original post, publicly apologized, and forfeited her points.

And honestly? I respect that.

An apology doesn’t erase what happened, but taking responsibility still matters. Consequences matter. What we choose to do next matters.

That is something recovery has taught me over and over again.

We can make mistakes. We can react from fear, pride, competitiveness, insecurity, or ego—but eventually, we have to face ourselves. We have to admit where we were wrong, make amends when we can, and then prove through our actions that we are willing to change.

That last part is important.

An apology is a moment.

Change is a pattern.

Consistency compounds.

The same principle applies to recovery, healing, fitness, and marathon training. One hard workout doesn’t make you a stronger runner. One healthy meal doesn’t transform your body. One prayer doesn’t create an entire spiritual life. One apology doesn’t rebuild trust.

But the small choices we make repeatedly begin to shape us.

Mile after mile.

Day after day.

Choice after choice.

Right now, I’m not interested in staying focused on someone else’s mistake. She came back, took responsibility, and did what she could to make it right. What she does from here belongs to her.

What I do from here belongs to me.

And what’s on my radar now is training to do better.

I recently ran a marathon that taught me more than how to finish 26.2 miles. It taught me how to race. It showed me where I’m strong, where I can improve, and what might be possible when I pair everything I’ve learned with an intentional plan.

So, I’m planning.

I’m training.

And on November 28, I’m running another marathon.

Not because I need to prove that the last one wasn’t enough. Not because I’m chasing perfection. I’m doing it because I know there is more in me—and I’m willing to do the consistent work required to find it.

That’s the beauty of accountability: it doesn’t have to become shame. It can become direction.

We acknowledge what happened.

We learn from it.

We make a plan.

And then we keep showing up.

Because whether we’re rebuilding our lives, repairing harm, strengthening our bodies, or preparing to stand at another starting line, the truth remains the same:

Our actions matter.

Our patterns matter.

And consistency compounds.

If you’re thinking about getting started, I do have some availability now that 6/6 kiddos are in school!

For years, social media was flooded with fear and people telling everyone else what they should or shouldn’t do with their own bodies. Don’t eat this. Don’t do that. Follow this rule. Get vaccinated or you’re putting someone else’s grandma at risk. Families were told they couldn’t even sit beside their loved ones in nursing homes because it was considered too unsafe.

At the same time, we hear “my body, my choice.”

Okay. Then where exactly is the line between bodily autonomy, personal responsibility, and how our choices affect everyone around us?

And now we have a woman who literally shit herself and continued on, and people are praising her for pushing through.

I’m sorry, but no. 😂

Last Friday, Travis and I dealt with a situation involving two of our kids and poop, and let me tell you — it was UTTERLY disgusting. We teach our children basic hygiene. We don’t teach them that spreading feces around is admirable because they were committed to finishing what they started.

There’s perseverance, and then there’s “please go clean yourself up.”

We have gotten so determined to celebrate absolutely everything as empowering, brave, or inspirational that sometimes basic common sense gets left behind.

You can admire determination and still say, “Girl, go wash your ass.”

Both things can be true. 😂

And if you feel this take is disempowering, you are absolutely entitled to that opinion. We can agree to disagree.

Amen. 🙏🏻 💩

A few days ago, I came across a post that stopped me for a minute.

I’m not going to share the post itself, because what stayed with me wasn’t necessarily the exact words. It was where they took my mind.

It was essentially about how much of what we see online isn’t actually real life. How easily we get pulled into outrage, comparison, arguments, fear, and everybody else’s opinions.

And how sometimes the answer is incredibly simple:

Log off.
Go outside.
Talk to real people.
Help somebody.
Pray.
Get closer to God.

And I thought…

YES.

Because I keep coming full circle to this idea that we have choices every single day about what kind of human being we are going to be.

Not someday.

Not when circumstances get better.

Not when everybody around us starts behaving the way we think they should.

TODAY.

And this week has been such a perfect example of that for me.

Last Saturday, I ran a marathon.

Wednesday, I ran 10 miles.

My legs were HEAVY. 😂

Nothing hurt. Nothing felt wrong. My body was simply reminding me, “Ma’am, we literally just ran 26.2 miles.”

Then yesterday, I ran another 5.

And my body felt GOOD.

Still recovering? Absolutely.

But honestly, my recovery has been pretty incredible—and I think part of that is because I’m actually allowing recovery to be recovery.

I’m fueling.
I’m resting.
I’m moving.
I’m listening to my body.
I’m accepting support at home.

And then apparently my body had one more request. 😂

After the first full week of school, I slept for 10.5 HOURS last night.

Ten and a half.

And I woke up this morning feeling REFRESHED.

Rested body.
Fresh energy.
Quieter mind.

And instead of immediately reaching for the noise of the world, I got to start my morning with meditation and prayer—with one of my twins beside me.

And THAT felt important.

Because peace isn’t just something I find when I’m alone.

It’s something we can create inside our homes.

It’s feeling supported.

It’s slowing down.

It’s letting our kids see us pray.

It’s teaching them that being still matters just as much as being productive.

It’s showing them that taking care of ourselves allows us to show up better for the people we love.

And maybe one of the biggest changes in me has been realizing that I don’t have to do everything myself.

There is strength in discipline.

There is strength in showing up.

But there is also strength in resting, receiving support, and allowing the people who love you to show up for you.

Ten and a half hours of sleep.

A quiet morning.

Support at home.

Meditation and prayer with one of my babies.

It wasn’t just rest.

It felt like alignment.

Body.
Mind.
Home.
Faith.

And yesterday brought another piece of this together for me, too.

I sat with people from all over the world in a spiritual meeting, and somehow we ended up talking about trees and dreams.

And I remember thinking how incredibly COOL that was.

Different places.
Different lives.
Different experiences.
Different perspectives.

And yet here we were—connected by this desire to grow.

To be still.

To listen.

To learn.

To become better humans.

There is something incredibly hopeful about that.

Because the internet can absolutely connect us through anger.

But it can also connect us through GROWTH.

Through recovery.

Through faith.

Through curiosity.

Through conversations we may never have had otherwise.

Through people we may never have met otherwise.

And we get to choose which version we participate in.

THIS is also a choice.

And maybe that’s part of what I’ve been learning spiritually, too.

Growth doesn’t happen in one giant moment.

Neither does healing.

Neither does peace.

Neither does becoming the person God is calling you to be.

It happens through tiny choices made over and over and over again.

Running has taught me that better than almost anything.

People will say:

“I could never run a marathon.”

“I’m not a runner.”

“I could never do what you do.”

But I didn’t wake up one morning able to run 26.2 miles.

I started somewhere.

One mile.

Then another.

I trained.

I practiced.

I showed up on days I felt great and days my legs felt like bricks.

I learned how to fuel.

I learned how to recover.

I learned when to push and, maybe more importantly, when NOT to push.

Thousands of tiny choices eventually became a marathon.

And I think life works exactly the same way.

Sometimes we say “I don’t” so many times that eventually we start believing it means “I can’t.”

But what if you tried?

Not the entire marathon today.

Just the next mile.

Not fixing your entire life today.

Just making one better choice.

CHOOSE YOUR HARD.

Discipline is hard.

Living without discipline is hard.

Getting sober is hard.

Addiction is hard.

Setting boundaries is hard.

Living without them is hard.

Forgiveness is hard.

Resentment is hard.

Growing spiritually is hard.

Staying stuck is hard.

Doing the next right thing can be hard.

Living with ourselves when we continually choose not to is hard, too.

We don’t always get to choose whether something is hard.

But so often, we DO get to choose which hard we’re willing to carry.

And I’ve learned that discipline isn’t punishment.

DISCIPLINE CREATES FREEDOM.

The more choices I make that align with the person I want to be, the less power the outside world seems to have over me.

And that brings me right back to the post that started all of this.

YOU DON’T HAVE TO PARTICIPATE.

You don’t have to attend every argument you’re invited to.

You don’t have to hate somebody because you disagree with them.

You don’t have to become outraged because everyone else is outraged.

And you certainly don’t have to wish harm on another human being because they see the world differently than you do.

We have somehow created this culture where disagreement can immediately turn into dehumanization.

But we have a choice there, too.

I can disagree with you and still recognize your humanity.

I can believe something deeply without needing to destroy someone who believes differently.

I can decide something isn’t for me and simply walk away.

I can pray.

I can pause.

I can ask myself:

What is the next right action for ME?

Because I’m responsible for my side of the street.

And THAT is where I think peace begins.

For a long time, I thought peace would arrive when everything around me finally settled down.

When people acted the way I wanted.

When relationships felt secure.

When circumstances changed.

When I had enough.

When everyone understood me.

When life stopped being hard.

But that’s not peace.

That’s trying to control the conditions.

And control is exhausting.

THE WORLD DOESN’T HAVE TO BE PEACEFUL FOR ME TO HAVE PEACE.

Peace is something different.

Peace is being able to stand in a world that can be loud, divided, messy, and sometimes downright heartbreaking and still ask:

God, what would You have me do next?

Not:

How do I make everyone else change?

Not:

How do I win this argument?

Not:

How do I make them understand me?

Just:

WHAT IS MY NEXT RIGHT ACTION?

Maybe it’s speaking.

Maybe it’s staying quiet.

Maybe it’s apologizing.

Maybe it’s setting a boundary.

Maybe it’s helping somebody.

Maybe it’s running five miles.

Maybe it’s sleeping for 10.5 hours.

Maybe it’s accepting support at home.

Maybe it’s sitting quietly with your child and praying.

Maybe it’s sitting with people from around the world talking about trees and dreams and God and realizing how connected we actually are.

Maybe it’s simply choosing not to add more hate to a world that already has enough of it.

That’s where I want my energy to go.

Because at the end of the day, I can’t control the whole world.

I can control what I feed.

I can control what gets my attention.

I can control what I contribute.

I can keep working on my body, my recovery, my sobriety, my relationships, my faith, my home, and my own spiritual growth.

One choice at a time.

One run.

One prayer.

One meeting.

One boundary.

One conversation.

One surrendered thought.

One act of kindness.

One decision not to react.

One really good night of sleep. 😂

One next right action.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until eventually those tiny choices build something.

Maybe they build a marathoner.

Maybe they build recovery.

Maybe they rebuild faith.

Maybe they build a peaceful home.

Maybe they build character.

Maybe they simply build a human being who leaves the world a little better than she found it.

And maybe that’s enough.

We are all capable of more than we think.

We can all try.

We can all make a different choice today.

We can choose what we feed.

We can choose what gets our energy.

We can choose what gets access to our peace.

And when I don’t know what to choose?

I can get quiet.

I can turn it over.

I can ask God to direct me toward the next right thing.

And then I can take one step.

Because that’s really all a marathon is anyway.

One foot in front of the other.

And maybe life isn’t all that different.

Choose your hard.
Choose your heart.
Choose discipline.
Accept support.
Protect your peace.
Love people anyway.
Take the next right action.

And keep going.

God is indeed good. 🤍🙏🏼

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.