One thousand ninety seven days.
Three years.
Three years ago today, I celebrated my personal victories on a half-marathon course. It wasn’t my fastest time - I didn’t have a place in my heart for it; I also don’t to this day. This was all was about being on a path to recovery, a self-”ish” type of journey in which I tried to heal from the inside out. I didn’t realize how important those miles would be, until I woke up the next morning to run another.
Then another and another.
As the days passed, I seemed to keep going. Yea…I was going to be one of those streakers.
Another mile and another.
Three years ago today, my grandmother celebrated her last birthday on this earth and I missed it. I missed being with her for that last time.
Thirty-one days later she was gone. That night, I sobbed through one lonely mile on my treadmill. She stayed with me the entire time, even though she had slipped away 19 hours prior.
Gone. Wherever that really was or is. It’s just not here. I did my best to not get consumed with the guilt of missing her last birthday for a race. In the freeze-frame moments following her death I vowed to keep moving. Each of those miles would be a reflection…an offering…a prayer of sorts dedicated to her.
I’ve been careful to not call it a “run” streak - let’s be honest, some of those miles are barely a crawl. It’s just the mile, a daily mile that I have done in all conditions, all attire, all times of the day/night, and all emotions. It’s my routine - a non-negotiable in my day - that has helped ease my mind.
Through this collection of miles, a living album of sorts, I realized that it’s not what we do that matters…it’s how we do it. I move forward with purpose; I move forward with intention.
Until I blow out my candles for the last time, I will just keep going.
