It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t even close. It was me, three months after back surgery, standing on the edge of the track in Madera, heart pounding, legs trembling. I’d spent weeks in therapy, doing stretches, walking, lifting weights. But this? This was different. This was the moment I’d been waiting for—and dreading.
I took a step. Then another. Then—*bam*—my knee buckled, and I went down hard on the track. Everyone laughed, even me. Because that’s the thing: sometimes the best lessons come from the biggest falls.
I got up. I kept going. And that day, I didn’t finish the mile. But I didn’t quit, either. And that’s what matters. Because healing isn’t a straight line. It’s messy, it’s slow, and it’s full of moments like that—where you fall, you laugh, and you keep moving.
So here’s to the first run. The one that humbles you. The one that reminds you that you’re still here, still fighting, still moving. And that’s enough.