The Beauty of Beginning Again
I laced up my running shoes for the first time…again. If ever something reflected my lack of confidence and resistance to risk, running was it.
How many times had I set goals, started, and quit? I’m naturally athletic. My nickname in youth softball was Mighty Mouse. So why couldn’t I stay committed to this? Why couldn’t I summon that same inner athlete to persevere?
The shame was decades long and deep. Even when I couldn’t name it, I could feel it. Shame was heavy and familiar, a quiet companion I didn’t invite but learned to live with. A crushing, suffocating constant running through my entire being. I preferred running inside instead of out. No one could see me. No one could see my struggle or my mediocrity. In a practical sense, no one could attack or kidnap me. Hidden felt safe.
The mental noise was the hardest part. I told myself it was too hard, staying stuck in the initial struggle instead of pressing through it. I believed something was wrong with me—that others could run successfully, but I couldn’t. Whether it was one day, two weeks, or three months, the end always seemed to arrive before I ever found my stride.
Still, it kept calling me. In my dreams, my daydreams, my everyday life. My body yearned to hit the pavement and run. So I would start, drown in self-loathing and frustration, then step away again. Rinse, lather, repeat.
Until one day, I felt the Lord whisper, “I want you to start running with Me.”
It marked the next phase of my journey. It was a meeting place for the stubborn, lingering things that had not yet healed. Running became a physical way to release damaging mindsets and the emotional trauma still lodged in my body. It was time to cross over into next, and I was quite literally going to run there, releasing the remnants of my past with every step.
Running presented the opportunity to face shame, once named, head-on. It became another act of reclamation and restoration.
And it’s different this time. Though I’m still in the early stages and still learning to find a steady rhythm, so much has changed. The voice of shame and condemnation no longer pushes me to start too hard, too fast. It doesn’t convince me that I can’t do it. The mental fortitude born and strengthened through years in a traumatic wilderness now meets me here. The same endurance that once helped me survive is now teaching me to thrive. The way hardship taught me to redefine success has become a powerful tool in this new endeavor. Because so much of running, I’ve learned, truly is a mental game.
Little pieces of wisdom have found their way to me through others. Things like, “The first mile is almost always the hardest.” Running is one of those things I always tried to figure out on my own. No coaches or running friends. Why weren’t we taught the true foundations and mechanics of running in physical education, instead of just being told to run laps, the pacer, or the mile?
When all someone really needs is a pair of shoes to get moving, why wouldn’t we teach it more intentionally? Why wouldn’t we lay the foundation differently, with basic mechanics placed in students’ hands, so they know how to start well? Because no matter the season of life or circumstance, running is almost always available in some form or fashion. Running can be survival, therapy, and strength. It will never be everyone’s cup of tea, but what if how we presented it helped some children learn to appreciate it? To want it? What if that foundation helped them know that as hardships come and go, seasons of loneliness arrive, and adulthood sometimes proves harder than expected, running is a faithful companion?
Perhaps I was taught the fundamentals and simply had no interest or cannot remember. That is certainly a possibility. After all, childhood is further and further behind me. Perhaps there are teachers who do teach what I was not taught. There is no criticism here - only reflection. But even back then, as I forced myself around my junior high gymnasium or track, the voice of shame and defeat was loud. “I can’t” screamed louder than any other voice. My need to hide, to do just well enough to hit the mark without drawing attention to myself, was intense.
Regardless, I keep finding myself back at the starting line. Decades later, I see the quiet gift hidden in it all: the beauty of beginning again. Grace has met me there every time. Whether it is running, writing, or building… No matter how hesitant the step, how loud the voice of shame and defeat, or how slow the pace, grace accompanies me. God’s patience and mercy cheer me forward.
And if those decades of time have taught me anything, it’s that I am never starting from scratch, only from experience wrapped in new mercy.
Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness.” Lamentations 3:22-23
He doesn’t just meet me as I lace up my runners. He is in every breeze, every defeated beginning, and reluctant step. Defeat cannot keep its hold. It isn’t His nature. So I show up again and again and again, imagining Him standing there with a proud smile, ready to coach me through. Patient enough to cheer me through defeat into resurrection.
