It’s 1.5 miles if you hook a left out of my driveway, take a left at the next street you come to, turn around at the cul de sac and come back down my road. There are exactly three hills that equal 180 feet of elevation. And eight of my neighbors have dogs (most of which are friendly). I know this because I’ve run it over 100 times in the year since we moved into our house.

Today is Global Running Day, and I’ve wrestled with what I wanted to say about it since I laced up my Asics this morning. I almost decided not to say anything at all. After all, it’s easier to ignore your feelings about something if you don’t bring it up.

I love to run, or at least I used to. I loved that the rush of adrenaline felt the same crossing as Start Line as it did a Finish Line. I loved keeping track of how many miles I managed to run in a week. I loved exploring my town at 5 a.m. getting my miles and quality conversations with my running partners in before I started my day.

Lately, it feels more like a chore than a hobby. My heart hasn’t been in it, and I’m learning that sometimes that’s okay. I hope to soon greet running like an old friend; one where the conversation picks up effortlessly and the minutes turn to hours as the miles come and go. But for now, I’m choosing to put on my shoes, start my watch and take it one step at a time.

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