Showing up and Progress

Alright, friends, let’s talk progress. Specifically, the kind that doesn’t come wrapped in a shiny trophy or announced by a cheering stadium crowd. I’m talking about the progress that unfolds like a wilted leaf unfurling in the sun – slow, subtle, and undeniably satisfying.

Because, let’s be real, my post-holiday attempt at “reviving my inner gazelle” was less graceful gazelle and more lumbering sloth. Remember all those delicious Christmas desserts? They seemed like a good idea at the time, like, “Sure, I’ll run later, Christmas calories don’t count, right?” Famous last words, my friends. Famous last words.

So, there I was, huffing and puffing like a steam engine fueled by pav (not a recommended energy source, by the way). Legs like lead, lungs on fire, and a mental soundtrack that was one long loop of “Why did I agree to do this again?” It wasn’t pretty.

But here’s the thing: even my glorious anti-climax of a run, the one where I probably scared away more kangaroos than I passed kilometers, counted. It counted because progress, my friends, isn’t always about breaking records or setting the world on fire. Sometimes, it’s about showing up, even when your legs feel like soggy marshmallows and your brain screams, “Go back to bed, your book awaits!”

The next day, after a restorative sleep that felt like a spa day for my soul, I laced up again. Same route, same me, but something had shifted. My legs may have still been marshmallow-adjacent, but they moved a little easier. My lungs didn’t sound like a dragon with bronchitis. And, maybe most importantly, I smiled. That’s right, I smiled while running! Not a full-on grin, mind you, more like a “Wow, I’m not dying…yet” kind of smirk. But it was a smile nonetheless.

And that, my friends, is the magic of baby steps. The little gains, the slow unfurling of progress, the quiet victories that whisper, “Hey, you’re doing alright.” Because sometimes, the greatest achievement isn’t winning the race, but showing up, even when you feel like a walking disaster zone. So, here’s to the anti-climactic progress, the stumbles and the slow climbs, the baby steps that lead to giant leaps (eventually). And remember, if you ever see a woman running past looking suspiciously like a slightly out-of-breath wombat, that’s just me, celebrating the glorious, hilarious journey of getting back on track, one marshmallow leg at a time.

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