Ten Years and Two Feet: A Love Letter to My Running Feet

The sun peeks through the leaves, dappling the familiar path ahead. Ten years, countless kilometres, and many worn-down shoes later, it still amazes me how these feet carry me where my heart wants to go. My journey with running started with a spark – a tiny flame of competition that flickered with each passing finisher. I chased numbers, podiums, and the impossible echo of someone else’s pace.

Run Ballarat

But time, the ever-present sculptor, reshaped me. Muscles shifted, joints ached, and the fire of comparison dwindled to embers. Instead, a new flame rose – a slow, steady burn of self-discovery. I started running for the sunrise, for the wind whispering through my hair, for the rhythm of my breath. I ran for the quiet conversations with myself, the unfurling of thoughts under a vast sky.

I’m not the gazelle I once was. Some days, the kilometres whisper tales of slower paces and heavier strides. My reflection shows the passage of time, etched in laugh lines and crow’s feet. But here’s the thing: this slower, softer version of me? She’s strong. She’s consistent. She shows up, laces up, and faces down the asphalt, all because she loves the dance – the one her heart and her feet choreograph every single step.

The races remain, a beautiful burst of adrenaline and community. But they’re not the sun around which my world revolves anymore. Today, I run for the joy of movement, for the endorphin rush that paints my world in technicolour. I run for the silence that speaks volumes, for the connection to my body, for the sheer, undiluted joy of being present in this moving moment.

Ten years, two feet, and a heart full of miles later, I finally understand. It’s not about who I was, who I’m supposed to be, or who I’m running against. It’s about this journey, this dance of breath and earth, this symphony of sweat and silence, this love song between me and my two loyal, worn-down, magnificent feet. So, here’s to the next kilometres, the next sunrise, the next whispered conversation with myself. May we always run, not towards the finish lines, but towards the boundless horizon of our potential.

WTF Lumberjack

This, my friends, is my love letter to running. Not to the medals, not to the numbers, but to the freedom, the peace, and the quiet triumph of every single step. Lace-up, step out, and join me. I’ll see you on the path.

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