Coming Home

Last night marked my return to the running world. Butterflies danced around my stomach with the thought of running again after a near 3 year hiatus. Any thoughts of self-doubt quickly dissapated the moment I laced up my too-new-looking shoes. Slipping into those shoes was like being enveloped in the familiar embrace of an old friend.

The class consisted of a diverse bunch ranging from non-runners to those who had a marathon or two under their belt. Most of us, though, were runners who, for various reasons, had fallen out of touch with running. The class was an opportunity to become reacquainted with the sport, a promise of new beginnings. Once a runner, always a runner.

My feet hit the pavement, surprisingly quick and light. I found my pace, lulled into a zone by the rhythmic cadence of my steps and breathing. 2 breaths in, 2 breaths out.

I can. Do this.
I can. Do this.
I can. Do this.

It was, in a word, exhilarating. Like coming home. And for the first time in my life, I felt like I was not running away from the demons that were chasing me, desperately trying to escape. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was running toward something.