Monday Miles and the Magic of the Messy Middle

The humidity was already hanging heavy over Sycamore Street when I laced up my sneakers at 6:00 AM this morning. Mark had been gone for thirty minutes, headed to the new site, and the house was that specific kind of quiet that only exists when two children and a Golden Retriever are still deep in their dreams. I hit the pavement for my three-mile loop, feeling the Cedar Falls Harvest 5K getting closer with every rhythmic strike of my feet. My legs felt a little heavier than they did during yesterday’s stretches, but I kept reminding myself that the strength isn't just in the speed; it's in the showing up when you’d rather stay under the covers.

By the time I hit the two-mile mark, passing Joanne’s house, I saw her through the morning mist. She was already out in that familiar pink bathrobe, meticulously deadheading her petunias as if it were the most important job in the world. We shared a little wave—me breathless and sweaty, her serene and focused. It struck me how much of our lives are spent in these small, repetitive motions. Whether it’s training for a race, tending a garden, or pouring candles in a kitchen that still smells like last night’s Sunday sauce, there is a profound dignity in the maintenance of things.

I got home just as Noah was emerging from his room, rubbing his eyes and wearing his favorite velociraptor pajamas. Emma wasn't far behind, clutching a math worksheet she’d turned into a canvas for a majestic-looking horse with an oversized mane. It’s Monday, which means I don't head into Miller’s Hardware today, but the 'Lucy’s Little Light' orders have been trickling in steadily after my weekend post, so my kitchen table quickly transformed from a breakfast nook into a makeshift fulfillment center.

I spent a good portion of the morning balancing the books for the candle business. Seeing the numbers grow, even by small increments, does something for my soul. It’s not just about the extra grocery money or the ability to tuck a little more away into our savings; it’s about the realization that I am capable of building something from scratch. For a long time, I think I defined myself solely through the roles of 'Mark’s wife' or 'the kids’ mom,' but these little jars of soy wax and fragrance are a physical manifestation of my own growth. I am more than the sum of my chores, and that realization makes me feel more desirable, more present, and more alive when Mark walks through the door in the evening.

Speaking of Miller’s, I actually had to run by the shop briefly this afternoon to pick up some heavy-duty twine for my packaging. The scent of sawdust hit me the moment I opened the door, and Mr. Miller gave me that gruff but kind nod from behind the counter. He mentioned that he’d seen me running earlier this week and told me I looked 'determined.' It’s funny how a single word from an old boss can bolster your self-worth. I walked out of there standing a little taller, feeling like the athlete I’m trying to become rather than just a mom trying to fit into her old jeans.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in a cloud of 'Autumn Harvest' scent, which is the new fragrance I’m testing. It’s a mix of spiced apple and cedarwood, and it reminded me so much of the upcoming race. Megan stopped by for twenty minutes between her shifts at the bakery, bringing a couple of 'mistake' croissants that weren't quite pretty enough for the display case. We sat on the back porch while the kids played with Biscuit in the grass. We talked about our pickleball game from Saturday and how my backhand is finally—finally!—starting to behave itself.

Megan has this way of looking at me and knowing exactly when I’m overthinking things. She reminded me that we are in the 'messy middle' of so many things right now: the middle of the summer, the middle of our thirties, and the middle of our big goals. It’s easy to feel impatient for the finish line, whether that’s the 5K tape or a specific number in the bank account, but the middle is where the actual life happens. The middle is the sweat, the sawdust, and the sticky croissant crumbs on my fingers.

Mark just pulled into the driveway, five minutes earlier than usual. I can see him through the window, wiping dust off his forehead before he heads inside to greet the chaos of the kids. I’ve realized that our nine years of marriage have been built in these 5:20 PM moments—the transition from the work self to the home self, and the way we choose to see each other through the fatigue. I feel good today, friends. I feel strong, I feel capable, and I feel loved.

I’m going to close my robin-egg-blue journal now and go start a light dinner. We have a lot to do this week, but for tonight, being right here in this little blue house on Sycamore Street is exactly where I want to be. I hope you’re finding the beauty in your own messy middle today. You are doing so much better than you think you are.

I love you. — Lucy