Monday Milestones and the Measure of a Mile

I am writing to you today with a bit of a glow on my face and, if I’m being honest, a slight ache in my calves. The air in Cedar Falls was heavy this morning, that thick Iowa humidity that makes you feel like you’re breathing through a warm quilt, but I laced up my sneakers anyway. Mark was out the door by 5:30 as usual, his truck fading into the gray morning mist, and I knew if I didn't hit the pavement before the kids woke up, the heat would win the day.

I managed three and a half miles this morning, friends. That’s the furthest I’ve gone since I started training for the Harvest 5K in October. There was a moment, right around the turn onto Main Street, where I wanted to stop. My lungs felt tight and that old voice—the one that tells me I’m just a thirty-four-year-old mom playing dress-up in athletic gear—started to whisper. But I looked at my reflection in the darkened window of Sweet Magnolia and saw a woman who is stronger than she was last month. I saw someone who is worth the effort of a healthy heart.

When I got back to the little blue house, the neighborhood was just starting to stir. Joanne was already out on her porch, wrapped in that signature pink bathrobe, though she wasn’t deadheading her petunias today. She just gave me a little wave and a knowing nod. There’s something so validating about being seen in your struggle by someone who has seen it all before. It made me feel like I belonged to the morning, and to myself.

The house was a whirlwind once Noah and Emma finally tumbled out of bed. Noah was in full dinosaur mode, stomping through the kitchen in his velociraptor pajamas and demanding 'prehistoric pancakes.' Emma, sweet girl, was already hunched over the kitchen table, but she wasn't eating. She was sketching a horse with incredibly long, graceful legs right onto the back of a math worksheet she’s supposed to hand in tomorrow. I should have scolded her about the homework, I know, but looking at those drawings made me think about the small, creative sparks we often try to dampen in the name of efficiency.

Instead of getting frustrated, I sat down with her for a moment while Biscuit rested his heavy head on my knee, begging for a scrap of pancake. I told her that her horses looked like they could run right off the page. I want her to grow up knowing that her talents aren't 'distractions' from her work. They are the things that make the work worth doing. It’s a lesson I’m still trying to teach myself, especially when I’m balancing the ledger for Mr. Miller at the hardware store tomorrow.

Speaking of work, I spent a few hours this afternoon in my 'studio'—which is really just the corner of the dining room—labeling the new batch of 'Lucy's Little Light' candles. I have three orders to ship out tomorrow! One is going all the way to Oregon. It’s a small victory, financially speaking, but seeing those boxes lined up makes me feel a certain sense of independence that I can't quite describe. It’s not just about the extra grocery money; it’s about knowing I built something from a wick and a dream.

Mark gets home in about twenty minutes, and I can already hear the rumble of the garage door in my mind. Nine years we’ve been at this, and sometimes I still feel that little flutter when I hear his boots on the porch. I took a few extra minutes today to do my hair and put on that perfume he likes, the one that smells like jasmine and vanilla. It’s easy to let the 'wife' part of me get buried under the 'mom' and 'bookkeeper' hats, but I want to feel desirable. I want him to see me—the woman who runs three miles and runs a household and still has a light of her own.

Tonight we're having a simple pasta dinner, and then I’m going to spend some time with my robin-egg-blue journal. Megan really knew what I needed when she gave it to me. It’s become a safe harbor for all the thoughts that don't always make it into these posts. There is such a quiet power in recording our own history, even the mundane parts like the smell of sawdust on a Tuesday or the way the light hits the Sycamore trees in the evening.

I want you to know today, ladies, that your progress doesn't have to be loud to be real. Whether you’re training for a race, growing a side hustle, or just trying to keep the peace in a house full of dinosaurs, you are doing enough. You are enough. We are all just mending our fractures and finding our rhythm, one mile and one candle at a time.

The kids are finally settled with a movie, and the sun is just starting to dip behind the neighbors’ rooflines. I think I’ll pour myself a glass of tea and sit on the back step for a moment before the evening rush of baths and bedtime stories begins. It’s almost six, and the day feels full. I’m tired, but it’s the good kind of tired—the kind that comes from giving your best to the people you love, and saving just a little bit of that best for yourself.

I love you. — Lucy