Monday Milestones and the Thirty Mile Mark

Hello, sweet friends. I’m sitting here at the kitchen table with the late afternoon sun spilling across my robin-egg-blue journal, watching the dust motes dance in the light. The house is finally still. Mark is just finishing up at the site and won’t be through the door for another twenty minutes, and Biscuit is currently snoring at my feet, dreaming of squirrels. It’s that rare, golden hour of peace before the evening rush of dinner and bath time begins, and I wanted to share a little bit of my heart with you all today.

This morning started with a bit of a surprise. I was just heading out for my run when I saw Joanne across the way. She was out in her signature pink bathrobe, even though it was barely sixty degrees, fussing over her petunias. She waved me down to tell me that she’d seen a fox in the alley behind my blue house last night. We stood there for a moment, just two women in different seasons of life, talking about the wild things that creep into our quiet Cedar Falls streets. It reminded me that even in the most predictable routines, there is always something unexpected waiting to be noticed if we just stop to look.

Once I hit the trail, though, my mind shifted entirely to the pavement. I don’t know what was in the air today, ladies, but my legs felt light. I’ve been tracking my progress so diligently for the Harvest 5K in October, and today I hit a milestone that took my breath away. I officially crossed the thirty-mile mark for my cumulative training distance this month. Thirty miles! If you had told the Lucy of three years ago—the one who felt winded just chasing Noah around the backyard—that she’d be hitting these numbers, she wouldn’t have believed you.

Reaching that thirty-mile threshold felt like more than just a fitness goal; it felt like a testament to self-worth. For a long time, I think I let myself believe that I was 'just' a mom, 'just' a bookkeeper for Mr. Miller, or 'just' a wife. I forgot that I am also an athlete, a creator, and a woman who can do hard things simply because she chooses to. Every step today felt like I was reclaiming a piece of myself that I’d tucked away in a drawer somewhere between Emma’s birth and the day we moved into this house on Sycamore Street.

Speaking of being a creator, the Etsy shop has been a bit of a whirlwind today. I spent a good two hours this afternoon in the basement pouring a new batch of 'Autumn Orchard' candles for Lucy's Little Light. The scent of spiced apple and cedarwood is still clinging to my hair. I had three new orders come in from a woman in Des Moines, and seeing those notifications pop up on my phone gives me the tiniest thrill. It’s not about the money, though the extra cushion for the kids' college funds is a blessing; it’s about knowing something I made with my own two hands is going to light up someone else’s home.

I had a brief moment of panic earlier when Noah decided that his velociraptor pajamas were the only acceptable attire for a trip to the grocery store. I almost fought him on it, thinking about what the other moms might think, but then I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror. I looked at my flushed face from my run and my messy ponytail, and I realized it just didn't matter. We went to the store, him screeching like a dinosaur and me smiling at the produce manager, and it was the most fun I’ve had buying milk in months. There is such growth in letting go of the need to be perfect.

Mark should be home soon, and I can already hear the rumble of his truck in my mind. He’s been working such long days lately as the foreman, and I know he’ll be exhausted. I’ve made a point to keep the house a little calmer for him when he walks in. It’s part of that nine-year rhythm we’ve built together—knowing when to offer a glass of water and when to offer a listening ear. I still want to feel like the woman he fell in love with, not just the woman who manages the household calendar. Tonight, I think I’ll actually put on a little bit of that lip gloss Dani recommended at the salon above Megan’s bakery.

It is funny how these small victories—a thirty-mile run, a successful candle pour, a peaceful trip to the store—build into something much larger. I feel like I am finally starting to see the woman I am becoming, rather than just looking back at the woman I used to be. It’s a slow process, financial and personal, but it is steady. Just like my pace on the trail, I am moving forward, one inch at a time, and I am finally starting to enjoy the view along the way.

Emma is currently in the corner, painstakingly drawing a horse on the back of a math worksheet she was supposed to finish an hour ago. I’m going to let her finish the drawing before I make her do the subtractions. Sometimes the art is more important than the arithmetic, don’t you think? We have to protect those little sparks of joy wherever we find them, in our children and in ourselves.

I’m going to close my robin-egg-blue journal now and go start the potatoes. The sun is just starting to dip behind the neighbor’s roof, and the house is beginning to fill with the warmth of the evening. Thank you for being here, for listening to my ramblings, and for walking this path with me. You are all capable of hitting your own thirty-mile marks, whatever they may be. Just keep breathing and keep stepping.

I love you. — Lucy