Monday Morning Miles and the Fifty-One Mile Moment

The house is finally still, friends. It is that golden hour just before 6:00 PM when the chaos of the day begins to settle into the steady hum of evening. Mark just walked through the door a few minutes ago, smelling like cedar and hard work, and he’s currently in the backyard with Biscuit, tossing the tennis ball until the light fades completely. I am sitting here at the kitchen table with my robin-egg-blue journal and a steaming mug of tea, feeling that particular kind of tired that only comes from a day well-spent.

This morning started early, as it always does. Mark was out the door by 5:30 AM, and I was laced up and hitting the pavement shortly after. There is a specific crispness to the air in Cedar Falls this time of year—a sharpness that reminds you the seasons are shifting whether you’re ready or not. I hit a major milestone today: I crossed the fifty-one-mile mark in my total training for the Harvest 5K. It felt different than the others. My legs didn't protest quite as much, and my lungs felt like they had finally made peace with the cold Iowa air.

I ran past Joanne’s house on my way back. She was already out there in that signature pink bathrobe, looking a bit disappointed at the frost-bitten petunias. She gave me a little wave and a nod that I took as a high compliment. Joanne doesn't hand out praise lightly, but she’s watched me transform from a casual jogger into someone who actually looks like they know what they’re doing out there. It’s funny how much our neighbors see of our growth, even when we don't realize we're being watched.

After the school run—Emma was particularly proud of a horse she drew on the back of her subtraction worksheet today, and Noah insisted on wearing his velociraptor pajamas under his jeans—I spent the middle of the day in the kitchen. I have a big order for Lucy’s Little Light that needs to ship out by Wednesday. There’s something so therapeutic about the process of pouring wax. It requires a level of patience I don't always have, but today, I found myself leaning into the quiet. Each candle felt like a small vote of confidence in myself and this little business I’m building.

I’ve been thinking a lot about self-worth lately, especially as I track these miles and manage the candle orders. For a long time, I think I defined my value by how much I could do for everyone else—how clean the house was, how happy Mark was, how well the kids behaved. But these runs? They are just for me. They don't make the laundry disappear or the grocery bill smaller. Yet, they make me a better version of the woman who handles those things. I feel stronger, more capable, and dare I say, a bit more like the woman I was before I was 'Mom' and 'Wife.'

Speaking of Mark, he caught me catching a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror after my shower this morning. I was checking to see if my legs looked as toned as they felt, and he just leaned against the doorframe with that lopsided grin of his. He didn't say anything, but the way he looked at me made me feel seen in a way that had nothing to do with being a bookkeeper or a candle-maker. It’s important, isn't it? To still feel like a woman who is desired, even after nine years and two kids and the thousand mundane conversations we have about the mortgage and the lawn.

I didn't have to head into Miller’s Hardware today since it’s a Monday, but I did call Mr. Miller to check on some of the accounts. Even over the phone, I could practically smell the sawdust of the shop. He told me the fall rush is starting early and he’s glad I’ll be in tomorrow. It’s a good feeling, ladies, to be needed not just for your heart, but for your mind and your organization. Financial growth feels slow sometimes, especially when we’re saving for the kids' futures, but every hour at the shop and every candle sold feels like a brick in a foundation we are building together.

Tonight is a simple dinner—leftover chili and cornbread. I want to spend the rest of the evening just being present. Megan stopped by earlier with a few rejected lemon bars from the bakery, and we talked for a bit about our pickleball match on Saturday. My body is still a little sore from that, but it’s a good sore. It’s the kind of ache that tells you you’re alive and moving and taking up space in the world.

If you’re struggling to find your own 'fifty-one-mile moment,' I want to encourage you to start small. It doesn't have to be a run. Maybe it’s just five minutes of silence or choosing to believe a compliment someone gives you. We are all works in progress, and the progress doesn't have to be loud to be real. These daily victories, as quiet as they are, are the threads that hold the whole tapestry together.

The sun is almost down now, and I can hear Noah roaring in the living room—the velociraptor is back in action. Mark is calling me to help him find the remote, and Biscuit is barking at a squirrel through the window. Life is noisy, it is busy, and it is beautiful. I’m going to put this journal away now and go be with my people. I hope you find a moment to breathe tonight, too.

I love you. — Lucy