Thursday Tally and the Thirty-Three Mile Summit

Hello, friends. The sun is just starting to dip behind the maples on Sycamore Street, and the house is filled with that specific, comforting chaos that happens right before Mark walks through the door. I’m sitting here at the kitchen table with my robin-egg-blue journal and a lukewarm cup of tea, trying to catch my breath before the dinner rush begins. It’s been one of those days that felt like a marathon even before I put on my running shoes.

This morning was my shift at Miller’s Hardware, and it was unusually busy for a Thursday. Mr. Miller had me reconciling the accounts for a large lumber order, and the shop was thick with the scent of fresh-cut pine and sawdust. There is something so grounding about working there; it reminds me that everything—a house, a business, a life—is built one piece at a time. I finished the books early and even helped a young couple pick out the right shade of 'eggshell' for their first nursery. It made me think back to when Mark and I were painting Emma’s room seven years ago, all nerves and excitement.

After I clocked out at three, I headed straight for the trail. The air was crisp, hovering just above fifty degrees, and a light drizzle started about ten minutes in. A few months ago, I would have used the rain as an excuse to curl up on the couch. But today? Today, I felt a strange kind of hunger for it. I hit my stride past the old water tower, and before I knew it, I had clocked another three miles. That brings my total training distance for the Cedar Falls Harvest 5K up to thirty-three miles. Looking at that number in my log makes my chest swell just a little bit.

It’s funny how self-worth works, isn't it? For a long time, I tied my value to how well I cleaned the baseboards or how quickly I could soothe a crying toddler. And while those things matter, there is a different kind of fire that lights up when you do something just for you. As I was running, cold rain hitting my face and my lungs burning, I didn't feel like 'just' a mom or 'just' a bookkeeper. I felt like an athlete. I felt powerful. I felt like a woman who is finally learning to own her own strength.

When I got back to the little blue house, Biscuit was waiting by the door with a soggy tennis ball, his tail thumping against the floorboards like a drum. I had to spend ten minutes towel-drying him before he could come inside. Noah was already in his velociraptor pajamas—he insists they make him run faster, even during snack time—and Emma was spread out on the living room rug. She wasn't doing her math homework, of course; she was meticulously sketching a mare and her foal on the back of a multiplication worksheet. Her talent honestly scares me sometimes.

I took a quick shower to wash off the grit of the road, and as I looked at myself in the mirror—hair damp, cheeks flushed from the run—I felt a quiet sense of desirability that has nothing to do with fancy clothes or makeup. It’s the glow of knowing I’m taking care of this body that carries me through my days. I want Mark to see that glow when he gets home. He’s been working such long hours lately as the foreman on that new site downtown, and I know he’s exhausted. I want to be a place of rest for him, but I also want him to see the woman I’m becoming.

Financially, things are feeling a bit more stable this month, too. I checked the Etsy shop while the tea was steeping, and 'Lucy’s Little Light' had three new orders for the spiced cider soy candles. It’s not a fortune, but every sale feels like a vote of confidence in my creativity. Those little victories add up. They pay for the kids' soccer cleats or a nice bottle of wine for our anniversary, but more than that, they prove that I can build something from scratch.

Joanne was out earlier, even in the mist, wearing that signature pink bathrobe. She was fussing over her petunias, though I think they’ve mostly seen their best days this season. She waved her garden shears at me as I finished my cool-down walk. 'You're getting faster, Lucy!' she shouted. It made me laugh. If the retired schoolteacher on the corner notices my pace picking up, I must be doing something right.

Megan called briefly from the bakery to remind me about pickleball this Saturday. She sounded stressed—apparently, the oven timer broke right before a big wedding cake order was due—but she still took a second to ask how my knees were holding up. Having a friend who cheers for your smallest wins is a grace I don't take for granted. I’m looking forward to the smell of Sweet Magnolia and a good sweat on the court.

I need to start the spaghetti now. Mark should be pulling into the driveway in about twenty minutes, and I want the house to feel warm when he walks through the door. Tonight, I’m going to tell him about the thirty-three-mile mark. I want him to know that even when the days feel routine, there is something big happening under the surface. We are all growing, ladies, even when it feels like we’re just standing still.

I hope you found a moment for yourself today, even if it was just five minutes in a parked car or a quiet cup of coffee before the sun came up. You are worth the effort it takes to grow. You are worth the time it takes to heal and to hustle and to run in the rain. I am proud of you, and I am proud of us.

The rain has stopped, and the sky is turning a bruised kind of purple. It’s beautiful. I can hear Noah roaring in the other room, which means it’s time to put the journal away and be fully present for my family. But I’m carrying that thirty-three-mile feeling with me into the kitchen.

I love you. — Lucy