Wednesday Wicks and the Thirty-Nine Mile March

Hello, friends. I’m writing this while the sun is still casting long, golden shadows across my little robin-egg-blue journal. It’s that quiet hour in Cedar Falls where the neighborhood seems to hold its breath before the evening rush begins. Mark won’t be through the door for another twenty minutes, and Biscuit is currently curled at my feet, dreaming of squirrels, his paws twitching every few seconds. There is something so sacred about these stolen moments between being a bookkeeper, a candle-maker, and a mom.

Today was one of those 'middle' days. It wasn't a Miller’s Hardware day, so I didn't spend my afternoon surrounded by the scent of sawdust and the metallic clinking of bolts. Instead, I spent the morning right here at the kitchen table, which has officially become the headquarters for Lucy’s Little Light. I had a bit of a breakthrough with a new batch of 'Autumn Harvest' candles. I’ve been trying to get the scent profile just right—not too cloying, but enough to make you feel like you’re wrapped in a flannel blanket. Seeing those neat rows of glass jars cooling on the counter makes me feel like I’m finally building something that is truly mine.

It’s funny how a side hustle can change the way you look at a bank statement. Every small sale feels like a vote of confidence in myself. For a long time, I think I defined my worth by how well I kept the house or how organized Emma’s horse drawings were, but seeing my own growth—both creative and financial—has given me a different kind of glow. It’s not just about the money; it’s about the discipline of showing up for my own dreams, even when the laundry is staring me down.

Speaking of discipline, I hit the trails this afternoon while Joanne watched the kids for an hour. Joanne was in her usual spot on the porch, though she’d swapped the pink bathrobe for a light cardigan to deadhead her petunias. She gave me a little wave as I laced up my sneakers, and that was all the motivation I needed. The air was crisp, the kind of weather that makes your lungs feel brand new, and I felt strong. Truly strong.

I am so proud to tell you all that I hit thirty-nine miles in my total training tally today. Just one more mile and I’ll be at that forty-mile milestone I’ve been eyeing all month. When I started training for the Harvest 5K, I wasn't sure if my knees or my schedule would allow for this kind of consistency. But here I am, pushing through the thirty-ninth mile, feeling less like a 'mom who runs' and more like a runner who happens to be a mom. There is a huge difference in that shift of identity, isn't there?

Running has become my time to reconcile with myself. I think a lot about desirability and marriage when I’m out there. It’s easy to feel like a utility—a person who finds lost socks and manages the calendar—rather than a woman who is vibrant and alive. But when I come back from a run, red-faced and breathless, I feel a spark that I hope Mark sees, too. I want to be his partner in every sense, not just the construction foreman’s wife who keeps the blue house running on Sycamore Street.

Emma and Noah were surprisingly quiet while I was cooling down. Noah has decided that his velociraptor pajamas are now 'official dinosaur research gear,' and he spent most of the afternoon 'documenting' Biscuit’s naps. Emma, meanwhile, was tucked in the corner with her sketchbook. She’s moved on from just horses to drawing horses jumping over hurdles. I told her that she and I are doing the same thing lately—just learning how to clear the obstacles in front of us.

I took a moment to call Megan at the bakery just to check in. She’s gearing up for a busy weekend at Sweet Magnolia, and we’re still on for pickleball this Saturday. I think I need that social outlet as much as I need the physical one. We talked a bit about the 5K, and she’s promised to be at the finish line with one of those giant cinnamon rolls I love. Knowing I have that support system makes the hard miles feel a lot shorter.

I also had a quick chat with my mom, Diane. She’s already planning what she’s going to wear to the race in October. She’s my biggest cheerleader, even if she does call every Sunday just to make sure I’m eating enough protein. It’s funny how you never outgrow needing your mom to tell you she’s proud of you. I’m trying to be that voice for myself now, too.

As I look at the clock, I realize it’s nearly 5:20pm. I can hear the rumble of Mark’s truck turning onto Sycamore Street. The kids have already heard it too—Noah is sprinting toward the door shouting about 'Raptor Daddy,' and Biscuit is suddenly very awake. The peace of the afternoon is about to transform into the happy chaos of the evening, and I’m ready for it. I’ve got my miles logged, my candles set, and my heart full.

Tomorrow is a hardware store day, so it'll be back to spreadsheets and sawdust with Mr. Miller. But for tonight, I’m just going to enjoy this feeling of being thirty-nine miles stronger than I was when the month began. I hope you all found a small victory today, whether it was in a candle jar, a sketchbook, or just a quiet moment to breathe. You are worth the effort you put into yourselves, ladies. Never forget that.

The sun is dipping lower now, and the house is starting to fill with the sound of the front door opening. It's time to put the journal away and start the dinner routine. I’m thinking pasta tonight—we all need the fuel. Thank you for being here, for listening, and for walking this path with me. I love you. — Lucy