Wednesday Wicks and the Thirty-Two Mile Turn

Hello, friends. The sun is just starting to dip behind the maples here on Sycamore Street, and the house is filled with the warm, comforting scent of 'Autumn Orchard.' I spent the better part of the morning in the kitchen with my double boiler, pouring a fresh batch of candles for a new Etsy order that came in overnight. There is something so therapeutic about the steady rhythm of centering wicks and watching the soy wax turn from solid flakes to a clear, golden liquid. It’s a slow business, but these small financial victories—another six jars ready for shipping—make me feel like I’m building something that is truly mine.

Noah was my little shadow today, though he was less interested in the candles and more interested in making sure his triceratops was 'safely guarded' from the steam. He’s still in his velociraptor pajamas, despite my best efforts to get him into real clothes before noon. I’ve learned to pick my battles. If he wants to be a prehistoric predator while we listen to the radio, who am I to stop him? Emma is at school, likely doodling more horses on the margins of her subtraction worksheets. I saw her backpack this morning and just had to smile; that girl has a spirit that refuses to be contained by a grid of numbers.

Mark left extra early this morning, around 5:15 am, for a new site across the county. I caught a glimpse of him in the dim light of the mudroom, adjusting his tool belt and nursing a thermos of black coffee. Even after nine years of marriage, watching him head out to provide for us gives me that familiar flutter of gratitude. It’s easy to let the routine of a construction foreman’s schedule become white noise, but I made sure to kiss him goodbye and tell him he looked handsome in his work vest. Seeing him grin, even through his early-morning exhaustion, reminded me that staying desirable to one another isn’t about grand gestures—it’s about being seen in the quiet moments.

Once the candles were set and Joanne offered to keep an eye on Noah for an hour—she was out in her pink bathrobe again, giving her petunias one last trim before the frost hits—I laced up my sneakers. I can hardly believe I’m saying this, but I hit the thirty-two-mile mark today for my total October training. That’s a whole mile further than yesterday’s threshold. My legs felt heavy for the first ten minutes, but as I hit the trail near the river, something clicked. My breathing leveled out, and for a moment, I wasn't just a mom or a bookkeeper or a candle-maker; I was a runner.

Training for the Harvest 5K has changed my perspective on my own body. For years, I looked in the mirror and only saw the parts of me that had softened after having two kids. Now, when I look, I see the muscles in my calves getting leaner and the way my posture has straightened. I feel strong. That sense of self-worth doesn't come from a number on a scale, but from the realization that I can set a goal and actually show up for myself, day after day, even when the Iowa wind is biting.

I stopped by the bakery on my way back to check in on Megan. Sweet Magnolia was bustling with the lunch crowd, and the smell of fresh sourdough almost tempted me to break my meal plan, but I stuck to my guns. Megan looked a bit frazzled behind the counter, but she took a second to squeeze my hand and remind me about pickleball this Saturday. We both need the vent session, I think. Between her shop and my shifts at Miller’s, we rarely get a moment to just be 'us' without a counter or a customer between us.

Speaking of Miller's, I have a mountain of invoices to organize for my shift tomorrow. Mr. Miller mentioned he wants to reorganize the plumbing aisle, which means I'll likely be smelling like sawdust and PVC glue all afternoon. It’s funny how a part-time job as a bookkeeper can feel so grounding. There is a logic to numbers and inventory that balances out the beautiful, chaotic mess of life at home with a golden retriever who thinks he’s a lap dog and two kids who are constantly growing out of their shoes.

Biscuit is currently snoring at my feet, his tail occasionally thumping against the floorboards as he dreams. I’m waiting for the clock to hit 5:20 pm so I can hear Mark’s truck pull into the driveway. There’s a comfort in the predictability of our evenings—the dinner hustle, the bath-time splashing, and the eventual silence when the house finally settles. It’s in these hours that I feel most successful, not because I’ve done anything earth-shattering, but because I’ve kept the fires burning in our little blue house.

To those of you who are struggling to find your own 'thirty-two-mile' moment, please know that it starts with just one step. Or one poured candle. Or one morning where you choose to believe you are worth the effort. Growth is rarely a vertical climb; it’s a slow, steady walk through the woods where you occasionally stop to catch your breath and realize how far you’ve actually come. You are doing better than you think you are, and you are more capable than you give yourself credit for.

I’m going to go start the potatoes now and see if I can convince Noah that even dinosaurs have to wash their hands for dinner. Tomorrow is a new day, a new shift at the hardware store, and hopefully, another mile added to the tally. Thank you for walking this path with me, ladies. It means more than I can say to have you in my corner as I figure out this life one day at a time.

I love you. — Lucy