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Ran a Mile


I did it.

I m----- f---ing did it.

I ran a fucking mile.

Not a 5k. Not a half marathon. Not a 6:30 mile that I wrote down in my 2018 goals, to run by the end of the year. I ran a mile.

One. Fucking. Mile.

And it was the hardest mile I might have ever run.

I have been trying for twenty-four fucking days to run that mile. I've managed a quarter mile. I've walked many, many miles. I haven't been able to run that mile until today.

I ran that fucking mile today. I ran it.

I, who used to be able to play ultimate all day and have teammates comment, "I didn't know you could get tired," couldn't run that mile. I, who used to be able to run the Wildflower 10k without any additional training, couldn't run that mile. I, who could head out and run a 5k in just under 30 minutes without any prep, couldn't run that mile.

Depression is a horrible thing. It steals away more than just one's motivation. It steals your life, your future, and your present. That fucking Dark steals everything, and you don't even notice the loss until you've lost pretty much everything.

I was reading Patrick Rhone's /now page, wandering over to Derek Sivers /now page, and thought, well, I doubt anyone really cares what I'm doing now, but I like the idea of a /now page, so I started to create one.

And realized, what I wanted to be doing right now was to run that fucking mile.

And I did.

I ran that fucking mile. It was slow and I don't fucking care. I ran that fucking mile. I ran that arbitrary distance. I can cross that task off my to-do list for the first time in twenty-four days.

I ran a mile.

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