I used to dream of slapping a “26.2” sticker on my car, the kind you see alongside “My Kid Is an Honor Roll Student” on the bumpers of so many vehicles. But here’s the truth: my car doesn’t have one of those running stickers, and I don’t have an honor roll sticker either.
Honestly, I’ve never been the competitive type—athleticism wasn’t my strong suit. As a kid, I was always the last pick for team sports during gym class. Years later, I discovered running, which turned into a personal competition, albeit one that some might label obsessive. For a long time, I referred to my running as “survival”—until the moment I realized it was enough just to show up.
For years, I ran relentlessly, like Forrest Gump, traversing small towns across the country, until my body finally started to protest. Despite numerous injuries, hefty co-pays, and countless visits to the chiropractor, I wouldn’t let go of running. Looking back, I’m not sure if I was running towards something or away from it.
After each run—especially during those painful, injury-riddled sessions—I would often tell myself, “I guess that was good enough.” But “good enough” felt like a failure, a goal I hadn’t fully achieved. I constantly questioned my self-worth based on the success, or lack thereof, of my runs. “Good enough” didn’t feel good at all.
That relentless pursuit of “good enough” drove me to push through pain, exacerbating injuries even when my body begged me to stop. I was on a quest for perfection, convinced that failure wasn’t an option.
Recently, however, a shift began to occur within me. Just last week, I slipped on my running shoes and ventured out without a specific goal—no predetermined path or distance to conquer. It was just me, the open road, and a newfound sense of freedom. In the past, I would focus on my feet to perfect my stride or glance at my watch to monitor my pace. But this time was different.
For the first time, I lifted my gaze. Running transformed into an act of gratitude for my body and the world around me, rather than a race against the clock or my own insecurities. I completed four miles, and instead of thinking, “That was good enough,” I simply felt, “That was enough”—no qualifiers needed.
I was enough. It was enough.
While I still don’t have that coveted 26.2 sticker, I’ve finally reached a point in my life where I can be content just to show up. Showing up means embracing my pride, confidence, strength, and immense gratitude for what my body can achieve. My effort is sufficient. This journey has unfolded in its own time, akin to a long run that reveals itself at a pace you can manage.
I’ll arrive at my destination when I’m meant to, and that will be enough.
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