This morning, as I laced up my running shoes and stepped outside into the cool Pennsylvania air after what feels like a week straight of rain, I heard something inside me say:

Run the hill.

Not loudly.
Not dramatically.

Just quietly.
Clearly.

Run the hill.

And I knew immediately it wasn’t just about running.

A couple weeks ago, I completed the Historic Marine Corps Half Marathon, and I’m incredibly proud of myself for doing it. But if I’m honest, I walked the last two big hills.

At the time, I told myself I just didn’t have it in me physically.

And maybe part of that was true.

But as I’ve reflected on it more, I don’t think it was only physical. I think emotionally and mentally, I hadn’t prepared myself to run the hills because during training, I avoided them.

I got the miles in.
I showed up.
I ran consistently.

But when the hills came?

I walked them.

And this morning, I realized how much that mirrors life.

Because this last month has been full of hills.

I put down our 16-year-old family cat.
I said goodbye to my beloved dog, Xandy.
I had two teeth extracted that still ache as they heal.
I brought my daughter home from college for the summer.
I said goodbye to my son as he moved away to start a new life and business of his own.
I ran a half marathon.
And all of it happened while waiting for the arrival of my fifth grandbaby, knowing I’d been asked to be there for her birth.

May was full.

Beautifully full.
Painfully full.
Humanly full.

And when I look back over it all, there are moments I’m deeply proud of.

Moments where I stayed present.
Moments where I slowed down.
Moments where I allowed myself to grieve instead of stuffing it down.
Moments where I let people love me.
Moments where I breathed deeply and trusted myself.

And there were other moments where I panicked.
Tried to control.
Tried to fix.
Tried to mentally outrun uncertainty.

Because that’s what hills do.

They expose your conditioning.

When a hill rises in front of me while running, every instinct in my body wants relief.

Slow down.
Avoid discomfort.
Get through it faster.
Escape the strain.

And sometimes, walking the hill is wisdom.

That part matters.

Because this isn’t some “push harder no matter what” message.

There were moments this month where walking was exactly what I needed.

I canceled coaching appointments.
Skipped events.
Stayed home.
Went quiet.
Rested.
Grieved.

I didn’t have the capacity to keep pushing.

Sometimes walking the hill is self-care.
Sometimes wisdom sounds like slowing down.
Sometimes healing sounds like saying no.
Sometimes growth looks like stopping to smell the honeysuckles on the side of the road and letting yourself fully live the moment you’re in.

But I’m also learning there’s a difference between slowing down from wisdom… and avoiding from fear.

And that distinction matters.

Because sometimes walking the hill isn’t rest.

Sometimes it’s avoidance.

Avoiding the hard conversation.
Avoiding the truth.
Avoiding the grief.
Avoiding the finances.
Avoiding the boundaries.
Avoiding the discomfort that growth requires.

And this morning, as I ran hills again for the first time intentionally, I realized something:

Running the hill requires presence.

You cannot sprint a hill mindlessly.

You have to slow your breathing.
Shorten your stride.
Stay connected to your body.
Focus on the next step.
Then the next breath.
Then the next step again.

You become incredibly present.

And honestly?
That’s how I want to live my life.

Not constantly bracing to “get through” everything.

Not rushing through hard seasons just trying to survive them.

Because this month taught me something profound:

This is the human experience.

The grief.
The joy.
The letting go.
The uncertainty.
The transitions.
The pain.
The love.
The beauty.
The ache.

None of us escape it.

The road keeps going.
The hills keep coming.

You crest one hill only to discover another bend in the road waiting ahead.

And strangely enough, I don’t find that depressing anymore.

I find it awakening.

Because there is no final arrival point where suddenly life becomes perfectly flat and manageable and easy.

There is only this question:

Who do I want to be while climbing?

That’s the real work.

This last month showed me I have the capacity to love deeply.
To grieve deeply.
To grow deeply.
To keep becoming.

It also showed me the places where I still try to hold everything together alone.
The places where I still suffer unnecessarily because I resist the very things that would strengthen me.

And maybe that’s what “Run the Hill” means now.

Not:
Push harder.
Force yourself.
Prove yourself.

But:

Do the work now so you don’t needlessly suffer later.

Train your nervous system now.
Practice presence now.
Learn to breathe now.
Have the hard conversation now.
Ask for support now.
Slow down now.
Feel your feelings now.
Build the capacity now.

Because running the hill isn’t punishment.

It’s preparation.

Preparation for the next climb.
Preparation for the next season.
Preparation for becoming the kind of person who can stay present when life gets steep.

And maybe that’s what life has been asking of me all along.

Not perfection.

Not performance.

But deeper capacity.

The capacity to stay open.
To stay grounded.
To trust myself.
To stop abandoning myself the moment things get hard.

So this morning, I ran the hill.

Not perfectly.
Not quickly.
Not effortlessly.

But intentionally.

One breath.
One step.
One moment at a time.

And honestly?

That feels like a pretty beautiful way to live.

Ready. Set. Grow. 🌿