I recently ran my first official race — a 10km.
Nothing extreme, but meaningful in all the right ways.

It wasn’t about chasing a fast time or proving anything. It was about showing up.

The last couple of years have been shaped by recovery. First from a concussion that took longer than I expected to heal — the kind of injury that’s invisible but all-consuming. Then, just as I was slowly finding my footing again, I briefly strained my Achilles and calf. Leading to another short season of rest and rehab. More letting go.

And even though I’ve always loved sport — especially football — I haven’t found my way back to the field. I still feel the pull, the love for the game, but the confidence isn’t there. The fear of another injury sits too close, and I know I’m not up for risking it.

So I started running. Gently, hesitantly. It wasn’t some big, bold comeback — more like a series of quiet experiments. Can I run today? How does it feel? Where is the edge?

Somewhere along the way, it has become something that reminded me I could be strong again — just in a different way.

Race day felt like a little ceremony. A gathering of strangers who had all, in some small or big way, decided to show up for themselves. I felt nervous at the start line — wondering if I really belonged there. But once we began, I found a rhythm. Not fast. Not slow. Just mine.

The trail wound through towering pine trees, soft underfoot with pine needles and sand. And when I crossed the finish line, it wasn’t triumph I felt. It was something softer — peace, maybe. Or gratitude that didn’t need to be loud.

What running is teaching me:

• Recovery isn’t linear. And it rarely moves at the pace you want it to.

• You don’t need to bounce back. You can move forward differently.

• Gentle effort counts (“conversational pace”). So does rest.

• Confidence returns slowly — but it does return.

• You’re allowed to change your path, and still be proud of where you are.

These reflections also feel a bit like my running — a slow return to something that matters to me. A place to move through stories, seasons, and shifts at my own pace. To explore softness, courage, and the spaces in between.

So if you’re navigating your own version of a return — to movement, to creativity, to yourself — I’m right there with you. Not rushing. Not trying to catch up. Just running our own race, one quiet, honest step at a time.

You’re already doing it. And it counts.

From beneath the canopy,

🌻 Issy