Tag: running

Worthy of Saving

I was here, and then I was gone.

An entire month missing.

Don’t be alarmed. It’s not uncommon for me to lose all motivation during the winter and quietly quit everything for a while. And that’s exactly what I did.

Here’s what happened: I had constructed a picture in my mind of what life after my transplant would look like. After celebrating my two-year transplant anniversary in December, it became clear to me that the image I had painted was not going to come to fruition. That realization slowly deflated me. I lost motivation. And for a brief moment, I lost a little bit of hope.

It’s difficult for me to admit this, but maybe admitting it will help someone else. So I’ll set my pride aside and offer this confession: I thought my heart transplant would somehow make me stronger, faster, sharper, more inspiring—a more dynamic version of myself. For two years, I’ve pushed myself physically to gain strength, speed, and endurance—to no avail. I suspect age plays a role, along with a long list of medications and surgical side effects.

I’ve tried to broaden my understanding of the world through reading and learning, only to find that I now struggle with attention and memory. Again, I blame age and medication side effects. I’ve shared my story on social media and in front of audiences, yet I haven’t felt what I expected to feel in return.

At the end of the day, I am nothing more—and nothing less—than a middle-aged woman living in the American suburbs.

But that’s just it.

When I arrived at the hospital for my heart transplant, my surgeon’s objective was to save my middle-aged, suburban American life. He wasn’t attempting to turn me into a superhero. The goal wasn’t to make me bigger or better than I was before, but simply to extend the life I was already living.

That life was worthy of saving.

So why is it so difficult to accept that? Why do I still feel the need to justify my existence by being more than what I am, when “survivor” is already enough?

Perhaps it’s something ingrained in me—the quiet expectations of my upbringing, or messaging of a culture shaped by performance and visibility. We live in a world that celebrates dramatic comeback stories. Somewhere along the way, I absorbed the idea that survival alone is not a satisfying ending—that it must be accompanied by achievement or applause.

But beneath all of that noise, in a quieter and steadier place inside me, I know the truth: I am enough for now. Not because I’ve proven anything. Not because I’ve surpassed some imagined version of myself. But because I am here. Because this ordinary, middle-aged, suburban life was—and still is–worthy of being saved.

And maybe learning to believe that is the new goal.

Just so you know, I haven’t completely given up on my 5K goal. Not entirely. I’ve mastered something I call the “Kitchen 5K.” Most mornings, I put on my running shoes and jog in my kitchen—sometimes running small laps, sometimes just jogging place. It works up a sweat and gets my steps in.

Look, I’m doing what I can do for now. I’ll progress when and how I can.

. . .”Let us run with patience the race that is set before us,” the scriptures say. I’m learning to focus on what is set before me—what I have to work with and what I have to work on for now.

I’ll Rise This Way

There are days when defeat doesn’t arrive with drama or fireworks. It doesn’t kick down the door. It just sort of… sits next to you. It eats your snacks. It asks if you’ve “really thought about this.” And before you know it, you’re staring at the ceiling, mentally replaying every decision you’ve made since 2009.

Defeat is sneaky like that.

It shows up when you’ve done most things right but still landed on your face. When you followed the plan, adjusted the plan, stayed positive about the plan—and the plan still failed you. At least that’s how it feels. It’s the kind of tired sleep doesn’t fix, the kind of unmotivated that exists even when you want to care, the kind of wondering whether everyone else got a secret elixir or code you somehow missed.

And let’s be honest: in those moments, resilience sounds a lot like toxic positivity. Resilience? Who’s she? I don’t know her.

Lately—ever since telling everyone that this year I’d like to run my first 5K since my heart broke four years ago—I’ve been feeling a total lack of motivation and, as a side effect, resilience. If fatigue and ennui were part of my training plan, I’d be absolutely crushing it right now.

When I’m feeling defeated, I don’t want a pep talk. I want a nap. And snacks. Or to dramatically announce, “I’m taking a break from life. Don’t contact me until further notice.”

But here’s the uncomfortable truth: resilience rarely looks like a triumphant comeback montage. It’s not a swelling soundtrack or a slow-motion jog toward victory. Don’t be fooled by all those videos of people triumphantly crossing marathon finish lines, hands raised high, sweat and tears streaking down their faces—though that is the picture of resilience I thought would be mine.

Most of the time, resilience looks painfully unremarkable.

It looks like getting up and doing the next small thing while still feeling awful.


It looks like doing the laundry one load at a time.


Or changing from pajamas into comfy sweats during the day for no other reason than to smell a little better.


It looks like saying, “I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’ll try again tomorrow,” and meaning it… kind of.

Resilience is strength that isn’t looking for applause. It doesn’t even require optimism—at least not right away, even if it sometimes masquerades as it. To be resilient, you don’t have to believe everything will work out. You just have to believe that stopping entirely isn’t the answer—at least not today.

And that’s the part people don’t talk about enough: you can carry disappointment with you like an awkward backpack and keep walking anyway. Strength doesn’t require enthusiasm. It just requires movement.

Slow, consistent movement.

It comes down to choices. In my experience, all of this is a choice. When you’re winning at life, everything feels important and shiny, like it’s meant for you. It’s easy then to choose happiness and optimism. It’s easy to find purpose, to feel like what you’re doing matters.

But when you’re defeated, you suddenly see what actually matters—what’s worth continuing, what can be let go, and which expectations were never yours to begin with. Some things become easier to release, while it becomes harder to find meaning in it all.

Yet for all the ways defeat humbles you, it also clarifies. It teaches you where your limits are—and, more importantly, where they aren’t.

And slowly, almost annoyingly slowly, something shifts.

You realize you didn’t quit.


You realize you’re still here.


You realize that even on your worst days, you’re capable of showing up in imperfect, human ways.

Dinner may come from a box or a fast-food drive-thru, but the family gets fed regardless.

That’s resilience.

Not the absence of struggle, but the refusal to let struggle be the final word.

Despite the fatigue, the lack of visible progress, the burning lungs and sluggish legs, I’m not letting go of my goal. I don’t need the confidence that I’ll win—or even run—the 5K in order to stay in the game. I may not make any dramatic leaps forward, but I’ll keep taking stubborn, slightly grumpy steps ahead.

And maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe resilience, for me, isn’t about proving anything or crossing a finish line with my hands in the air—though that dream is hard to relinquish. Maybe resilience is simply about choosing to show up again tomorrow, even if tomorrow looks a lot like today. I’m learning that I don’t need to feel strong to be strong—I just need to keep going. One step, one breath, one imperfect try at a time. And if that’s what rising looks like right now, then I’m willing to rise this way.

Perhaps This is the Real Work

If the phrase “new year, new you” grates on your nerves like nails on a chalkboard, then welcome to the club. I’ve said before that I’m not a fan of New Year’s resolutions. Instead, I endorse the practice of finding disciplines you actually enjoy, being intentional and consistent with them, and then watching how your life gradually changes for the better. That said, I’m not opposed to identifying areas of my life that could use some improvement.

For instance, I recently set out with the goal of running—er, completing—an organized 5K fun run. I know that in working toward this goal, I will inevitably bump up against setbacks—maybe many of them. At this stage of life, I don’t just expect setbacks; I plan for them. Contingencies are the name of the game. At this stage of life, if I didn’t accept the reality of setbacks and plan around them, I might never try anything at all.

I remember that early after my transplant, I came across an Instagram account belonging to a woman who had received a heart transplant due to ARVC just months before I did. Six months post-transplant, she was already running 10K races. I truly hoped that would be me. I genuinely tried. But despite my efforts, setbacks repeatedly thwarted my progress. For the most part, I’ve been okay with that. It’s all good. My story doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s—whether for better or worse.

Early into my health… crisis?… I often heard well-intended people use phrases like “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle” or “everything happens for a reason.” And I remember thinking, My God doesn’t give me hard things to handle. Life does that. And sometimes, things happen for no reason at all. Sometimes, things just happen. Period. There is one universal truth in life: life is often hard. That’s it. There’s no explaining it away or justifying it for someone else. How a person deals with the hard in their life is entirely their own and dictated by no one else.

But I’m not the kind of person who is content to stop there. On a good day, I’d describe myself as introspective, hopeful, thoughtful, and deliberate. On a bad day, I’m stubborn, a bit pessimistic, and prone to avoidance. Still, at my core, I’m someone who tries to find meaning in life’s inevitable hardships. It’s not enough for me to simply let life happen. Rather than allowing life to wash over me, I feel compelled to find purpose in each turbulent wave—to search for the silver lining in every gathering cloud.

Several years ago, while sitting in church, I remember hearing—whether literally or spiritually, I’ll never know—a call to ask in prayer where I needed to improve. And that’s exactly what I did. Right there, in that moment, I silently prayed to know what I needed to work on, what I needed to learn. The answer was simple and direct: patience and long-suffering. Alright, I thought, I can do that.

At the time, there was no way I could have known what journey lay ahead.

Over the years, you could say I’ve become quite skilled in patience and long-suffering. And when I feel impatience rising within me, I remind myself: I prayed for this.

Earlier today, while studying the first chapter of Genesis in preparation for a Sunday School lesson I’m teaching, verses 26 and 27 stopped me in my tracks. We are created in the image of God. And suddenly, an epiphany formed as a simple thought: Open your view to greater purpose. If we are created in the image of our God, doesn’t that mean our lives carry a purpose beyond mere existence? Of course, I already believed that. But hearing it framed this way struck me deeply in the moment.

Open your view to greater purpose. Stop allowing life to simply happen to you. Let every experience—the good and the bad—teach you, shape you, and grow you into something better. When hardship crashes over you like waves at high tide, draw in close to your Creator. Close enough that He can hear your whispered fears, your aching questions, and your humble protestations. Close enough, too, that He can hear your quiet songs of praise, your breathless thank-yous, and your soft sighs of relief.

And perhaps that is the real work—not reinventing ourselves with the turn of a calendar, but steadily turning to the Savior to refine us through each season we’re given. Growth doesn’t always look dramatic or impressive. Sometimes it looks like endurance. Sometimes it looks like patience learned the hard way. And sometimes, it looks like simply staying close enough to hear His voice in the middle of it all.

Grace, Grief, and a 5K

I’ve never really been one for goal setting; New Year’s resolutions aren’t usually my thing. As a fitness instructor, I never even endorsed the idea. My thoughts on goal setting were always centered on changing simple habits, finding enjoyable hobbies, and seeing how life evolves from there. I still recommend this approach. But something about surviving a heart transplant—and getting older—has made me want to aim for something this coming year. Nothing wild. Just a little something to work toward.

It’s normal to come out of a traumatic experience—especially a medical trauma—feeling a little lost, or as some say, a little empty. When we think we should be feeling joy and gratitude, we might instead feel guilt, purposelessness, or our own version of grief. Many of us assume a transplant will change us, improve us, only to wake up and realize that the only things that have changed are a new organ and a regimen of life-sustaining medications.

I can attest to all of these feelings—this has been my experience. Writing helps. As do time with family, my faith, and my near-daily walks with friends. These things help me express myself, feel understood, and provide a sense of belonging that I deeply missed while waiting for my transplant and during recovery.

It was that feeling of belonging that kept me rooted in running for so many years. You see, I was never a good enough runner to be remotely competitive. Early on, I didn’t even particularly enjoy it. But over time, as it became part of my everyday routine, running evolved into an invigorating, cleansing ritual. I considered it as much a part of my hygiene regimen as brushing my teeth. A daily sweat session could purify my soul almost as effectively as repentance and prayer. In fact, whether on the treadmill or the pavement, I often found myself in an attitude of self-reflection that naturally led to prayer and repentance.

Then, at the age of 24, I registered for my first race—a spring fun run in Sugar House Park. My neighbor and I signed up together as a way to get back in shape after having our first babies just one week apart. It was at that fun run that I discovered running could offer something more: community. The shared enthusiasm, anticipation, and—dare I say—joy were contagious. It never seemed to matter that I wasn’t elite, had never run a marathon (thank goodness, as that level of training could have accelerated my ARVC progression and need for a transplant), or ran in leggings instead of speed shorts. I was one of them—a runner, part of a unique group of people who tolerated pain and endured grueling circumstances better than most.

Running became more than a daily habit; it became a part of my identity.

Unfortunately, after my ARVC (arrhythmogenic right ventricular cardiomyopathy) diagnosis, running was something I had to give up. Over time, I made peace with that prescription. Even so, there was a hole left behind—a void where running once lived. I will probably always grieve those easy days when the rhythm of my feet hitting the ground felt natural and effortless, as well as that community I no longer feel a part of.

Recently, I read an article in Bonus Days magazine about a young woman named Wendy who received a small bowel transplant during the COVID restrictions of 2022. Isolation was the norm then, especially in the hospital. Her husband couldn’t even be with her during her inpatient stay. In the article, she shared two insights that stood out to me. When asked what illness had taught her, she said, “Health is a crown only the sick can see.” And when asked what joy looks like for her now, she said, “To get to a place of joy with where I am, I had to grieve the life I thought I was going to have so I could make space for the amazing and beautiful life that I do have.”

I said in an earlier post that it is perfectly okay to see the clouds along with the silver lining. We don’t always have to maintain a shining outlook to prove our gratitude. Without recognition and reflection, the hard parts of our lives can’t teach us anything. If we don’t look back, we’ll never know how far we’ve come. Grieving is an honest and necessary part of that process.

I know I will never be the runner I once was—age alone presents enough of a barrier. But my goal for 2026—my New Year’s resolution, if you will—is to train for, sign up for, and complete an organized 5K. I know I won’t be fast and won’t place anywhere near the top of my age group. But I will be proud of myself for showing up—for allowing myself the space to release old expectations and reconnect with a part of myself I thought I had mourned and buried long ago. 

This goal isn’t about reclaiming what I lost or proving that I’m “back.” It’s about honoring who I am now—someone shaped by grief, grit, and resilience. Crossing that finish line won’t symbolize victory over illness or a return to a former identity. Instead, it will mark my willingness to keep moving forward, to carry the past with tenderness and gratitude rather than regret, and to make room for joy as it exists today. I am healing, and healing takes honesty, grace, and a fair amount of courage. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do isn’t to run faster or farther, but simply to have the faith to begin again.

The Toxic Ex-Boyfriend

I have this toxic ex-boyfriend, and he haunts me. In fact, I run into him almost every day. It’s becoming problematic.

We were first introduced in elementary school. I hated him then. I couldn’t understand the kids who liked him—mainly the boys in my class. He was always chosen for all the teams, and all the boys loved to play with him at recess. I personally never understood the attraction.

In junior high, he started drawing the attention of some of the girls. Not me, however. I tried steering clear of him, but no matter how hard I tried, it seemed we were always partnered up in gym class. It was torture.

In high school, my sister started hanging out with him a lot. She and her friends spent quite a few summer mornings and Saturdays with him. Their time together looked so easy—so fun and refreshing. Though I didn’t understand at first, you could say I was intrigued; maybe there was something there. Maybe if I gave him a try, I’d understand the appeal. And so I began a flirtation, if you will. Sometimes I’d join my sister and her friends when they’d hang out with him on a Saturday, hoping maybe there’d be a spark between us. He was kind of popular, and I wanted to like him and really wanted him to like me.

Let me tell you, in the beginning it did not go over well. I guess you could say our chemistry was lacking. Yet time and time again, we’d continue to ask each other out—I’d chase him, he’d chase me. Around and around we’d go. This went on for years, until one day it all clicked, sometime after the birth of my first child.

Most weekdays I’d set aside at least a little time for just the two of us, usually in the morning after my husband left for work. I’d put my son down for a nap and sneak off to spend time with him. But there were other times when I’d bring my son along, figuring that the early introduction was somehow good for him. Our relationship was easy and flourished then. Those mornings were so fun; sometimes I’d add an afternoon. With just one young child and so much free time, I put a lot of focus on him, and our relationship was strong.

But with the birth of each additional child, our dates became more difficult. I couldn’t just put a child down for a nap or bring one kid along to meet up with him. Suddenly, I’m juggling schedules. I’ve got preschool and soccer carpools. I’ve got toddler meltdowns and orthodontist appointments to work around. Timing things got harder and harder. Sneaking away to find time with him became more difficult. Our time together became more precious, so when I did find time, I wanted to really make it worthwhile. I hung on longer, or more intensely—anything to make the time more meaningful.

Eventually, I found ways to add dates to the weekends. I might sneak away for a Saturday morning with him. And that’s when things became torrid. That’s when my friends found out.

Once my friends got involved, we began planning weekend getaways. Aaron managed the kids while I went away with my friends and met up with him. I still feel guilty admitting that those were good times. I felt wild and alive. Adventurous. I was another person away with him and my friends. We ran free, and we laughed until our breath caught in our throats and our heads throbbed. And at the end of the trip, we almost felt hung over from the experience. But there was a price to pay.

This went on for more than twenty years. Over two decades of our love affair began taking a toll on me. And Aaron began noticing.

I began feeling tired. A lot. But this boyfriend demanded my time. And, oh, how I wanted to spend that time with him. I felt young with him. He validated me in a way nothing else did. But eventually, he broke my heart—completely destroyed it.

Wouldn’t you know it, as soon as my health began to fail, he left me high and dry. There was a part of me that thought I could hold on to him until I was an old lady, that I’d go to the grave with him by my side. At least I’d be able to tell my grandkids about my love affair, and they’d blush and whisper about it to their friends, secretly proud of their grandma.

Nevertheless, when my health went south, I came to peace with ending our relationship. I’m a happily married woman of a certain age, I figured I didn’t need him anymore. Believe me, I mourned the loss—I grieved, for sure. I felt broken inside. We had been together for so long, he had become a part of my identity. But I did blame him—his toxic nature. And there was a piece of me glad to be rid of him. I put that relationship firmly in the past.

But then my heart transplant surgeon brought him up, named him by name. Said he’d like to see me get back together with him. Perplexed, I turned to my husband, who sat beside me. He nodded his head in agreement. “I think you should try again.”

And so, after completing thirty-six sessions of cardiac rehab, I laced up my running shoes and tried again.

With a new, young heart and with ARVC in the rearview mirror, I jumped on the treadmill and began cranking up the speed. I started with just a few awkward, toddler-like steps for only thirty seconds at a time, eventually working up to running a full mile. My stride was clumsy, my cadence slow. But I did it.

Did I love it? No. In fact, I’d say we’re back where we started, with me watching all the runners around me making it look so fun and so easy, making me wish I liked it. Just like those days in elementary school, those boys at recess who ran with so much freedom and ease—at least now I know the feeling. My sister and her friends in high school who made their Saturday morning hill runs seem fun—now I understand the appeal.

I know I’ll try and try again. Some runs will be good, and other runs will be horrible. I might chase him; he might chase me. We might go around and around like this for a while. I don’t know if my love affair with running will ever be rekindled. But I hope one day to tell my grandchildren about my love affair with running and make them proud of their strong, resilient grandmother.