This time, I run.

I run.

36 minutes.

That’s 4 taps on the snooze button, and at least twice as many times rolling from one side to the other.

That’s multiple groans and covering back up and convincing myself that I’m actually not worth the effort it would take to drag my ass out of bed and into my running shoes.

It took me 36 minutes to finally say, OK. This time, I’m doing it.

This time.

I’m getting up. I’m up. I’m going outside. I’m moving my legs, my arms, my body.

The crisp, cool morning air isn’t just refreshing on days like this — it’s rejuvenating. It’s one of the more satisfying feelings in life, knowing you’re doing something for yourself, something not just anyone can do or wants to do or has the ability to do. Every step I take is reminiscent of the I Think I Can train —

I run, I run, I run, I run  —

Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap.

I don’t think about all the other first times I’ve been out here. I don’t listen to the voice inside my head that whispers doubts and vomits insecurities all over my brain. Out here, it doesn’t matter how often or how fast or how long it’s been since the last time or even how long it will be until the next time. It doesn’t matter that I run for 7 minutes less than it took me to get up in the first place.

All that matters is I’m going.

I’m gone.

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