It’s been a while.

Not in the “I forgot about this” kind of way. Not even in the “I’ve been too busy to write” sense—although that’s partly true. It’s been a while because I didn’t know how to say what I’ve been feeling. Because sometimes life doesn’t unfold in neat sentences or well-timed lessons. Sometimes it just drags. And you hang on. And you get through it. And when you finally catch your breath, you realize you haven’t said anything out loud in weeks.

But I’m still here. Still running. Still feeling everything way too deeply. Still trying to make sense of this life, one mental mile at a time.

Let me start with the easy stuff: the bathroom renovation is done. Or at least the tiles are. And it nearly broke me. Not because of the labor—although breaking your back in a cramped shower stall isn’t a walk in the park. No, it was the mental weight of it. The pressure to finish. The relentless ticking in the back of my mind that told me if I didn’t get it done, I’d fall apart.

I wish I was exaggerating.

There’s this thing that happens when you live with anxiety. It’s like carrying a heavy backpack that nobody else can see. Some days, you can manage it. You shift the weight around. You distract yourself with tasks and to-do lists. You tell yourself you’re fine. And in those moments, maybe you are fine.

But the bag is still there. Always. And when life gets quiet—when the world slows down enough for you to hear your own thoughts—that backpack suddenly feels unbearable.

That was this past long weekend.

Laura took off to the camp. The kids were out doing their thing. And I had the house to myself. That used to be something I’d crave—alone time. Silence. Space. But now? It scares the hell out of me. Because when it’s just me, the noise in my head gets louder. The pressure builds. The fear creeps in. Not the kind of fear you can name. Just this low, vibrating hum in your chest that never fully goes away.

I got through Friday and Saturday by pushing myself into the bathroom. Focused on the tiles. Put my head down. Got shit done. That was good. I needed that. But then came Monday. Everything was closed. The project was done. I had nothing urgent to do. And that’s when I crumbled.

I couldn’t bring myself to start anything. Couldn’t will myself to go for a run—even though I knew that would help. That’s the worst part. Knowing what could help you and still being too paralyzed to do it. It’s like being trapped in your own skin.

And yeah, I’m mad about it. Mad at myself for letting that voice win. The one that says, “Don’t bother. What’s the point?” The one that thrives in silence and isolation. The one that lies to me every goddamn day.

But here’s the thing: I’m still here. And I’m still fighting.

And today, I’m saying something I’ve never said out loud before. Something I’ve been carrying quietly in the back of my mind since my very first run:

I want to run the Boston Marathon.

Even typing that feels ridiculous. Feels big. Feels impossible. But also… it feels right. I’ve been circling around this idea for years—playing it out in my head during long runs, imagining what it might feel like to cross that finish line. But I never dared say it. Because I didn’t think I deserved to say it.

That ends now.

Because if I’ve learned one thing through all this—it’s that fear doesn’t go away by staying quiet. It doesn’t shrink when you ignore it. You have to face it. You have to name the thing that scares you and say it out loud.

So yeah. I want to run Boston.

And no, I’m not qualified. Not even close. I know that. I know it’s not something you just sign up for on a whim. Boston is earned. You have to run a certified marathon and hit a qualifying time—depending on your age and gender, you’re looking at a number that most people never hit in their lives. It’s elite. It’s exclusive. It’s intimidating as hell.

But you know what else it is?

Motivation.

I’m in the best shape of my life right now. Better than I was when I crossed the line on my first marathon. My pace is better. My endurance is up. My head is mostly in the game. I ran 14 kilometers today. Not for anyone else. Not for a medal. Just for me.

That matters.

That’s momentum.

This goal—this wild, ridiculous dream—is going to be the next chapter of my life. I’m going to build a training plan. I’m going to research the qualification process. I’m going to commit. Not just to running, but to myself. To believing in something again. Something that lights me up in the dark.

Because if I can pull this off—if I can go from that guy lying in bed on Monday too frozen to move, to the guy running down Boylston Street in Boston with a bib on his chest and fire in his heart—then maybe anything is possible.

Maybe that’s what this whole project has been about all along.

Not the miles. Not the medals. Not the Instagram stories or Strava stats. But the quiet, personal victories. The ones nobody else sees. The ones you fight for when nobody’s watching. The ones where you get out of bed, lace up, and tell that voice to shut the hell up—for just one more mile.

So this is me, saying it out loud.

I want to qualify for the Boston Marathon.

And someday—hopefully not too far from now—I want to wear a shirt that says “Boston Bound” on the back and mean it. I want to earn that. Not just for the race, but for everything it represents: discipline, grit, healing, and the slow, stubborn rebuilding of a life that anxiety tried to tear apart.

This is the journey now.

Mental Miles, Chapter 10.

Boston or bust.