I’m sitting here at work after another night of broken, useless sleep. The kind of night where you close your eyes, but your mind won’t shut off. Where the weight of your body presses against the mattress, but you never truly rest. By morning, you’re not recharged — you’re resentful. Tired before the day even starts.

And yet yesterday, somehow, I managed to run 14 kilometers. Fourteen. That number still surprises me when I say it out loud. Out there on the pavement, I felt alive. My stride wasn’t fast, but it was steady. My lungs burned in that way I love — not suffocating, just sharp enough to remind me I’m alive. For almost an hour and a half, it felt like I had control. Like for once, the noise in my head couldn’t keep up with my legs.

Then I stopped.

And that’s when reality slammed into me.

It’s funny — you can run for kilometers and feel strong, invincible even, but the second you stop moving, it all catches up. I sat down at home, proud, content, even a little cocky. But an hour later, when I stood up, my body betrayed me. My ankles locked, my knees buckled, pain shot through me like I’d been hit by a hammer. It’s incredible how fast the switch flips. One moment, I’m a runner. The next, I’m a man hobbling across the room like I’m twice my age.

Right now, shin splints and ankles are the demons I’m dragging with me. My calves ache but hold. My knees and hips, somehow, are hanging in there. But mornings are torture. Every step feels like punishment for daring to believe I could be stronger than I am. By mid-day things ease, and by suppertime, I can usually lace up again. That’s the rhythm. Pain, work, loosen, repeat.

Seven straight days of 10k or more. And I don’t want to stop. Something in me is desperate to see how far I can push before I break. I want to chase that breaking point, stare it in the eye, and say, “I got here because I earned it.”

But running isn’t the hardest part of my life. Life itself is heavier than any distance I’ll ever run.

Everyone praises moms, and they deserve it. But what people forget is that being a dad isn’t easy either. My job looks different, that’s all. I don’t pack lunches or sign permission slips. I don’t measure out medication or fold laundry. That’s not my lane. For twenty years, my wife and I have built a rhythm — a system where we each carry our part.

My part? Making sure there’s food in the cupboards, clothes in the closets, a roof over our heads. Making sure the lights stay on, the vacations happen, and the kids don’t go without. That’s not nothing. That’s sacrifice too.

I’m up at five, already thinking about work before most people even wake up. Out the door in cold, wet, muddy weather. Days that chew you up. Conditions that wear down your bones. But I keep showing up. Because I have to. Because my family depends on me.

And still, some days it feels invisible. Like the appreciation runs one way. Moms get the love, dads get the leftovers. It makes me question myself, like I’m constantly being judged under some invisible spotlight. Maybe it’s the time of year. Maybe I’m letting it cut deeper than it should. Maybe I’m just being a baby. But the truth is, I don’t feel happy right now. And worse — I don’t even know where to look for happiness anymore.

Then yesterday hit me like a sucker punch.

News broke that a political activist, Charlie Kirk, was shot and killed. His wife and kids were there — they witnessed it. They lived through something no family should ever have to see. Because of words. Because of opinions. Because someone hated him enough to silence him in front of his own family.

I don’t care what side of politics you’re on. That’s a tragedy. That’s horror.

And it shook me. Years ago, I was loud about politics. Boisterous. Always shouting my views. Over time I realized it was smoke and mirrors. A stage play designed to trick people into thinking they have control when they don’t. Only a handful of people hold the strings. The rest of us just dance.

But this… this shook me anyway. Watching the footage — watching a family’s world collapse in front of them — it made me sick. And it made me reevaluate my own complaining. All my bitching and moaning about pain, about work, about feeling unappreciated. It put it into perspective. Because life can be snatched away in an instant. And I forget that sometimes.

I tried to run yesterday, but only managed three kilometers before my right ankle screamed at me to stop. Three. I felt weak, defeated, angry. But today I fought back. Eleven and a half kilometers. Dragged myself through it. And now I’m sitting at 114 kilometers for the month. Still on pace. Still in the fight. But I’m exhausted. My body hurts. My mind hurts worse.

And then, something funny happened.

There’s a local run club I’ve been following through social media. I see their posts, I see them out near my house sometimes, but we’ve never crossed paths. I’ve never worked up the nerve to join them. Truth is, I’m too shy. Showing up to meet a whole crew of strangers? That’s not me.

But today, near the end of my long run, I spotted them. Or maybe they spotted me. Either way, our paths finally crossed. Just like that, I was running with them. They were fresh, just starting out. I was beaten down, finishing my distance. But for a few minutes, we were side by side. They waved, they smiled, they said hi. And something about that moment gave me a jolt. I didn’t stop. I didn’t slow down. Even though I was in pain, I moved stride for stride with them. It felt good — not just the pace, but the company. For once, I wasn’t alone out there.

That’s the thing about running. It breaks you down, but sometimes it also gives you these tiny gifts — a burst of connection, a reminder that you’re part of something bigger.

So I keep running.

Through shin splints. Through anger. Through grief. Through politics and pain and the weight of a world that never seems to slow down. I run.

And maybe one day, I’ll cross that finish line and feel the tears fall for the right reason. Not tears of frustration, not tears of exhaustion at the start of a run. But tears of release at the end. Tears that prove the journey was worth it.

Because those are two very different sets of tears. Two very different men. And I’m still trying to become the second one.

Before I end this, I need to pause. Charlie Kirk didn’t get to finish his run. His life was cut short in front of his family, simply because he spoke. I respect anyone who has the courage to stand up, to be unapologetically themselves in a world that often tries to silence people.

Rest in peace, Charlie. My miles tonight are for you.

-T