Lately, my days have started to slow down.

After two solid months of pushing—getting the building to occupancy, finishing the base building, completing the full fourth floor fit-up—I finally hit a milestone. It was a relentless grind. The kind of work that drains everything out of you—physically, mentally, emotionally. The client was firm on dates. There was no wiggle room. No excuses. Just deliver. And my job? Was to never say no. To find a way. Always.

And somehow... I did.

Now we’ve shifted focus to level 3, and the pace has softened. The pressure isn’t gone, but it’s more manageable. There’s room to breathe. Room to think. Room to feel. Summer’s arrived, and with it comes that quiet space in between chaos and calm—the space where you realize just how tightly wound you were, and how unsure you are about what to do with the stillness.

Because as welcome as the break is... it's unsettling in its own way. My body is used to the grind. My mind is used to being occupied. When the noise fades, the thoughts start to echo a little louder.

That’s what led me to the treadmill tonight.

The weather was off—rainy, grey, uninspiring—so I laced up and headed to the gym instead. A light run. Nothing heroic. 5.57 km at a steady 6:25/km pace. Not as fast as yesterday’s outdoor stretch, but that wasn’t the goal tonight. I just wanted to move. Keep the rhythm. Let my legs do what they know how to do while I worked out the knots in my head.

There’s something strangely peaceful about running indoors. The repetition. The hum of the machines. The quiet competition of strangers lined up beside each other, each lost in their own world. I like that line of treadmills—not because it’s social, but because it gives me a subtle target.

In my mind, I’m always racing them. Not in speed. In time. Can I outlast them? Can I keep going after they stop? Can I leave knowing I stayed in it just a little longer?

It’s a silly thing. But it motivates me.

And most nights, I win. Even if they never knew we were racing.

Maybe that’s the strange lesson buried in it all—sometimes you don’t know you’re in a race until you’ve already lost it.

And that stings. Realizing you had more to give but didn’t. That you coasted when you could’ve pushed. That something slipped by because you weren’t aware you had skin in the game.

But when I run, I try to make peace with that feeling. Because the truth is, the race has never really been with anyone else.

It’s always been with myself.

Some nights I chase speed. Others, like tonight, I chase peace. A clear head. A lighter heart. A gentle reminder that I showed up, even when I didn’t feel like it.

And when I step off that treadmill, soaked in sweat but steady in spirit, I try to leave everything there. I don’t want to carry regrets into tomorrow. I want to feel like I gave what I had to give—no more, no less.

Tonight’s run wasn’t fast. It wasn’t hard. But it was enough.

And sometimes, enough is everything.