Let’s talk about what happens when you reach that point where the engine’s still running, but you’re running on fumes. When the list of things to do is so long it becomes a personality trait. When you catch yourself saying “I’m fine” out loud while Googling how much it would cost to disappear into the forest with a tent and a dog. Welcome to Episode 7.

This week didn’t begin with some profound revelation. It wasn’t sparked by a quote or an inspirational podcast. It started because I woke up Monday and said: Nah. Not today. I wasn’t sick, not in the physical sense, but my mind was foggy, my patience was thin, and I’d hit a wall — not the kind you see in races — the kind you hit in life. The invisible one that quietly says, “You’ve been pushing for too long without pausing.”

So I called it in. Took the sick day. And I felt zero guilt about it.

I did what any overworked, under-rested, quietly anxious, renovation-fatigued father-husband-runner-human would do: I attacked my bathroom with the kind of energy usually reserved for a 90s montage scene. Tile dust in the air, YouTube tutorials playing like sermons, and me praying to the DIY gods that this time I wouldn’t just make it “good enough.”

By noon I had tools in one hand, a coffee in the other, and a vision: Screw it. I’m taking the whole damn week.

Not a vacation. Not a retreat. Not a “find yourself” trip in Bali. A mental health week. Spent at home. Tied to projects and routines and the real shit that’s been sitting on my shoulders. And somehow, it made sense. Not because everything magically felt better, but because for once I gave myself permission to stop pretending everything was fine without earning it through burnout.

Now, let’s talk about tonight.

Tonight was one of those nights where nothing in me wanted to run. Not a sliver of motivation. You ever feel like even tying your shoes is too much of a commitment? That was me. The thought of the treadmill felt like a punishment. The idea of sweating felt... unnecessary. But Laura was going to the gym, and that made the decision a bit easier. I wasn’t going to go hard. I’d show up, maybe walk, maybe jog, stretch a bit. Keep it low-key.

But I also had a new shirt.

And this shirt? It was tight. Not “oh cool, he must lift” tight. More like maybe don’t dry it on high heat next time tight. The kind of shirt that makes you hyper-aware of your body. You know the type — hugs the wrong spots, shows off everything you're still working on, and screams “Look at me!” even when you want to be invisible. Why did I buy it in that size? Ego. Hope. Denial. Who knows.

And as soon as I stepped into the gym, I was thinking, Everyone is looking at me. They’re all judging the guy in the shirt that’s too small. They’re wondering if I think I look good in this. They’re probably snickering.

Truth is, they probably didn’t even notice. But in my head? I was already defending myself in a courtroom that didn’t exist.

So I walked past the mirrors, tightened my core like I was on trial, and climbed up on that treadmill like it was the starting line of the goddamn Olympics.

And then I saw them.

Other runners. Already moving. Already in rhythm. Their machines humming. Their strides confident.

Now it was on.

Was I planning to push hard tonight? Hell no. Was I now about to destroy every one of these silent competitors in a race they didn’t even know they’d entered? Absolutely.

My brain flipped into full-on internal monologue mode:

“Okay, buddy on the left’s got decent pace. Looks like a 6:30 min/km. Cute. Watch this.”

“Middle treadmill guy has headphones in. Probably thinking about his fantasy football draft. You’re not safe, pal. I see you.”

“Guy at the end looks like he’s got good form. Doesn’t matter. He won’t last.”

They never even stood a chance.

I hit the incline. Pushed the pace. Heart rate climbed. Sweat poured. That tight shirt? Now soaked. Clinging to me like a second skin. Probably didn’t make me look any better, but now it told a story. It said: This guy came to work.

Every runner who stepped onto those treadmills tonight? They lost. Maybe they didn’t realize it. Maybe they thought they were just getting a casual jog in. But I knew. I was racing ghosts and winning every one.

And here’s the wild part: that insecurity? That self-conscious moment that normally makes people shrink? It drove me tonight. I leaned into it. I used it. That shirt went from being a source of doubt to a declaration. Yeah, it’s tight. But I’m here. I’m trying. I’m sweating. I’m moving. And you better believe I’m not stopping first.

6.5 kilometers later, I was jelly-legged and smiling. Not because I broke a record. Not because I proved anything to anyone else. But because I showed up when I didn’t want to. I turned nothing into something. I turned doubt into fuel. And I’m learning that sometimes that’s what mental strength looks like — not the absence of insecurity, but the ability to run through it anyway.

Now I’m home. My legs are toast. My brain still feels like it’s rebooting. But I feel proud. Tired-proud. The best kind.

There’s this myth that mental health days are about doing nothing. That the best way to recharge is to lie down and unplug. And sure, sometimes that’s true. But other times? What really helps is doing the things that have been haunting you. Finishing that project. Tackling the room you’ve been avoiding. Putting sweat equity into your sanity.

For me? Fixing the bathroom and outrunning treadmill bros was more therapeutic than any spa day.

I’m not claiming to have it all figured out. I’m not cured. I’m not even rested. I’m just moving. Moving through the fatigue, the noise, the clutter. One small task, one sweaty shirt, one mental mile at a time.

And that, my friends, is what Episode 7 is all about:

Mental Miles isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up in your too-tight shirt and still putting in the work. It’s about using your self-doubt as ammo. It’s about movement over motivation. Every step counts. Even the ones no one sees but you.