Because I Could
Two hours to rewrite my biography, travel, become a millionaire, send that letter, and murder my ex. Just another ordinary Tuesday.
This morning, I woke up and ran a half marathon.
Not because I was training. Not because it was a Sunday. Not because there was a race with ribbons and photographers. It was Tuesday. Just an ordinary Tuesday. And maybe that’s exactly what gave me the courage—or stubbornness—to get up and decide I’d run 21 kilometers.
(And I did.)
The sky was generous, the kind of light that seems to say “go.” The temperature, almost poetic. And somewhere between step one and step one thousand, the inevitable thought: the universe really does conspire in our favor when we stop waiting for special days.
I ran for 2 hours and 22 minutes. A beautiful number—repetitive, almost mystical. The kind you might get tattooed in a minimalist font, or write under a sunset photo. And in that time, I remembered something only real runners know: running is its own kind of meditation. A deep dive into yourself, without ever standing still.
Unlike other sports that demand strategy or focus, running is just putting one foot in front of the other—and not stopping. Even when your mind whispers that it would be so much easier to quit. That’s when the magic happens. That quiet resistance is where your mind comes undone. It makes plans, unpacks old wounds, writes essays (this one started around kilometer 17, somewhere between a deep breath and the urge to cry for no reason at all).
During that run, I rewrote my life story three times, came up with three amazing names for startups I’ll never launch, mentally planned a trip to Croatia, drafted a letter I’ll never send, and plotted two perfect murders—just kidding, don’t worry.
And when I finished... I did none of it. Because I was exhausted. And still, somehow, perfectly content. The kind of quiet joy that only comes from completing something improbable. The kind that feels like a secret pact between you and your body—where it whispers back, “see? You still can.”
The last time I ran a half marathon was fifteen years ago. I was in my twenties, full of spreadsheets, goals, and that good kind of nervous energy. Today, in my forties, I ran it again. No training. No plan. No special reason—just a better time.
Better.
Faster. Lighter. Stronger.
Late last year, I came close to this goal again, but I stopped myself. I told myself I’d save it for a “special day.” That’s when the universe tripped me up: a back injury that stopped me cold. And I learned the lesson. There is no perfect day. Being alive and able is reason enough.
Maybe that’s the best part: it’s not just that I can still do it—I'm doing it better. Because now, I’m not running to prove anything to anyone. Just to remind myself of what I’m capable of.
Today, on a completely ordinary Tuesday, I made something special happen. Not because the day was extraordinary—but because I chose to make it so.
And maybe that’s the secret: turning any day into a memory. Without waiting for it to dress up for the occasion.