Month: June 2025

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Failing Forward

Somewhere between mile two and mile ten, things started to fall apart.

It wasn’t dramatic — no collapse, no ambulance, no headlines. Just the slow, steady ache of joints not used to this kind of repetition. The tightness in my Achilles tendon that I tried to stretch out, ice down, and pray through. The mornings I woke up limping and still pulled on my shoes.

I had to soak my Achilles in a bucket of ice after nearly every run. It was the only way I could manage the inflammation and keep moving. I’d limp into the backyard, still catching my breath, lower my foot into freezing water, and grit my teeth through the sting. It became part of the routine — run, ice, recover, repeat.

Eventually, even that wasn’t enough. The pain wouldn’t let up, and I started seeing a chiropractor. My body was trying to catch up to my ambition, and some days it simply couldn’t. The adjustments helped, but they also reminded me that every step forward came with a cost. I wasn’t just building endurance — I was holding myself together, piece by piece.

Building mileage felt like chasing progress with a moving target. I’d hit five miles and feel unstoppable one day, only to struggle with three the next. Every gain seemed to come with some small price — a sore knee, a tight calf, a bruised ego.

There were days I had to stop and walk, not because I wanted to, but because my body gave me no choice. I remember trying to run through pain, then spending the next week regretting it, icing my foot each night just to get back on the road.

But I kept going.

Not perfectly. Not quickly. But forward.

It was during this season I learned that failing didn’t mean I was finished. It meant I was trying. It meant I was testing the edge of who I was and slowly stretching beyond it.

Some weeks, my body needed rest. Other times, it needed courage. And sometimes, it needed grace — the kind I had to extend to myself, the kind that whispered, you’re not done yet.

Because every step, even the limping ones, was part of the journey. And every run — good, bad, or broken — was better than standing still.

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The Heat That Broke Me

The heat was always there.

Not just in the air — though Alabama summers made sure of that — but in life. A thick, heavy kind of pressure that clung to everything. By the time I got home from work each day, I didn’t just feel tired. I felt buried. Not by tasks or to-do lists, but by the weight of holding everything together.

And then I ran.

The routine was the same: pull into the driveway, step inside, pet the dog, greet the family, change clothes, step back out. The sun was still high. The air was still thick. My body was still tired. But I ran anyway. Up the hill. To the lamppost. And back.

The heat made it harder. It slowed my steps and stole my breath. It exposed weakness. But it also revealed something I didn’t expect — endurance.

Running through the heat wasn’t just about training my body. It was about testing my will. It reminded me that faithfulness isn’t proved in ease — it’s proved in resistance. That’s where the real work happens. That’s where habits are born, not in the comfort of ideal conditions, but in the grit of days when everything inside says, not today.

But during this season, another kind of heat began building inside me — one I wasn’t handling well. The stress at work was constant. There were relationships that wore me down. My thoughts rarely slowed, and by the time the run was over, I still needed an escape.

That’s when I started drinking again.

I hadn’t touched alcohol since college, not since I became a Christian. I gave it up back then as part of my surrender to God. So when I found myself reaching for it again, years later, it felt defeating. I knew it was a step backward. I knew I should’ve turned to God for help. But the pull was strong, and once I started, I couldn’t seem to stop.

At first, no one knew. I drank after my runs, quietly. It felt like relief — like a way to slow down the storm in my head. But I knew it was wrong. I felt the guilt, especially as someone who had walked with God for years. I told myself I could manage it. That it wasn’t that bad. But deep down, I knew better.

There was a moment that shook me — the day I came home from a run, poured a drink, and had an issue with our dog not coming inside. I went out to try to bring her in, but I was already tired, already loosened by the alcohol. I slipped into a hole in the yard. My quad was tight from the run, and when I fell, my knee went forward while my body went back. I tore the tendon between my quad and my knee.

The injury took me out of running for months. It should have been a turning point. I knew the drinking had played a role. That moment — painful and sobering — was a wake-up call. But even then, I wasn’t ready to let go. I knew I couldn’t keep walking two paths, but I wasn’t yet willing to fully surrender one of them.

Still, I didn’t stop right away. The drinking would continue for nearly a decade. I tried to quit. I wanted to. But the more I tried, the more it seemed to own me. Eventually, I did get help. I went to rehab. And God met me in that place, too. But even before that, in the years when I couldn’t find my way out, I kept running.

Running became a kind of truth-telling. It was honest. Unforgiving, but clear. I could fake a lot of things in my life. But I couldn’t fake a run. It kept me grounded, even when the rest of me was slipping.

And through all of it — the heat, the guilt, the injury, the shame — God never left. My family kept loving me. God kept pursuing me.

The heat showed me what I was made of — and what I wasn’t. It burned away illusions. And what was left? A man still trying. Still hurting. But still running.

The heat on the outside forced me to move. The heat on the inside forced me to face myself. Both were exhausting. But both were necessary.

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Learning the Rhythm (The Hill, the Heat, and the Lamppost)

There was a lamppost at the top of a hill.

It wasn’t grand or symbolic, just a plain old wooden post at the end of a quiet street near my house. But for weeks, and then months, it became the center of my discipline. My turnaround point. My finish line. My proof that I had done what I said I would do.

Every run started with the same goal: reach that lamppost. Touch it. Turn around. Make it home.

I didn’t love running. Not at first.

Especially not in the Alabama heat—thick, humid, relentless. But I ran anyway. Not because it felt good, but because I knew if I didn’t go right then, I probably wouldn’t go at all.

My workdays were full. I was in IT, overseeing systems for our company. It was demanding, and I enjoyed it, but it wore me out. By the time I pulled into the driveway each evening, I was tired. Not the kind of tired that makes you want to go for a run—the kind that makes you want to collapse on the couch and disappear into dinner, TV, and bed.

But instead, I walked in the door, said hello to everyone, pet the dog, changed into my running clothes, and walked right back outside. That rhythm—day after day, same time, same steps—was everything.

It didn’t matter if it was ninety-five degrees or if my body begged for a break. I had to go. Because I wasn’t just trying to lose weight anymore, I was building something. Something deeper. And to build it, I needed consistency.

At first, I stuck to a simple route: from my house to that lamppost and back. One mile out. One mile home. The hill leading up to it burned every time. Some days it felt like a mountain. But I’d push to the top, touch the post, and know: I didn’t quit.

That lamppost became more than a destination. It became a line in my day. A marker of effort. A quiet kind of altar where I laid down excuses and picked up a little more grit.

My family noticed.

My wife and kids knew I had just come home from work, but they gave me that space. They knew I needed it. They encouraged it. And when race days came—5Ks on early Saturday mornings—they were there. Cheering. Smiling. Making it fun. That meant everything.

But most of the time, it wasn’t about races. It was just me and the pavement. Day after day. One step at a time.

Over time, the run became more than exercise. It became a boundary, a line in the day between everything I had carried and everything I still hoped for. It was where I reset. Where I pushed through the tension of work and fatigue and stress. And in that rhythm, I started to feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time: control.

Not over everything. But over something.

The repetition shaped me.

Not just physically—though the weight was slowly coming off—but mentally, emotionally, spiritually. My energy improved. I started sleeping better. I felt lighter. More focused. Even a little more confident.

And I started noticing changes outside of running, too. I was more organized at work. More present at home. More grounded in my choices. What I ate. When I went to bed. How I prayed. It all started to line up.

The discipline I found on the road spilled into the rest of my life.

There’s a strength that comes from doing the hard thing when you don’t feel like it. A kind of steady muscle that builds when you say, I don’t want to, but I will.

That’s what running after work taught me. It taught me to build a life on follow-through. On rhythm. On showing up, especially when it’s not easy.

God didn’t meet me in fireworks or breakthroughs. He met me at the lamppost. In that quiet decision: to run up the hill, touch the post, and come home. To try again the next day. And the one after that.

That’s where the foundation was laid. Not in one big transformation, but in the rhythm of a thousand small choices.

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I Can Fix You – The beginning of the Journey

“I can fix you.”

That’s what the doctor said—straight-faced, out of nowhere, and completely unexpected.

We were at the doctor’s office for my wife—a weight loss appointment, not mine. Nothing urgent. Nothing about me. I was simply the guy in the corner chair, tagging along. But in that moment, everything shifted. Just a regular visit, nothing urgent. I sat in the corner of the exam room, trying to be supportive, polite, quiet. That’s what husbands do, right? I was tired, but I was always tired. Tired felt normal by then.

The doctor came in, greeted her, and started the usual routine. He asked about symptoms, checked vitals, tapped some notes into the chart. I wasn’t expecting anything. This had nothing to do with me.

But then he looked up—past her—and saw me.

He looked at me directly. Not casually, not out of curiosity, but with a kind of stillness. He asked a few questions—nothing invasive. Then, without hesitation, he said:

“I can fix you.”

That’s what he said. Calm. Direct. No build-up, no preamble. Just that.

I laughed a little—awkward, defensive. Me? I wasn’t the one on the table. But deep down, I was frozen. Shocked. And if I’m honest… something in me sparked. Just barely.

Because I had given up.

I’d tried to lose weight more times than I could count. Every diet, every plan. The weight always came back—plus some. It had been climbing steadily since college, a twenty-year upward slope that felt irreversible. I had reached 278 pounds. I didn’t see a way back. And somewhere along the line, I had stopped hoping there could be one.

That doctor didn’t know any of that. He didn’t know the quiet desperation under my smile, or how much effort it took just to sit down and get back up. He didn’t know how many times I’d avoided mirrors or cameras or stairs. He just looked at me and saw something I couldn’t: a man who wasn’t beyond help.

And he said it again. Gently, but firmly.

“I can fix you.”

I left that appointment quiet. Skeptical, yes—but also different. Not transformed. Not suddenly motivated or enlightened. Just aware. Aware that maybe the story I’d accepted about myself wasn’t the only one that could be told.

Because the truth is, I wasn’t in a good place—not just physically, but emotionally. Life had been hard. There had been pain with family, stress at work, tension in the home. I had responsibilities and a good heart, but my body was heavy, my mind was worn down, and I couldn’t remember the last time I truly felt good—really good—in my own skin.

I still had faith. That was never in question. Ever since the summer I told God “I love you” for the first time, I’d never doubted my salvation or His presence in my life. But that doesn’t mean I was okay.

Even strong faith can get buried under the weight of years.

I didn’t know it then, but that doctor’s comment—so simple, so unexpected—was the first crack in the shell I’d been carrying. The first step in a journey I hadn’t even begun to imagine yet. One that would lead to miles on the pavement, habits I never thought I’d build, and a kind of freedom I had almost forgotten existed.

It didn’t start with a run.
It didn’t even start with a decision.

It started with a sentence.
It started with a whisper of hope.

And long before I ever laced up a pair of running shoes, God had already been laying the foundation. The roots of transformation go deeper than the weight. They go all the way back—to childhood, to calling, to faith.

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The early years

The journey to 278 pounds

Before the running. Before the weight loss. Before the marathon. There was faith.

Not the kind passed down in family traditions or shaped by weekly church attendance. I didn’t grow up in a house where we talked about God. But He found His way in anyway.

I was around eight years old when a friend from the neighborhood invited me to church. He talked to me about Jesus, and I remember following along, more curious than convicted. It wasn’t a deep moment of awakening—just a quiet introduction. A seed planted. One that would lie dormant for a while.

Years passed before anything really changed. It wasn’t until the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of college, when I was on my own, that something happened—something I didn’t cause, something I didn’t even understand fully at the time. I prayed, alone, and told God, “I love you.” And immediately, I knew—that’s strange. I’ve never said that before.

That prayer changed everything. Not because I said it, but because God moved. That moment became the pivot point in my life. Nothing was ever the same after that.

It was the beginning—not just of belief, but of transformation. Quiet, steady, and completely unearned. From that moment on, every step, every stumble, and every victory that followed would trace back to that summer. The marathon might have come years later, but the real starting line was faith.

My life began to shift in every way. The people I spent time with began to fade and change. Friends who shared my growing hunger for God came into the picture. The usual rhythms of a college student—parties, distractions, figuring life out alone—no longer appealed to me. What I wanted was time to pray. To learn. To grow.

And as I grew, God kept unfolding more. I didn’t chase leadership—it found me. I started leading among the college students around me. Not because I had all the answers, but because I was willing to walk the road. Eventually, I graduated, got married, and started a family. And that desire to follow God didn’t go away—it deepened. I became part of a church community, and over time, I stepped into leadership there, too.

It wasn’t a path I had planned. But looking back, I can see it clearly: God was building a foundation. One I would return to again and again, especially in the years when my health, my habits, and even my identity would be tested. The early years weren’t perfect—but they were holy. They were the quiet groundwork for everything that came later.

My wife and I were drawn together by our shared love for Jesus. We didn’t just want to build a life—we wanted to build a home that revolved around Him. From the beginning, our vision was to raise children who would love God like we did. She stayed home with the kids, teaching, guiding, praying over them. I worked to support the family and carried the weight of that responsibility with faithfulness. Through the hardest seasons, she was a constant—praying for me, loving me, standing beside me when I couldn’t stand on my own.

As the years passed, things shifted. More kids, more pressure. Job changes. Financial strain. Sleepless nights. Life had a way of testing everything we believed in. We stayed faithful—but it wasn’t easy.

Somewhere in that season, I began to carry a different kind of weight. Slowly at first, almost without noticing. But as stress mounted and the demands of life kept growing, so did I. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. The identity I had once walked in—leader, husband, father, man of faith—started to blur under the pressure of simply trying to keep up.

I didn’t fall all at once. It was gradual. That’s how it usually happens. Little compromises. Skipped prayers. Prioritizing work over rest. Food became comfort. And slowly, the disciplines that once centered my life began to fade.

I wasn’t running from God—I just wasn’t running toward Him anymore. I was surviving. Providing. Keeping up appearances. But inwardly, I was worn down. My body reflected it. My heart felt it.

The man who once prayed with boldness and served with joy was now struggling with shame, weight gain, and exhaustion. I still believed. I still showed up. But I was no longer living out of that deep well of faith that had carried me through college, marriage, and early fatherhood.

I didn’t know it then, but I was beginning a descent that would eventually lead me back to the starting line—where I’d have to choose whether to keep spiraling… or fight to return to the life I knew I was made for.

There wasn’t a single moment when I decided, enough is enough. It started small—just like the drift had. A doctor’s visit. A glance in the mirror. A sense that something had to change. I had reached two hundred seventy-eight pounds. But more than that, I had reached a point of soul-tiredness. I wasn’t just out of shape—I was out of rhythm with who I was meant to be.

With medical help, I started losing weight. Fifty pounds at first. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. That shift gave me a glimpse of hope again—a crack of light breaking through the fog.

Then came the run. Just one and a half miles. It wasn’t fast, and it wasn’t pretty. But it was mine. And when I finished, something in me lit up. Something that had been asleep for years.

That was the beginning. Of the miles. Of the habits. Of the long journey back—not just to health, but to wholeness.

And it all traced back to those early years. Not just the ones where I stumbled, but the ones where God moved first. The years where faith was planted. The years when He called me, even when I wasn’t ready. That’s the story behind the story. That’s the ground the rest of this journey was built on.