“Therefore, since we have so great a cloud of witnesses surrounding us, let us also lay aside every encumbrance and the sin which so easily entangles us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.” — Hebrews 12:1–2 (NASB)

I didn’t become a runner when I lost the weight, or when I crossed the marathon finish line. I became a runner somewhere in the middle — when I kept showing up, day after day, even when no one was watching.

Running didn’t fix me. It didn’t save me. But it changed me. It built something in me that couldn’t be faked — the kind of strength that comes from doing hard things when there’s no applause, no finish line, no crowd.

At first, running was just a tool. A means to an end. I ran to lose weight, to feel better, to get healthy. But over time, it became something more. It became part of who I was — not because I was fast, but because I was faithful.

There’s a difference between someone who runs and someone who is a runner. The first is about activity. The second is about identity. And for me, it wasn’t about pace or distance or race medals. It was about consistency. Commitment. Grit.

I ran in the heat, in the cold, after long days at work, through stress I didn’t know how to name. Some days the runs felt easy. Other days they were a war. But every time I showed up, I was becoming someone new — not just a man who ran, but a man who endured.

And endurance spilled into everything.

Into fatherhood — showing up for my kids, even when I didn’t feel strong. Into marriage — choosing presence over escape, even when it was hard. Into faith — believing, even when I didn’t feel it. Into work — staying steady, even under pressure.

Running wasn’t just a habit. It was a habit that formed me.

I never wore the label “athlete” growing up. I wasn’t the guy who lived for gym class or team sports. But somewhere in the miles, I found a rhythm that matched the life I was learning to live — quiet, steady, marked by perseverance more than performance.

I became a runner not because I was perfect, but because I refused to quit.

And in that identity, I began to find a kind of freedom — the freedom of being fully in the moment, fully in my body, fully present on the road beneath me. The freedom of running not away from something, but toward something better.

Through it all — the quiet mornings, the hard runs, the seasons of sorrow and strength — God was there. Not just at the finish lines, but in every step. He was with me in the struggle, in the silence, in the effort it took just to keep going. I didn’t always feel His presence, but I know now He never left.

It wasn’t just running that shaped me. It was the grace that carried me. The strength I found in the miles wasn’t mine alone — it was His, sustaining me through every up and down.

I became a runner, yes. But more than that, I became someone who was learning to walk with God — not just on the easy days, but especially when the road felt long.