When I first stepped outside to run, I wasn’t chasing a goal. I was testing a hope.

I had already lost 50 pounds, but I still carried the weight — physically, yes, but also mentally. There’s a kind of heaviness that doesn’t show up on a scale. Years of unhealthy habits, of shame, of feeling like I’d never get it right. That’s the weight I carried to the starting line. Not of a race — but of a quiet street in my neighborhood on an ordinary afternoon after work.

I remember standing at the edge of the driveway, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt that didn’t quite fit. I didn’t look like a runner. I didn’t feel like one either. But I had a small goal: run two miles without stopping.

It felt impossible and I didn’t make it. I ran one and a half miles and walked home. That was okay though. When I tried running 50 pounds heavier, I only got a quarter mile before I quit. So for me, one and a half miles was a win. 

The sun was still high, and the Alabama humidity clung to everything. I had just gotten off work — tired, drained, with every excuse in the world not to run. But something in me knew that if I didn’t go then, I wouldn’t go at all. So I started. Slowly. Awkwardly. Each step a mix of effort and embarrassment.

About a half mile in, my body was already protesting. My legs were tight, my breathing ragged. People passed me in their cars, and I imagined what they must be thinking. But I kept moving. Step by step. Breath by breath. And somewhere around the halfway point, a strange thing happened: I realized I wasn’t going to quit.

I wasn’t fast. I wasn’t strong. But I was moving — and I wasn’t going to stop.

That run didn’t change my life in one big cinematic moment. What it did was give me something I hadn’t felt in a long time: momentum. Not just the physical kind, but the kind that happens when you do something hard and realize you’re capable of more than you thought.

And then I did it again the next day. And the day after that.

My runs became a rhythm — not in the sense of easy repetition, but in the way they began to structure my life. I’d get home from work, change clothes, stretch out muscles that still complained, and hit the pavement. It became part of my day, like brushing my teeth or eating dinner. It became a habit.

That’s what changed everything.

I didn’t suddenly love running. In fact, for the first few weeks, I kind of hated it. Every afternoon, my body argued with me. But I kept showing up. Not because I was strong, but because I was learning the strength of consistency. I was building something, mile by slow mile. My body was changing — yes — but more importantly, my mindset was shifting.

This is where I began to understand the power of habits.

God didn’t meet me in a lightning bolt moment of transformation. He met me in the small choices. In the uncomfortable, sweaty, ordinary afternoons. When I ran even though I didn’t want to. When I chose grilled chicken over pizza. When I went to bed early so I could be sharper the next day. Habits became training grounds for growth. They were where grace and discipline met.

Those early runs didn’t give me Boston, in fact, at that time I hadn’t even thought about Boston. That said, they gave me something better: the realization that change wasn’t about intensity — it was about intention. About returning to the road day after day and trusting that what I was doing mattered, even if it didn’t feel heroic.

And slowly, things did start to change.

I was sleeping better. My energy improved. I felt lighter — not just physically, but emotionally. My confidence grew, even if only a little. My kids started asking me how my runs went. My wife noticed I was smiling more. And somewhere deep inside, I began to believe that maybe — just maybe — I could do this.

I could be the man who finishes something. Who shows up. Who runs.

And something else started to shift.

This rhythm of running — of lacing up my shoes every afternoon and doing the work — began to spill over into other parts of my life. I hadn’t planned on that. But it happened, almost without me noticing at first. Because when you commit to something hard and keep showing up, that commitment starts to shape you.

Suddenly, I was more organized at work. I was more present at home. I started sticking to other good habits — eating cleaner, drinking a lot of water, praying more regularly, even sleeping better. There was a momentum that bled outward from those afternoon runs. Running wasn’t just something I did. It was setting the tone for the man I was becoming and going to become.

Consistency in one area gave me clarity in others. The discipline it took to run when I didn’t feel like it made it easier to resist other compromises. I wasn’t perfect — far from it — but I was becoming faithful in the small things. And in that faithfulness, I was finding something important. A rhythm. A structure. A grace.

It felt like God was using these runs not just to change my body, but to build a foundation — brick by brick, habit by habit — for a life that was stronger, steadier, and more grounded than the one I had before.

I didn’t know it then, but I was laying down the tracks for the rest of the journey.