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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.