Writing

by

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.

by

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.

by

I write to run

“I write to run.”

Hmmm.  I was thinking about this yesterday during my slow run.  I guess since I wasn’t pushing so hard that I couldn’t think, I had time to ponder of why I write this blog.

My writing has changed my running in so many ways.  I never thought it would have the affect it has had.

When I started writing this blog in January of 2013, I wrote to keep a diary of my running.  I had been running for a year before I began journaling my runs through this blog.  When I started writing, I had no followers.  I wasn’t on Twitter, Facebook or any other social media.  I’m still not on Facebook… but I digress.  Basically the only way people found this blog was pretty much by accident.

I have found that by writing my running experiences down, I remember what I have done correctly and what I have done wrong.  For instance, I wrote several times recently about altering my running after my half marathon.  This is because I wrote so much about my injures after my marathon last year that I remembered what had happened.  By writing what I was going to do this year, it cemented my plan in my head and kept me on the right path.

I don’t read much.

People make fun of me sometimes that in order to read a book, I need big words and lots of pictures.  I have never really enjoyed reading much, even as a kid.  I don’t know why.  I say that to say, I’ve learned most of the lessons in my life by experience.  That can be good, but also it can be bad.  When I started running, TJ was a HUGE help to get me going and doing the right things.  When I started this blog, I began reading other bloggers and their experiences and tips.  Also, the comments and feedback from other bloggers on my blog has helped a lot.

But…

I still learn from experience.  Thus another reason to write this blog.  As I learn a lesson, I write about it… good or bad.  If something helps me a lot, like my mountain runs or ACV, I’ll write about it more.  Of course I want to share my experiences with other runners now that I have a good following, but also I want to always remember the lessons learned.  If I write it down, I remember it!  In college I learned (rather late in my schooling) that I could take good notes in class, rewrite them in a condensed form the day before the exam.  Then that night I would read my condensed notes right before I went to bed.  The next morning I could “see” my notes in my head as if I had perfect photographic recall.  As the day went on, they faded, but talk about the perfect cheat sheet.  I went from a 2.0 average to being on the Deans List my last semester.

All this is to explain why I write this blog…  I do want to share my experiences.  I do want to get feedback and that really motivates me.  In the end though, I do it for myself.  Sorry.  I guess I’m selfish that way.

Have an awesome weekend.

Tom