Running Away, and then Running Back Home

When my eyes begin to flood I often find myself throwing on a blanket full of workout clothes, some earbuds tight and loud in my ears, and some tennis shoes as tight as I can tie them.

And then I run. I cry, and I sweat, and I run.

Not because I’m super healthy and it’s good for you. I’m literally trying to run away. I want to be away from it all, as if my worries can’t catch my feet. It has to be far. Far away, so three miles ain’t gonna cut it.

I run. And I run. And I try to find the perfect song to match my emotions, and I run.

Then I get exhausted. The adrenaline wears off, my legs are hurting (cause who has time to stretch before an emotional run), and I stop. I stop, out of breath, without any water, and usually with a long way to go to make it back home.

I run when it hurts, and until it hurts.

But I always seem to stop.

I always end up turning around.

And I either make a phone-a-friend call to pick me up, or somehow I make it back home.

Whoever you are, you may be reading this probably right in the middle of whatever running away happens to look like for you. I see you. I see the hurt. I see the pain your masking as sweat, as alcohol, as drugs, as a Netflix marathon that completely takes you away, as social media perfection, as an overflow of affirmation to cover your insecurities. Whatever running away looks like for you, I see you running.

Now hear me say this gently. It’s time to stop. Whatever you’re doing, you’re running out of breath. There’s no water here. Slow down. Turn around. Find your way back. There’s people back there that love you, people that are waiting for you to return.

Stop Running. It’s time to come home.

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