Three weeks ago I started a run club. One Saturday nobody came. The surface version of that morning was fine — we went to the coffee shop, it was lovely. The underneath version is what I've been sitting with since. On loneliness, the village shrinking, and what it looks like to finally stop moving past the fear long enough to be with it for five breaths.

This trip everyone got a longer hug — held past the point where it would normally end, and then a little longer than that. A few people laughed in that way that means the happy feeling arrived faster than their composure could keep up with. I recognized it because I was doing it too.

I almost didn't text because I could only offer two hours. She apologized for her house before I walked in. Neither of those things mattered at all. On waiting for perfect conditions that were never the point to begin with.

No gym this week. No structured workout, no logged miles. What there was: eleven hours in the air, a 30-pound toddler who did great, and a shot of G4 tequila chased with bread and butter pickles surrounded by the people I only get to do this with once a year. On letting the unfinished thing be enough.

A knot in my calf that I'd been carrying for years, a new weight that required more breaks than I wanted to take, and a toddler at the zoo exit who had a better plan than I did. Three things that loosened this week — once I stopped forcing them.

I didn't have to think very long before my body answered for me. Six weeks of physical therapy, a minute of heavy squats, and a question I'll be sitting with all week.