Walking/Jogging/Running for Clarity of Mind

One Step at a Time: The Treadmill That Carried Me Home

Very few people know why I started running a couple of years ago.

When I would walk back then, I could see my right foot hit the ground—but the sensation wouldn't register in my brain until my left foot was already coming down. My signals were that crossed. It's almost impossible to describe what it's like when your eyes, your brain, and your body all disagree about where your own feet are.

I prayed, earnestly, to know what to do. And the answer I got that very first day was simple and completely unreasonable: walk twelve miles.

So I climbed onto the treadmill and did exactly that—holding myself upright mostly with the weight of my arms while the belt dragged my legs forward, one at a time, my brain misfiring the whole way. I cried and cried as I walked and walked, stepping off only to switch the laundry or use the bathroom before climbing right back on until I hit twelve miles. Every morning I'd ask, "How many today?" Some days the answer was six. Most days it was twelve.

Slowly, unbelievably, those crossed signals began to heal.

Eventually I graduated from the treadmill to the open road—I'd have my husband drop me off six or twelve miles from home and walk or jog my way back, listening to motivational books and talks the whole way. During one relay, I listened to The Big Leap and pictured myself releasing a limiting belief with every single mile I finished.

That first relay was humbling, I'll be honest. I'd told the friend who invited me that I could hold a twelve-minute mile. Then I got out on the road without the treadmill to lean on and discovered my real pace was at least three minutes slower than that. My lungs could absolutely handle more—I knew they could—but no matter how hard I tried, I could not make my body run faster. My brain simply wouldn't send the message yet. Running about as fast as my teammates could walk (truly!) was mortifying. But those brave friends met me at every mile marker with such encouragement, cheering me on until I finished my leg at eight miles. I will never forget them for it.

A happy-sad milestone

And now? I'm selling my treadmill.

It's happy and sad all at once. I walked so many miles on that machine, through so many tears, that letting it go for a fraction of what it was truly worth to me feels a little like saying goodbye to an old friend who saw me at my lowest. But here's why it's mostly happy: I don't need it the way I used to. It's time to run some trails, hop on my mountain bike, dance, swim—to take my body out into the world, in any weather, and let it move the way it was made to.

A while back I read something about how endurance movement—long, steady, aerobic exercise—is one of the most powerful things we can do to help the brain build and rewire itself. I couldn't tell you the exact study, and I wish I'd saved it (if you ever come across a good one on how long-distance movement supports the brain, please send it my way!). But I didn't need the citation to know it was true. I'd lived it. I didn't understand back then that all those weeping miles were quietly rebuilding my brain. I didn't know. But G-d did. ❤️

This morning, I dropped my boys off at the rec center for swim practice and decided to get in my own workout while they trained. On the stair stepper, I watched a row of women up front absolutely fly, one of them calling out encouragement to the others, and it lit a fire in me. I found myself imagining them out on the trails and in relays and marathons. Being outdoors is more healing to me than any machine—but some days you do what fits your schedule and your season, and that counts too.

So wherever you are on your own road, here's what I most want you to hear: never, ever give up. Keep listening for the answers that are meant specifically for you—they won't look like anyone else's, and they don't have to make sense to the world. Sometimes the instruction that seems the most ridiculous ("walk twelve miles"?) is the very thing that heals you.

Get outside if you can. Move your body however you're able today, in whatever weather you've got. And when it's hard—cry through it if you need to, like I did—but keep going.

One step at a time. That's all it ever takes.

Cheering for you—always.

With much love,

Steffi