Inside Out
It’s early.
Too early for anyone with common sense to be out here.
The sun isn’t up yet … just a thin gray leaking over the treeline. The air bites a little, so you zip your vest higher and blow warm breath into your hands before you start moving. The trail’s still half-asleep; no hikers, no dogs, no other runners. Just you and the sound of your shoes brushing through dirt and leaves.
The silence hits different out here.
It’s peaceful, sure. But it’s also… loud.
Loud in that way your brain gets when there’s nothing left to distract it.
You start slow. Legs heavy, mind heavier. The climb’s waiting for you, the sun’s still hiding, and you can already feel the stories lining up inside you.
Because on some mornings like this one, you feel everything.
One emotion after another, each taking a turn holding the steering wheel as the miles unfold.
Joy | Gratitude in Motion
Some mornings just feel right from the start.
Before the thoughts. Before the noise. Before the world wakes up.
It’s early.
Too early for most people to be up, let alone moving.
There’s this small flicker of pride that hits before you even take a step.
Because you’re here … awake, alive, and out on the trail.
You take that first breath, sharp, cold, and it hits you:
you get to do this.
Your body still works.
Your lungs still fill.
You’ve got the time, the health, and the strength to be out here while most of the world’s still sleeping.
You don’t take that lightly.
Every footstep feels like a quiet thank-you.
You start to notice the details…
the soft crunch underfoot,
the steady warmth building in your core,
the sting of cold air that makes your eyes water,
the frost and dew catching light like tiny sparks along the trail,
the way the silence feels more like presence than absence.
It’s not about pace.
It’s not about proving anything.
You’re just moving through a world that still feels untouched.
By the time the sun breaks through the trees, it paints everything in gold.
And for a second, you just stop.
Not to rest, but to notice. To feel the warmth. To be.
That’s joy in its simplest form…
gratitude, disguised as motion.
Sadness | The Weight of Quiet
But not every morning feels like that.
It’s early.
The kind of early where the sky can’t decide if it’s morning or still night.
Sometimes, the quiet feels heavier.
You run, and it’s just… you.
No footsteps beside you. No conversation to fill the gaps. Just your own thoughts echoing back.
You used to share runs like this.
Different faces, different seasons, same sense of belonging.
Now it’s just you and the silence that doesn’t quite know how to comfort you.
And yeah, you tell yourself it’s fine. You’re independent, you’re focused, you don’t need anyone.
But some mornings, when the air hangs heavy and your breath fogs in front of you, it hits a little deeper.
You miss the sound of someone else’s footsteps beside yours.
You miss the unspoken comfort of matching pace,
the shared silence that somehow felt less empty than this one.
The climb comes, and it’s hard, not because of the hill, but because of the thoughts that follow.
You reach the top and look out over the trees, golden light breaking through the mist,
and it’s beautiful.
But there’s no one to say “Look at that” to.
You take a breath.
Let it sting.
Then let it go.
You start running again … not to escape the loneliness, but to move with it.
Because maybe this part, this quiet ache, is just another kind of training too.
Anger | Life’s Demands
Other mornings, it’s not sadness … it’s heat.
It’s early.
Too early for anyone juggling kids, work, and a calendar that never seems to quit.
You shouldn’t even be out here, not with everything waiting for you when you get back.
Emails. Meetings. School Activities. Deadlines.
How nice it must be to have time, right?
Okay. Enough with the pity party.
And yet, you showed up. Because if you don’t make time for this, no one’s going to hand it to you.
You start running before your brain has a chance to argue.
The air cuts. The trail’s uneven. The legs are heavy, but the frustration runs deeper.
You’re not angry at anyone in particular, it’s just the grind.
The constant pull of everything, everywhere, all the time.
And this run? It’s your one place to drop it all for an hour.
So you hammer the climb.
Lungs burning.
Sweat pouring.
Letting every step be a release.
By the time you reach the ridge, your chest is on fire, but it’s a good burn.
It’s clarity.
You can feel the stress melting into something cleaner, sharper.
The day’s still waiting.
The work’s still there.
But so are you.
This is how you fight for yourself
not by yelling, not by giving up,
but by running straight through the noise and coming out lighter on the other side.
Fear | Time and the Body
Then there are mornings when fear runs beside you.
It’s early.
The kind of early that feels heavier now than it used to.
You stretch a little longer before you start.
The knees creak, the joints complain, and you tell yourself it’s just the cold, but you know it’s not.
You’re not twenty-five anymore.
You start slow, careful. You can feel every bit of wear, every mile that’s been logged in these legs.
And somewhere between the breaths, the thoughts sneak in:
Am I still getting better? Or just holding on?
Will I be ready for the next race?
What happens when I can’t chase the same goals anymore?
You try to quiet it, but it hums beneath the rhythm of your steps.
The first climb hits, and you wonder if it’s supposed to feel this hard.
But you keep going anyway.
Because stopping now would mean giving in to that fear and that’s not who you are.
When the sun breaks through and spills light across the ridge, you stop for a moment.
You realize: maybe you’re not the same runner you once were.
But maybe that’s the point.
You’ve learned to listen, to respect the body you’ve built, to find joy in what still works instead of mourning what doesn’t.
Wisdom has taught you to adapt.
You smile.
Because fear’s still there, sure,
but it’s not in front of you anymore.
It’s behind you, following at a respectful distance.
Disgust | The Performative Grind
And then… there are mornings like this one.
It’s early.
The kind of early nobody wants to document.
No sunrise selfies, no “grind culture” captions, no ring light glow.
Just the real stuff; the cold, the dark, the quiet before the world turns on.
The kind where you’re just tired of all of it … the noise, the fakeness, the performative grind.
You see the posts. The same “no excuses” captions from people who only run when a camera’s rolling.
The influencers selling hustle and calling it truth.
The endless highlight reels of “authenticity” that feel anything but.
You roll your eyes and start running.
Because this is what it actually looks like: the solitude, the fatigue, the small battles no one claps for.
The trail’s empty.
Good.
You don’t want witnesses. You want honesty.
The climb hits, and it hurts, but the hurt feels pure.
No filters. No likes. Just effort.
At the top, when the sun breaks through the trees, you laugh a little to yourself.
Because this? This is what’s real.
No filters.
No followers.
No fake grind.
Just breath.
Effort.
Gratitude.
Peace.
You smirk a little thinking about all the noise online.
The posturing. The buzzwords. The endless “content.”
They can have it.
You’ll take the cold mornings, the solitude, and the dirt under your shoes
because that’s the part they’ll never fake.
The Run That Holds It All
Same trail. Same sunrise. Same runner.
But every time you show up, it feels different.
Some days it’s gratitude.
Some days it’s loneliness.
Some days it’s pressure, or fear, or cynicism.
But no matter what you’re feeling, the run always meets you where you are and leaves you just a little better than it found you.
Because the truth is, you’re not running to escape those emotions.
You’re running to understand them.
To move through them.
To come out the other side reminded of one simple, grounding fact:
You showed up.
And that’s what matters.
