It’s not a parade

It’s 7:47 p.m. and I’m getting ready for bed.
I’ve showered, shaved (because aerodynamics), and laid out my race-day essentials like tomorrow is the first day of school.

Tomorrow I’m running another half marathon. Well… I’m hoping to run. At least some of it.

At my last half marathon — the one I walked entirely — around mile eleven someone held a sign that read: “Run! It’s a marathon, not a parade.”

Oof.

It landed harder than my feet had for the previous eleven miles.

Because here’s the thing: you never know what someone is carrying onto that course. Just showing up requires something invisible — alarm clocks set for the crack of dawn, nerves humming before sunrise, bodies that may or may not cooperate, minds negotiating with doubt every single mile.

You wake up anyway.
You pin on the bib anyway.
You move forward anyway.

That sign dismissed commitment.
It overlooked courage.
It came from someone standing comfortably on the sidelines — not running, not walking, not doing the hard, quiet work of continuing.

And still… it stayed with me.

Not because it was right, but because it asked a question I’ve been answering ever since. What counts?

Is it pace?
Is it pride?
Is it crossing the finish line looking effortless?

Or is it showing up in a body that has known fear, setbacks, exhaustion — and choosing forward motion anyway?

Tomorrow I’ll run when I can.
I’ll walk when I need to.
I’ll smile at strangers, thank volunteers, and celebrate every mile my legs allow me.

Because this isn’t a parade.
But it also isn’t a performance.

Lights out.
Alarm set.
Grateful heart.

See you at the starting line.