Even though it was pouring rain outside this evening, I still decided to go for a run. There's this point in my run when I climb a very steep hill. Once I reach the top, I pause for a few to catch my breath and look out over the city. The vista is beautiful--breathtakingly so. For the past three years, I've made this run and have always reached the top to take that look but always felt this unspoken sadness surrounding me and weighing me down. Today, as I reached to top, for the first time, I did not stop and instantly realized that I no longer needed to catch my breath and that the sadness was no longer there.
There is a part of me that wants to talk about where this sadness went. Then again, there is an even bigger part of me that is glad that it is gone. What remains, however, is this lighter me--the one I have been waiting for for such a long time. I won't lie. It's eerie to not have it there. I became accustomed to the handicap. It became my identity--my own soundtrack.
But it's gone. I no longer grieve. I no longer wait. I no longer hope for that happy ending. Folks, it's not coming and I can finally prepare for those things that are--like my future, which is unfolding before my eyes this very instant in a way that is astounding and humbling and right on time. This is where my hope rests--in my ability to gather motivation from the most painful of experiences and move forward.