There is something about running that always brings me back to center. It is more than miles and finish lines — it’s where I meet the most honest version of myself. Out there, there is no hiding behind excuses, no distractions from the noise of life. It is just me, my thoughts and the sound of my feet hitting the pavement.
I started running during one of the hardest chapters of my life. When my grandpa passed away, I was in a dark place. The emotions that came with grief. The sadness, frustration and confusion felt impossible to sort through. So, I started running. At first, it was an escape, a way to trade emotional pain for physical pain. Somewhere along the way, though, that changed. Running stopped being an escape and became a confrontation, a way to face what I was feeling rather than run from it.
Over time, running became something spiritual. It turned into a form of worship, a conversation between me and God that did not need words. Every mile was a prayer. Every run was a small act of gratitude — for strength, for health, for the ability to move forward. I began a tradition I call Sunday Rehab — a mix of faith and fitness. I would go to church in the morning, get spiritually centered, then join a group of local runners in the evening to log a few easy recovery miles. It is my reset button, for the body and the soul.
That mindset is what carried me into the Wichita Prairie Fire Half-Marathon earlier this fall. I signed up because it was close to home and because it started and finished at Equity Bank Park, home of the Wichita Wind Surge. But honestly, I ran it for something deeper. I ran it for redemption.
In 2024, I had a good year of running. I completed the Patriots Run in Kansas City for Folds of Honor and ran well but the course was looped, and mentally, it did not challenge me the way I wanted it to. Later that year, I signed up for the Salina Crossroads Half only to sprain my ankle a week before the race. That injury took me out, not just physically but mentally. I lost my rhythm. I made excuses. I told myself I would get back to it but the days kept slipping away.
So, when I registered for the Prairie Fire, I knew it was not just another race. It was my way of proving to myself that I could still do it and that I could follow through, even when it was not easy.
Race day arrived cool and crisp. The energy was electric, more than 1,200 runners for the half, another 800 for the full, and around 4,000 spectators lining the streets. I felt that buzz from the start. When the gun went off, I settled into a rhythm that felt steady, even comfortable. I hit the 10K mark at 1:22:40, right on pace for a 2:40 finish.
For most of the race, I felt confident. But at about mile 11.5, my calves started to tighten, small cramps at first, then waves of pain that grew stronger with every step. By mile 12, both legs were locking up and no amount of electrolytes and vitamins could help. I tried to push through but the pain forced me to slow down.
I’d been on pace for that 2:40 goal. Now, I was just fighting to finish.
When I finally crossed the finish line, my first thought was simple: “Damn, finally.”
My second was relief. I could stop running. I could breathe. And even though I did not hit my personal best, my chip time of 2:57:54 meant I stayed under three hours and that was enough for now.
My girlfriend and her dad were waiting near the finish, cheering as I crossed. I had messages from friends and teammates on my phone, small prayers, bits of motivation I had saved to read near the end when I needed them most. Knowing people believed in me helped me find that last ounce of effort when my body wanted to give up.
That is the thing about running it exposes you. It makes you brutally honest with yourself. During that race, I realized how often I let excuses hold me back. Not just in running, but in life. In school. In my relationships. I tell myself I’ll get around to things, and then I don’t. I put off the work until later, even when I know better. But running doesn’t let you hide from that. You can’t fake miles. The only way forward is to keep moving, one step at a time.
At one point during the race, I fell in step with a small pack of runners maybe six or seven of us. We didn’t know each other’s names but it didn’t matter. We shared a common rhythm and a common goal. There were people of all ages, from maybe nineteen to eighty, and from all different backgrounds. Nobody spoke, but there was this unspoken unity, a shared understanding that we were all chasing something beyond the finish line.
That moment reminded me why I love this sport. Running isn’t about competing with anyone else. It’s about connection. It’s about testing your limits and realizing that the people around you are doing the same thing. You might be strangers, but you’re all part of the same story.
Before every race, I pray. I’ve done it for years but lately it’s taken on a deeper meaning. I thank God for the chance to be there, for the legs that carry me, the air in my lungs and the faith that keeps me grounded. I see my running as a form of discipleship, a way to live out my faith through action. Each run becomes an act of gratitude.
The biggest thing the Prairie Fire Half taught me is honesty with myself, my habits and my mindset. I learned that consistency matters more than intensity. You don’t need to go hard every day. You need to show up, even when you don’t want to. You need to move forward, even if it’s slow.
Now, as I prepare for the Salina Crossroads Half-Marathon on November 8, 2025, I’m taking a different approach. I’m focusing on pace consistency not starting too fast, not waiting too late to push. I’m also making recovery a priority, taking time to stretch, roll out and listen to my body. I’ve battled shin and calf issues for a while but I’m learning to manage them with patience.
Balancing running with college life, work and podcasting isn’t easy. I wear a lot of hats, and some days I fall short. I miss an assignment or fall asleep halfway through one. Although, I’ve realized something. there are twenty-four hours in a day and we make time for the things that matter most. Running matters to me. So I make time.
Running has taught me that discipline and joy can coexist. You can chase goals seriously while still loving the process. If you can smile when things get tough, you’re doing it right. The body will go farther than the mind believes possible, as long as your heart stays in it.
When people read this, I hope they feel reflective maybe even inspired. Because whether it’s running, faith or just life in general, the message is the same: don’t give up on yourself. Progress doesn’t come overnight. It comes stride by stride, step by step, choice by choice.
The most rewarding journeys always begin with a single stride.
Keep Rockin.
