I’ve been in a little bit of a funk lately. I have struggled with depression in the past, and I sometimes feel it start creeping back in on me, particularly when I am chronically overtired or when my thyroid meds need an adjustment. I have nothing in particular to be sad about lately, just sort of feeling not myself, and well, sad.
I got home from work a little early today – I flew to St. Louis for a quick meeting, and arrived back in Dallas during that wonderful time period where it’s too late in the afternoon for me to go to the office and be productive, but early enough for me to have some extra free time. So I went for a run. 12 miles.
I pushed myself quite a bit. It hurt. A lot more than it should have hurt given the pace I was running. I got home, and my muscles were quivering, even my arms. I was covered in sweat, save for a random spot on the front of my shirt. I hunched over the kitchen counter, knowing that I needed to start refueling, but struggling to move.
And it felt glorious.
I forgot how good it feels to come back from a training run completely spent. I strangely welcomed the mild sick feeling that ensued, knowing that I gave to the run all that I had to offer. And in return, the run gave me back some happiness.