Last year, while camping along the shore of Lake Michigan, I took a picture of my running shoes sitting at the edge of the water. At the time, it didn’t seem especially meaningful. It was simply the way I often ended my mornings there.
I would get up before most everyone else, go for a run, and finish by walking straight into the cold water of the lake. Over time, it became one of those quiet traditions that helped define the place for me.
Looking at that same shoreline this weekend, I realized I may have taken that picture at the end of a chapter. I have been a distance runner since I was a teenager. Running has been part of my life for decades, carrying me through seasons of joy, struggle, clarity, and change.
But over the last few years, osteoarthritis has slowly changed that reality. Standing there this morning, I found myself wondering if those early morning runs along Lake Michigan have quietly become part of my past.
In the grand scheme of life, this is a very small loss. There are people facing illnesses far more serious than sore knees. There are families carrying grief that puts this into perspective. But I have also learned that we do not need to compare losses in order to acknowledge them.
Sometimes it is enough to simply recognize that a season is changing.
What stayed with me was not just the possibility that my running days are ending. It was the realization that we almost never know when we are doing something for the last time.
The last bedtime story before your child decides they are too old. The last family vacation before everyone begins going their separate ways. The last phone call with someone you love. The last run that feels like just another run.
Life rarely announces these moments. They quietly slip into memory.
As I stood there looking out across Lake Michigan, I noticed two emotions sharing the same space: a little sadness and a great deal of gratitude. The sadness exists because those mornings mattered. The gratitude exists because I was fortunate enough to have them.
I do not know exactly what future camping trips will look like. Maybe the runs will become walks. Maybe I will spend more time sitting with a cup of coffee, watching the sunrise before stepping into that cold water.
Whatever comes next, I hope I do not spend so much time wishing for the season that is ending that I miss the one that is beginning. Perhaps that, too, is part of awakening.
Not resisting change. Not pretending it does not hurt. But quietly saying thank you for the chapter that was while remaining open to whatever the next chapter may bring.
The circle is never closed.™
