I hate this hill.

This hill and I do not get along. I knew it too, from the day I discovered and first tried to conquer it. (Years ago. Yeah, we go way back.) In my gut I knew that it would eventually evolve into something symbolic that would rise again to try and mock me.

And this morning it did.

I’d been up early contemplating the desire to get a jump on the day’s workload versus relieve some stress. I somehow (miracle of all miracles) managed to talk my slacker self into donning my running shoes in favor of a jaunt around the neighborhood.

To my chagrin I quickly realized how out of shape I’ve become when two runners blazed past me effortlessly. I guess the shame of being lapped kicked me in gear because suddenly I wanted to do something crazy.

Cue TFH. “TFH’ is the affectionate name we’ve given to the ridiculous stretch of gravel in the above picture. (Translation: THAT. F@#$&. HILL.)

I hate that hill. I hate the fact that it is so steep and so long and in my darn neighborhood. (Constantly taunting me.)

And yet… I put on my big girl panties and ran the whole freaking thing. Didn’t stop once. Head down. Music blaring. Legs burning.

Yep. The whole freaking thing.

And then I died.

Whatever. I did it. (It just wasn’t pretty afterwards.) 

Honestly, I think I ran it to punish myself. Possibly to also will myself back from the wimpy mindset I’ve been living in as of late.

Whatever happened to that warrior woman who would try anything?

She had become a thing of the past.

Until today and TFH. In the big span of things, I know that running up a steep hill isn’t all that spectacular. But it was symbolic.

I feel much better now.