Yesterday, on Christmas Day, I headed out for an eight-mile run in some of the new running clothes Santa had brought me. 

Not because I felt guilty for the unhealthy food I’d been eating.

Not because I was running away from my feelings.

Not because I wanted to make sure I fit into my new Christmas clothes. (Although, that didn’t hurt.)

I ran because 8 miles was on my training schedule for yesterday and I wanted to get it in before the snow.

I ran because I knew my body needed it after lots of rich food, and I knew it’d help the headache I had.

I ran because I love how it makes me feel.

I ran because I can.

As I ran up and down the hills of my hometown (there’s a road called Summit Ave—apparently it’s called that for a reason), I imagined some of the passengers in the cars that passed thinking, “wow, that girl’s got dedication. Look at her out there in the cold, on Christmas Day, running. I wish I was that girl.” I know that’s how I would have thought a few years ago.

But I’m pretty damn close to that girl I’ve always wanted to be.

I don’t wish any more. I don’t make excuses any more. I set goals and shred them.

I run. I ran a marathon. I’ve run quite a few other races.

I fit into the clothes that Santa leaves under the tree. After years of asking for size 12 and 14 clothes and only trying on clothes first thing in the morning, before I’d had anything to eat, it is an amazing feeling to pull on a size 4 skirt—although, admittedly, it would feel a little better right now if I had had a few more vegetables this weekend.

I’ve released baggage that wasn’t mine to carry, so I’m now lighter both physically and emotionally. 

My life isn’t perfect, by any means, nor is it exactly where I want it to be. But for now, I’m where I need to be, and that’s good for me.