She's a Runner. She's a Trackstar

For a long time, I was a runner.

I had been running for so long, I didn’t even realize I was running.

And not the good kind of running either—the kind where you wake up slowly, breathe deeply, stretch gently, and then jog alongside the rising sun. No. This was the exhausting kind.

The kind where you’re terrified, lost in the woods, tripping over roots and rocks, surrounded by darkness, and haunted by monsters you never fully face.

When I finally recognized that I was running, I saw it clearly:

I wasn’t running towards anything.

I was running away.

Away from my problems.

Away from Family. Friends. Co-workers. Even my child.

The act of constantly fleeing filled my nervous system with anxiety, mistrust, tension, and deep self-neglect.

The weight of it all became unbearable.

And yet, somehow, I still didn’t know how to stop running away—or even turn around and move forward.

Changing direction was too hard.

So instead of rushing into something new just to avoid the past, I did something unfamiliar.

I stopped. Breathed. Listened.

I paused long enough to start feeling again.

Then came the slow, painful process of unpacking.

Unraveling my emotions.

Checking in with my body.

Taking inventory of my surroundings, my thoughts, and most importantly—my heart.

Everything needed to be examined.

Maybe the dry, cracked earth under my feet wasn’t cursed.

Maybe it was soil—untouched and forgotten—just waiting to be watered.

Maybe the random puddles weren’t just messes to avoid but dried-up rivers, longing for the tears I hadn’t allowed myself to cry.

Maybe the silence wasn’t abandonment but space I was finally allowed to fill with truth.

Maybe the fog was protection, giving me just enough clarity to focus on the next small step.

Once I did the inner work—once the pieces began to make sense—I felt clarity settle in.

And from that place of healing, I began to move again.

But this time, with intention.

This time, forward.

I don’t have all the answers.

I don’t know every path.

I can’t name every emotion in the moment I feel it.

But now, I have something I didn’t have before: a system.

A way to pause and ask,

Am I running forward—or am I slipping back into old patterns?

That awareness changes everything.

So What Does It Mean to Run Forward?

Running forward isn’t about speed—it’s about direction.

It’s waking up in the same woods you once feared, but noticing that the trees aren’t as threatening when the sun rises through the branches.

It’s feeling the earth beneath your feet—not as something to escape, but something solid enough to hold you.

It’s no longer tripping over every root and rock, but learning to watch your steps. To pace yourself. To move with care.

Running forward means stopping to hear the birds that were always singing, even when you were too panicked to notice.

It means discovering that some of those monsters weren’t real—they were shadows cast by fear.

It’s realizing the path isn't perfect, but it's yours. And that makes it worth walking.

Forward looks like walking toward the light breaking through the trees, even when the trail feels unfamiliar.

It’s gathering strength from every breath, every pause, every intentional step.

It’s knowing that while the woods are still wild, you’re no longer lost inside them.

You’ve mapped the terrain.

You’ve survived the night.

Now you’re running forward—not just to get out, but to see what beauty lies beyond the trees.

🌱 Ready to take your next step out of survival mode?

Download the free chapter of The Art of Becoming and begin your own journey from running to rising.

👉 Art of Becoming