However, the days of my life keep coming and my children keep growing. If I’m lucky enough to be around to see their children, I also want to be able to run and jump and play with them. I want to teach them to execute a great pick-and-roll (that’s basketball, for you non-players); I want to play goalie in the front yard when they kick a soccer ball; I want to hike with them and experience nature’s beauty together.

And so I run.

I started two years ago and could just barely make it to the other end of our not-so-big neighborhood without huffing and puffing. I walked back. Eventually I jogged back, slowly, and this was a big deal. I decided to join the big leagues and left the neighborhood. I ran a whole mile and gosh, it felt good. What it did for my mind was exponentially bigger than what it did for my body.

I kept running.

I find that running makes a difference for me in myriad ways. It’s a little easier to get up & down the basketball court during my weekly game. I tend to make smarter food choices on the days that I run, because, dear Lord, why would I go through all of that pain and effort only to derail myself with a Snickers bar? I feel stronger. I have more energy. I get more done.

Despite these fantastic benefits, I still don’t consider myself a runner. I’m just not that dedicated. And I still don’t like it. You won’t find me out there every day, or even every other day, hitting the pavement. I play basketball once a week and torture myself in a spin class once a week. I try to get to yoga or pilates, two of the best programs I know for helping you to build strength, gain balance, and own your body. I walk. And one or two or three times a week, I get out there and run.

Bring it on, future grandkids. I’ll be waiting.