Redefining the Numbers That Matter

I was in my early 30s the first time I really worried about the number on the scale.

I had just come through a difficult period of depression—the year I turned 29—and had gained a significant amount of weight. Once the depression was under control, my focus shifted to the weight, because that is what I was told by the doctors to focus on.

Eventually, the weight came off. And that’s when my relationship with the scale really began.

For years after that, the number on the scale had the power to make or break my mood. Even when I gained weight, I could usually lose it again. But then perimenopause and menopause hit—and things changed. What had always felt manageable suddenly didn’t.

For a while, I kept weighing myself, and that number continued to shape how I felt about myself… and, if I’m being honest, how I showed up in the world.

At some point, I stopped stepping on the scale altogether. And that worked—for a little while. But the truth was, I still didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin.

Recently, I found my way back to strength training after a few years away. And something shifted.

I started to realize that the number on the scale isn’t what matters most to me anymore.

What matters is feeling strong. Capable. Powerful.

Today, I deadlifted 165 pounds and bench pressed 65 pounds. These aren’t my personal bests—but they feel like something even better: progress. Momentum. A return to myself.

Of course, I know there are other numbers that matter—blood pressure, cholesterol, blood sugar. Those are important pieces of the bigger picture.

But the number on the scale? That’s no longer the one I look to for a true measure of my health.

These days, I want to lift heavy barbells.

And more importantly, I want to be able to scoop up my granddaughter when she asks, lift her high in the air, swing her around—and hear those giggles.

The scale may still exist.

But it no longer gets a vote.

What Does A Runner Look Like?

She looks like a runner.

It was a simple comment. Casual. Probably not meant to carry much weight.

But it has stayed with me.

Because the person it was said about… doesn’t run.

She’s strong. She’s fit. She shows up for herself in ways that deserve respect. But running? That’s not her thing.

And yet—that’s what a runner looks like?

I haven’t been able to shake it.

Not because there’s anything wrong with her. But because of what it quietly suggests about me.

Because here’s the truth—I don’t look like what people picture when they think of a runner.

I’m not the image you see in ads or magazines. I don’t fit the mold that so many people have been taught to associate with speed, endurance, or strength.

And yet…

I’ve run over 200 races.
Nine marathons.
Countless miles in between.

I’ve shown up on the days when it felt easy—and the days when it felt impossible.
I’ve run through stress, through change, through seasons of growth and seasons of doubt.

Running is not something I look like.
It’s something I live.

And maybe that’s the part we’ve gotten wrong.

Somewhere along the way, we started believing that movement has a “look.”
That strength has a shape.
That being a runner is something you can determine with your eyes.

But being a runner isn’t about appearance.

It’s about choosing to show up.
It’s about putting one foot in front of the other—again and again—whether anyone is watching or not.
It’s about building something within yourself that no one else can define for you.

This season of my life has reminded me of that in a deeper way.

My body has changed.
My pace has changed.
My routines look different than they used to.

But none of that takes away from who I am.

If anything, it’s made me more certain.

Because being a runner was never about fitting into a box.

It’s about showing up—especially when it would be easier not to.
It’s about choosing to keep going, even when things feel different than they used to.

It’s about learning how to trust yourself in new seasons.

And maybe that’s what we should start recognizing when we look at someone and think—

She looks like a runner.

Not a body type.
Not a pace.
Not a number.

Just someone who knows who she is…
and isn’t afraid to keep showing up for it.

To keep showing up for herself.

To keep fueling what’s still there.

Starting Over—Again!

Since the fall of 2019, I’ve been determined to complete my 10th marathon. Each time I signed up, though, life threw a new obstacle in my path. Turning 51 brought unexpected changes—perimenopause and menopause—that left me exhausted, gaining weight, and struggling to recognize myself. My energy was low, my mind felt foggy, and I wondered if I’d ever feel like the runner I once was again.

Then the pandemic hit, shutting down races and routines. In those early months, I suffered a significant ankle sprain, followed later by Covid. Somewhere in the chaos, I became anemic, sprained my ankle again, and lost my motivation for the gym. Just as things finally seemed to be improving, a serious knee injury sidelined me for nearly a year.

Despite all of this, I refused to give up. I kept signing up for marathons—and even a few 50Ks—but each time, something went wrong. I found myself stuck in a cycle of disappointment and self-criticism. Not making it to the start line became a pattern, and with every missed opportunity, I grew harder on myself.

A few weeks ago, something shifted. I realized I’d lost sight of the basics—both physically and mentally. Instead of focusing on what I couldn’t do, I chose to start fresh. Now, I’m training for a 5K, just like I did for my very first race on January 1, 2012. My hope is that once I cross that finish line, I’ll feel strong enough to move on to a 10K, then a 10-miler, a half marathon, and eventually, marathon number ten.

This time, I’m celebrating every step forward. I’m learning to be patient with myself, to honor the progress I make, and to remember that every new beginning is a victory. If you’re facing your own setbacks, know this: starting over isn’t a failure—it’s a courageous choice. Progress is possible, one step at a time.