For the first time since pulling a muscle three weeks ago, I let myself have a meltdown about it.
Not since I hobbled to my very first marathon DNF last month have I cried over this. Until now. I should be sleeping. I chose crying instead. That's how I roll.
I don't know what will happen when I start running tomorrow morning, and that's wreaking havoc on my mind.
I've been dreaming of this relay for a year. Dreaming of covering the miles with a healthy body, feeling strong. Running was my outlet. My love. My happy place. And so quickly, one setback after another, it fell apart -- just three weeks before the biggest running challenge yet.
I know this mission is greater than me. I know I raised the money and I did my part, but this part of the journey was mine. These miles and that solitude and this moment were what I needed.
I've made peace with knowing it won't go exactly as planned, but I haven't yet let myself grieve for the plan I originally had in my heart.
So here I am, on the eve of day one, grieving for it.
Maybe tomorrow will be perfect. Maybe my miles will feel as strong as I'd hoped.
And maybe they won't.
At the end of the day, and at the end of this week, the outcome will be the same: I'll have made a small difference in the world and fought for something greater.
But until then I just want a hug and a prayer and to cry a little bit while I get all the self pity out of my system.
It's hard to let go of the best laid plans when the path goes awry. I'm stubborn.
Either way, tomorrow morning I'll lace up my shoes for the first time in three weeks, power up my lonely Garmin, cross my fingers, and take the first step.
Please just let it be a good one.