Notes From a Long Day

It’s 9:46 pm, and I just finished my mile — walking, not running.

Today was hard.

Not dramatic hard. Not crisis hard.

Just the kind of day that slowly drains you without asking permission.

I was up at 7 — not terribly early, but early enough. I spent the morning at the restaurant doing a little work, then sat with my daughter while she got her hair braided. One of those quiet, ordinary moments that somehow holds more weight than it looks like from the outside.

Then it was back to the restaurant for the rest of the day.

Working. On my feet. Most of the time.

The interactions weren’t great. Mentally, it was tough. Somewhere in the middle of it all, I sliced my finger open — one more small thing in a day that already felt heavy. Nothing major, just enough to be annoying and exhausting in the way only those little injuries can be.

By the time I left at 7:30, my back was hurting from standing and my mind felt done.

I was tired.

Physically uncomfortable.

Mentally drained.

So tonight, running wasn’t the right choice.

But I still went outside.

I still moved.

I still did my mile.

I walked it — slowly, deliberately, listening to my body instead of pushing through it.

This wasn’t about pace or training plans or proving anything.

It was about meeting myself where I was instead of where I thought I should be.

There’s a version of consistency we don’t talk about enough — the kind that adapts. The kind that says walking counts. That effort counts. That showing up doesn’t have to hurt to matter.

One mile.

On tired legs.

With a sore back.

After a long day.

This is real life. And this still counts.