A few simple prompts – a memoir? Maybe.
Last day – last class.
Rough but real:
A Moment in My Body
The sweet sugar and icy chill washed through me.
I had never tasted anything so wondrous. As I swallowed the liquid from the tiny paper cup handed to me, I turned to see the source.
Coke.
No way. And yet — despite my disbelief — I surrendered to the ecstasy of that syrupy liquid. It quenched my thirst, revived me, energized every cell in my body. I let myself savor it slowly, taking smaller and smaller sips to make it last.
Time stood still.
With my eyes closed, I crushed the empty cup in my hand and let it drop into the garbage container.
As I walked away, the tingling flavor still dancing on my tongue, I felt a gentle hum of satisfaction grounding me.
Then I noticed — the aches in my body, the quiet joy of completion.
An Insight That Changed Everything
I’ve come to understand that forgiveness isn’t really for the other person — it’s for me.
But it is relational. It opens a doorway between us.
It’s about adjusting my own mind, softening my stance, so I can truly see, hear, and know another.
That realization shifted something deep inside me.
When I fully grasped that forgiveness raises consciousness — that it opens my heart — something clicked.
It stopped being a nice idea and became a lived experience.
A tectonic shift in how I saw, how I felt.
Of course, I still slip.
I fall back into judging others — or worse, myself —
getting stuck in that old loop of blame, of right and wrong.
But when I let go of the judgment and lean into curiosity instead, something changes.
There’s expansion.
I notice more.
Not mentally — not with the mind — but energetically.
I sense it:
energy, frequency, sound, vibration — possibility.
What was stuck begins to move.
And then I realize — it’s not just the situation that’s been freed.
It’s me.
I was the one who was stuck.
And now, I am free.
From Miles To Meaning or Running to Real: A Memoir
Running was my joy.
Morning runs before work.
Evening runs after.
Weekends too.
I ran until I couldn’t run anymore.
The doctor called it a disorder.
The therapist called it trauma.
So I fought the demons — and the demons fought back.
My body was desperate to quit.
But my dog reminded me to keep going.
Eventually, I found a haven.
A space where I didn’t have to explain or prove why I was the way I was.
I just had to show up — be real, be honest, in the moment.
There, I learned to bridge the gap between the old chaos —
the drama, the trauma —
and something new.
I didn’t have to be right.
I didn’t have to stay wrong.
I could be relational. I could be real.
Relating, though — that was harder than running.
Running was easy.
Relating asked me to feel.
To face waves of sorrow, despair, heartache.
It wasn’t easy to share any of it.
But when I did —
when I let myself be seen,
or when I listened deeply as someone else shared their raw truth —
I felt something shift.
Held. Warm. Moved.
Those moments were sacred.
Lasting.
Connected.
Far more rewarding than finishing a marathon
or closing any deal.
Sure, pleasure can come in quick highs.
But becoming real —
becoming connected —
that gives something deeper.
Something that actually stays.