I didn’t fully realize it at the time, but the island of Grosse Ile, Michigan taught me how to be still even in motion. During my surgical residency at Henry Ford Wyandotte Hospital, life was constant noise — pagers, podiatry call phone, patient rounds, the stress of long hours, and the weight of learning while raising a young family. Between surgeries, lectures, clinics and late-night charting, running became the only place where the chaos quieted down.
There’s something about that island that steadies you. The low whisper of river, the open sky over the bridge, and the faint rhythm of your own breath — it has a way of clearing the static. Grosse Ile wasn’t just where I lived while I trained as a physician; it was where I learned to listen again — to myself, to life, to the pace that made sense.
When I was living and running there, the island became more than a route. It was therapy, meditation, and a reminder of presence. During weekdays I always ran at night, on weekends in the mornings; other times, I’d catch the sunset after a long day of surgeries or clinic. The light was different every time — sometimes gold, sometimes gray — but always a reminder that no matter how exhausting the week felt, there was beauty left to notice.
Running on Grosse Ile was grounding. Being surrounded by water on all sides gave me a sense of containment and calm. The bridges marked transitions — between pressure and peace, work and home, noise and stillness. Even when I wasn’t running, I found myself chasing the light, stopping to take pictures of a sunrise or just standing quietly by the water, but not too long while on runs. Those moments taught me gratitude in the midst of exhaustion.
Below is a gallery of the skies that shaped those memories —
sunrises and sunsets that reminded me to keep moving, but never rush.
Closing Reflection
I didn’t realize it then, but running Grosse Ile taught me how to be still even in motion. Sometimes the most meaningful miles aren’t about distance — they’re about remembering who you are when everything else goes quiet. And every once in a while, if you’re lucky, you find a running partner who understands that silence — someone who doesn’t need words to match your stride, who keeps you moving on the days you’d rather stop, and who reminds you that you’re not alone in the run and celebrates your finishes and victories.