Week 1 of half marathon training is officially underway, and I want to put a stake in the ground: this is the first Return to Running post of 2026, and I’m here for the work.
This week felt like a step up—more miles, more time on my feet, and more moments where my mind tried to talk me out of it. But the headline is simple: I showed up, I did the work, and I’m still moving forward.
The Numbers (Because They Matter)
This was Week 1 of training, and it wasn’t “perfect.” It was real.
- 4 runs
- 13.01 total miles
- Longest run: 4 miles
- Average pace: ~13:30/mile
I’m not chasing perfection right now. I’m chasing consistency. The kind that compounds.
Magnolia Weather Reality Check
One thing that’s easy to forget is how much the weather quietly shapes a run.
Early in the week I ran in the kind of cold, cloudy night where the body feels stiff and you have to earn the first mile.
Later in the week, it swung the other direction—80 degrees in January—the kind of run where your effort feels bigger than your pace and you have to stay patient.
And then the long run landed in that sweet spot: high 60s, sunny, and cooling down as the sun dropped—just enough comfort to keep going, just enough bite to feel alive.
I’m learning to respect that reality: conditions change, and the only job is to keep moving anyway.
The Long Run: Honest Work
My first long run of 2026 was 4 miles, and it was a perfect example of what training actually looks like.
The first couple miles had intention. Then I started fading. I walked more than I wanted. I could feel the mental battle showing up—“slow down,” “stop,” “you can do this later,” all the usual voices. There were some moments I didn’t think I’d finish more than 3 miles and I was thinking about how I was going to deal with that let down if I didn’t finish the entire 4 mile long run. Glad I got it done.
But something shifted: I regrouped. I finished strong. And when I came up just short of the distance, I ran back and forth in front of the house to make sure I hit it.
That detail matters to me because it wasn’t about ego—it was about identity.
I’m the kind of person who finishes what he said he was going to do (some of those house projects will get done, maybe with some delay).
The Mental Side of the Miles
This past week reminded me of old mental techniques that still work when things get hard—breaking the run down to the next street, the next corner, the next tree, streetlight, or mailbox. Running into a cold Texas wind one evening brought back a core memory from training on Grosse Ile, Michigan, while preparing for my first Rock CF Rivers Half Marathon. I was reminded of all the difficult conditions I ran in back then—pouring torrential rain, heavy snow, stiff and relentless winds, and sub-zero temperatures—and how showing up in those moments mattered more than anything else. Getting out the door and doing the run, regardless of conditions, was the work. Those memories came flooding back not as nostalgia, but as reassurance: I’ve done very hard things before, and I know what it takes to keep going. Small markers still matter. Small goals still stack up. And when I focus on doing everything around a run as well as I can—preparing, pacing, breathing, staying present—everything else in my life seems to run smoother and click into place. Running has become less of a struggle than it was back in October and more about enjoying the process, staying honest with my effort, and not overdoing it. I check my tempo or pace occasionally, but most of the time I let my body do what it can and become a passenger, getting lost in my thoughts and learning more about myself with each mile.
What I’m Learning (Again)
This Return to Running journey keeps teaching me the same lesson in different ways:
- The run you don’t want to start is usually the run you need the most.
- Motivation is unreliable. Commitment isn’t.
- You can feel exhausted, mentally strained, and still make progress.
- The win is not “being fast.” The win is showing up repeatedly.
There’s a lot of work ahead. A lot of miles. Probably a lot of exhaustion. And yes—some mental anguish. But I’m excited, because I’m training for something that matters to me.
Why Rock CF Matters to Me
Rock CF isn’t just a race on the calendar for me—it’s the anchor.
It matters on a personal level because it represents the first half marathon I ever ran. When I first set out to start running, the goal wasn’t a podium or a pace. It was simply to prove to myself that I could show up consistently, hit smaller goals, and eventually work my way toward something that once felt out of reach. Rock CF became that early running big goal while I began my running journey with Dr. Callan—the one that gave structure to all the short runs, the early mornings, and the uncomfortable miles in between. It was such an accomplishement for me to run that side by side with Michael Callan in 2017, very happy moment and accomplishement for me. I loved that it just happened that Rock CF takes place on Grosse Ile, the island I lived on so many years with my family during residency training and as an attending.
But Rock CF matters for a much bigger reason than my own running journey.
Rock CF exists to support the cystic fibrosis community—people and families who live with CF every single day. Training can leave me tired, sore, mentally drained, and sometimes gasping for breath. On harder runs, I’m very aware of my breathing, my heart rate, and how quickly I fatigue.
And that perspective matters, because when I struggle to breathe during a run, I get to slow down. I get to stop. I get to recover.
People with CF don’t get that option.
They live with respiratory challenges daily—through normal routines, work, school, relationships, and life itself. That contrast stays with me. It keeps my own discomfort in check and reframes it. What feels hard to me in training is temporary. For them, it’s ongoing.
Running Rock CF is my way of staying connected to that reality—to remind myself that these miles are a privilege, not a burden. If I’m tired, that’s okay. If the work feels heavy, that’s part of the process. And if the run is uncomfortable, it’s still a choice I get to make.
That perspective doesn’t make the miles easier—but it makes them very meaningful.