✎ 7/6/25
The girls were away for the night at Nan and Papa’s for a sleepover. I had the house to myself. A rare pocket of much-needed alone time. I cleaned up the whole place in record time, no interruptions.
Then, as dusk settled in, I laced up my shoes and did something I haven’t done in over a year: I went for a run.
I took my usual route out of the neighborhood and up through Washington University. Running through that castle-like campus always lifts my spirits. It used to be such a regular fabric of my life. For the past seven years, running mostly meant pushing a single stroller, then a double wide, my body powering a hundred-plus pounds through these hills for my daughters’ delight. Solo runs became extinct. A year ago, I had to stop even the stroller runs too. My hip pain growing worse as my daughters grew up.
But tonight, I did it.
I felt so light. I had 8 p.m. energy I haven’t felt since before fatherhood. It was a hot summer night. The campus was nearly empty, just a few summer students drifting by. I was beaming, smiling like a fool at the clouds, at my legs moving under me, at the pain in my hip that, for once, didn’t complain as much.
I noticed how I’d shortened my stride—something I’ve been practicing in tiny morning loops, just to see if my hip can handle it. My old running self always wanted to see how far and fast I could go. Enjoyment took a backseat. But tonight, I was shuffling along with small strides, not for performance, but for joy. Just to feel alive. I wasn’t trying to get anywhere. I was right here. Grateful for these legs, this breath, this life.
I crossed into Forest Park, taking my old familiar route. Once there, my body loosened—the run becoming more like prayer than exercise. I’ve always called in my guides on this stretch, spoken the names of loved ones who’ve crossed over, feeling chills on my skin as my spirit lifts. Tonight, for the first time, I said Lindsay’s name too. I haven’t run like this since she died. My back ignited. Everything tingled. Tears came. Crying and running, still smiling. My perplexed nervous system witnessing my unorthodox processing again. God, I miss her. So much has changed in our lives since she left 40 months ago. Another tiny sliver of integration. Repatterning.
I ran all the way to the History Museum. Stopped there and stretched. Pulled out my phone, high on the natural chemicals my brain was pumping, and wrote straight into my notes:
“I have slayed it as a solo dad with 3 daughters for the past 48 hours. I’m out for my first solo run in over a year. My hip is arthritic and I gave it up a year ago. My good hip is the only one fucking fatigued right now. Mile and a half on this beautiful night. Girls are doing a sleepover with Nan and Papa. Can’t remember how many years it’s been since I’ve felt this much joy in my blood and bones!! So much love and gratitude. So fucking happy to be living.”
Back home, still buzzing, I cleaned out Cucumber’s litter box and tidied up his little corner. He was out free-roaming, exploring. I realized how rarely I get down on his level since he arrived six months ago—and really see him as he is. So I laid down on the carpet beside him. He wiggled his nose at me. I looked into his eyes and started speaking. Thanking him for finding us, for the love and comfort he brings to this house, especially for my daughters.
As my heart energy flowed, he softened too. I rubbed that special spot on his forehead with my thumb. He closed his eyes, dropped his head to the carpet. It felt like he understood. Like he was listening with his whole little body.
In that moment, I saw it so clearly: he’s so much more than a rescued rabbit. He’s a guardian. An extension of Lindsay’s love, here to watch my daughters grow up with me, to greet them with celebration every time they come home. Just as much my companion as theirs.
It nourished my soul to create that quiet container for the two of us. To get down on his level and acknowledge him as the family member he truly is.
I think about how simple it really is, this whole human experience. How much of it circles back to one thing: kindness.
Not the performative kind, but the everyday, get-down-on-the-floor kind. The kind that notices when a quiet little guardian needs to hear “thank you.” The kind that remembers our children are always watching—not just our words, but the way we treat the quiet spaces, the small beings, the moments we could so easily rush past.
In our house, kindness is the curriculum. It’s the daily practice, the golden thread that ties us together when we forget who we are. Boundaries live under that same roof too—another form of kindness, really. A reminder that being good to ourselves teaches our kids how to be good to themselves, and to the world.
Sometimes, I think that’s all I’m really trying to do: practice the golden rule in a messy, real way. To show my daughters that love doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to try to be kind.
A solo run through a summer night. A rabbit on the carpet. Another guardian. Another chance to say: thank you for teaching me how to be human.
From my fire to yours.
