On Friday, I went on a run. And then five days later, everything fell apart.
This fall, I’ve been thinking a lot about momentum and how progress doesn’t always feel linear. It’s easy to tie our sense of success—or even our identity—to the progress we can see. We make a plan, start building momentum, and begin to picture what comes next. And when life interrupts that picture, it can feel like we’ve lost more than just our routine.
I went on my first run since giving birth to our little one, and it was everything I hoped it would be. But five days later, we all got sick. The kind of sick where you pass it around to everyone, it morphs into something else, and then everyone gets it again. The kind that means dropping everything to squeeze in an appointment with my PCP, only to end up at urgent care anyway.
My expectation was that this fall would be a magical time for our family and my personal health. I pictured settling into a new rhythm, spending time together, and building momentum with running again.
That’s not what’s ended up happening.
Instead, I’ve been taking things slowly.
When I’m in the middle of a challenge, my instinct is to white-knuckle it and power through. Keep going. Stick to the plan. Find a way to make it happen.
And sometimes, that determination serves me well. But sometimes, pushing through isn't what I need.
Sometimes, I need to stop.
To be present in the season I’m actually in rather than constantly reaching for the one I thought I’d be in by now.
To let my body recover without feeling like I need to make up for lost time.
To remind myself that a few weeks of interrupted routines don't erase the progress I've made.
It's easy to focus on everything an interruption takes away: the workouts you missed, the habits that fell away, the momentum you worked so hard to build.
But progress isn't only measured by what we do. Sometimes, it's reflected in how we respond when we can't do what we planned.
Can I listen to what my body needs instead of what my calendar says? Can I rest without feeling like I need to make up for lost time? Can I trust that the work I've put in still matters, even when I can't see it moving me forward?
I'm learning that I can.
I think there's a difference between giving up on something and giving yourself the space to return to it when you're ready.
A pause doesn't mean I've lost my momentum. It doesn't mean I'm starting over. And it certainly doesn't mean I've failed.
It means life happened. And I get to decide how I want to respond.
Maybe that's what it means to embrace a challenge as a friend. Not to pretend it's easy or find a silver lining in every frustrating moment, but to let it teach me something. To practice patience when I'd rather push. To loosen my grip on the timeline I had in mind. To trust that I can find my way forward, even when I don't know exactly what that will look like yet.
Trusting the process doesn't mean trusting that everything will go according to plan. It means trusting yourself to navigate what happens when it doesn't.
This is something that comes up often in my work as a nurse coach: finding an approach to health that fits your life, your priorities, and your current season.
We can have the best intentions, a plan we're excited about, and a clear picture of where we want to go. But life doesn't always cooperate. Our energy changes. Our responsibilities shift. Our bodies need something different than they did a few weeks ago.
If our approach to health only works when everything goes according to plan, how sustainable is it really?
The goal isn't to create a routine that never gets interrupted. It's to build an approach flexible enough to meet us when life changes.
That might mean adjusting the plan, taking a step back, or recognizing that what worked in one season doesn't fit the next. It might mean redefining what progress looks like for a while.
It's one thing to talk about these ideas in my work and another to practice them when my own plans fall apart. I'm learning that, too.
Right now, I'm reminding myself that I don't have to force my way back into the rhythm I imagined for this fall. I can meet myself where I am, let my body recover, and take the next step when I'm ready.
The runs will happen again. The routines will come back. And maybe they'll look a little different than I originally planned.
I don't want to be so focused on getting back to where I thought I'd be that I miss the season I'm in.
For now, I'm learning to trust the process, even when it doesn't look the way I expected.
If this resonated with you, I’d love to connect. Click to learn more about working with me or schedule a complimentary discovery call.