Eighteen months ago, I couldn't run a mile.

Not “couldn’t” in the sense of some physical limitation - I just couldn't in the truest sense of the word. I was 46, mildly sedentary, and had never been a runner. When my son Andrew looked at me one day and asked if I'd start running with him to improve both of our health, I had a choice to make.

I said yes. And everything changed.

A few weeks ago, I found myself on a training run, settling into that rhythm where your breathing syncs with your footfalls and your mind starts to wander. I wasn't thinking about pace or distance. I was thinking about where I am in my life right now - this strange, uncomfortable, exciting season of transition, and near the turning of yet another year.

And I realized: I'm mid-race in more ways than one.

When you're standing at the starting line of your first race, everything is possibility. The corrals are buzzing with energy, the music is pumping, and you're equal parts terrified and exhilarated. You have no idea what you're capable of. You just know you're about to find out.

That's where I was 18 months ago. Not just with running - with everything. My career, my sense of calling, my vision for what the second half of life could look like. I was at the starting line of asking hard questions about whether the path I'd been on was still the path I was supposed to be on.

But here's the thing about mid-race: the starting line is behind you now. You can't go back to the comfort of the corral. You're out on the course. The crowds have thinned. The adrenaline has worn off. You're in the messy middle - that long stretch where it's just you, the road, and the choice to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

This is where I am in my work life. I've been in media, marketing, & tech leadership for over 25 years. I lead a large team. I'm good at what I do. But I've crossed the starting line into asking what's next. The decision has been made to explore something different - to move toward ministry work, leadership coaching, building something of my own.

I'm not at the starting line anymore. I'm mid-race.

If you've ever run a longer distance race, you know about Mile 7. (Or Mile 4, or Mile 9 - whatever your particular wall is.) It's that point where the initial excitement is completely gone, where your legs are starting to feel heavy, where the finish line still feels impossibly far away.

Mile 7 is where you discover what you're made of.

I'm in Mile 7 of this transition season. The initial rush of clarity - "Yes! This is what I'm supposed to do!" - has faded. Now it's the daily work of showing up. Writing when I don't feel inspired. Planning when I'm not sure of the outcome. Leading a team with excellence while simultaneously building toward something else. Staying present with my family when my mind wants to race ahead to future possibilities.

This is the unglamorous part. The part that doesn't make for inspiring social media posts. The part where you just... keep going.

But here's what I've learned from running: Mile 7 is where the real transformation happens. Not at the starting line. Not crossing the finish line. In the messy middle, when you choose to keep running even though everything in you wants to stop.

One of the most humbling parts of starting to run at 46 was accepting that I was a complete beginner. And I mean complete. I had to learn everything - how to breathe, how to pace myself, what shoes to wear, how to fuel, when to rest.

It would have been easy to feel embarrassed. Here I am, a senior leader who makes complex decisions and guides large teams, and I'm googling "how to run a 5K" and watching YouTube videos about proper running form.

But there's something powerful about being a beginner again. It strips away the pretense. It reminds you that growth always requires humility. It teaches you that expertise in one area doesn't transfer automatically to another - you have to be willing to not know, to ask questions, to stumble.

As I think about this season of transition - moving from corporate leadership toward entrepreneurship, from established career toward portfolio work combining ministry and coaching—I'm learning to embrace the beginner's mindset again. I don't have all the answers. I'm figuring it out as I go. And that's okay.

Maybe that's even the point.

I didn't start running alone. Andrew asked me to run with him. My other son joined us. Now running is something we do together.

There's something profound about that. About being invited into something by someone who sees your potential even when you don't. About having companions for the journey who won't let you quit when it gets hard. About the rhythm of running side by side, breath for breath, mile for mile.

Leadership books love to talk about "running your own race" and "staying in your lane." And there's truth to that - you can't live someone else's calling or compare your chapter 7 to someone else's chapter 20.

But nobody runs alone. Not really. We need people who invite us to start. People who run alongside us. People who are waiting at mile markers to cheer us on. People who will tell us the truth when we're off pace, and celebrate with us when we cross finish lines.

I've been thinking about who's in my corner for this season. Who's speaking truth? Who's celebrating the small wins? Who's praying when the road gets long? I’m grateful to have Suzanne as my #1 in that regard, and the boys right behind us. Those relationships aren't incidental to the journey - they are the journey.

I don't have a neat bow to put on this yet. No triumphant finish line story. No "and here's what I learned" moral that wraps everything up.

I'm still mid-race. Still figuring out what these next years will look like. Still showing up for my current work with everything I have while simultaneously building toward what's next. Still learning to run, both literally and metaphorically.

But maybe that's the most honest place to write from. Not from the finish line looking back with perfect clarity, but from Mile 7, legs burning, breath ragged, still going.

Because this is where most of life happens. Not in the big moments of starting or finishing, but in the long middle stretch where you discover whether you'll keep going when it's hard. Where you learn to find joy in the journey itself, not just in crossing the finish line. Where you figure out who you are when no one's watching and the crowds have gone home.

So this Wednesday, wherever you are in your race - whether you're at the starting line, mid-race, or approaching a finish - I'm with you. Still running. Still learning. Still grateful for every step.

Fuel up. (Pray.) And put one foot in front of the other. That's how you finish.

What ‘race’ are you mid-way through right now? I'd love to hear about it. Reply and let me know.