Footsteps I Still Follow

Before I could even walk, my place was in the running stroller. I always ran with him, even before I knew how, carried along by his energy and his love for the road. I grew up with the rhythm of my dad’s footsteps beside me. He never let me walk, never let me take a break.

Every mile was a lesson in perseverance, a whisper of love.

He ran with his shiny green iPod Nano, personalized with my uncle’s name, music spilling into the morning air as we moved together, steps syncing like a secret rhythm that no one else could hear.

I’ll never forget one of our last runs. I felt as if I could run forever, never getting tired. So we went on our longest run together yet. It felt almost like my body knew this would be our last run together and we ran with everything we had, every step full of life and energy.

Not every run went as planned. One day, he tripped and fell, breaking fourteen bones in his arm, completely obliterating it. When the person who ran to help him asked if he was okay, all he could say was, “That’s my daughter’s song, not mine.” Baby by Justin Bieber still playing, and somehow, even in pain, he was thinking of me.

He loved to run. Not for medals, not for applause, but for the joy of moving, the freedom of the road. The day before he passed, he ran fifteen miles. Fifteen miles of pure living, of strength, of passion, fifteen miles that captured who he was and how he embraced life to the fullest. That run was not just distance, it was his life, unrestrained and fearless.

Now, every time I run, I feel him in my stride. His voice urging me forward, refusing breaks, reminding me that running is not just about distance, it is about heart, persistence, and a love that lives on long after the finish line.