I ran this morning. In the dark, just before dawn—I ran along quiet pavements, through sleepy streets.
The silence of the morning is what brings my soul alive. It settles the pit in my stomach, calms my mind and brings my body back to life. It’s joy and pure freedom all rolled into one—and a pocket of the day which belongs only to me.
There are no grubby fingers grabbing at me at dawn. There are no plates to clear or toys to trip over. There are no sounds, in fact, other than my feet rhythmically striking the pavement beneath me, or my breath, heavy in my chest, clearing the cobwebs of the night.
My thoughts are interrupted only by a kookaburra above, warning me that daylight is coming. That soon, my time will no longer belong to me—but to the small hands that need to clasp mine. The warm, sleepy bodies that I left snuggled in their beds don’t yet know that I’m not there. But soon, the daylight will creep through their curtains, their little eyes will open and with a burst, they’ll come to find me.
But for now, for a few more minutes, I can run. I can explore the edges of the day and do my best to ignore the aching in my bones, the shortness of my breath or the heaviness that sits in my chest. I can run.
