The Moment I Crossed the Finish Line

The cold Thanksgiving air stung my cheeks as I rounded the final corner, breath sharp, legs trembling. My orange shoes slapped the pavement, steady as a heartbeat. When the finish line came into view, something in me cracked open.

I turned sixty-three this year.

Somewhere inside, I could feel the quiet slope of time — the sense that I was coming down the hill of my life, not climbing it. I didn’t want to speed up my decline. I tried to slow the descent… maybe even reshape it.

So I went back to the place that once made me feel most alive: the water.

As a young girl, I used to dive to the bottom of the pool, holding my breath until my lungs pulsed, pretending I was a dolphin rising into shafts of sunlight. Swimming was freedom. Effortless. Pure play.

When my husband died, I sold our membership to the Hills Swim Club. It broke something tender in me — another goodbye I didn’t want to say.

For years, I stayed away from the water, as if returning would make the loss too real.

But this year, I felt the pull again.

I found two public pools and slipped back in. The stroke came back like muscle memory, like a language my body never forgot. Being in the water steadied me… but it wasn’t enough. Some part of me whispered: Let’s see what else is possible.

So I decided to run.

I hadn’t run in thirty years, but I asked my kids if they would do a Thanksgiving 5K with me. My daughter-in-law said yes. That was all I needed.

Three times a week, I trained.

At first, five minutes felt impossible. My legs argued. My breath refused to cooperate. But slowly, week after week, I pushed the edge — ten minutes, fifteen, twenty-five. Every run was a small rebellion against the idea that aging meant shrinking.

On Thanksgiving morning, I pulled my hair back with a red bandana and slipped into my Turkey Trot shirt. The street buzzed with life: kids bundled in strollers, couples holding hands, people dressed like turkeys wobbling down the street.

Halfway through the run, when my ribs tightened and everything hurt, a memory rose — those weeks after my daughter’s surgery.

I sat awake in the dim light of her room, night after night, holding her pain with my whole body.

Sleep-deprived, raw, but never wavering.

I remembered the strength it took to keep showing up, hour after hour, even when I had nothing left.

If I could make it through those nights, I could take one more step now.

And when the finish line appeared, I felt my throat cinch.

My eyes filled.

I crossed it without stopping once.

I cried.

Not from pain. From pride.

From the shock of realizing I had done something I never thought I would do again.

From the quiet knowing that I had re-entered life — not as an observer, but as a participant.

It wasn’t the running that moved me… it was the moment I remembered -

I still get to choose who I become.

Invitation

Where in your life is there a small, almost-whispered desire tugging at you — something that wants you to feel alive again?
What if you let yourself take one tiny step toward it this week?

The Next Step

If you’re longing to reconnect with your own aliveness, your own momentum, your own possibility — I’d love to walk beside you.
Book a conversation with me here: https://calendly.com/annalscott/purpose-call