Yesterday, I ran a marathon in the bitter cold and wind on what would have been my mom's 70th birthday. I thought of her deeply at the beginning of the race and again somewhere around mile 22. I spent time with my Dad during mile 19, when I listened to "If I Had a Million Dollars," by the Barenaked Ladies, the song that we danced to at my wedding.
Mostly, though, I just ran.
And felt the love.
Similar to right after her murder, keeping that moon in the window, I knew that the best thing I could do was just relax, put one foot in front of the other, and feel that love. On that frigid morning, I saw co-workers, friends, family. My sons' teachers were there. Their friends and their parents were there. There was lots of Red Gatorade. There were orange slices. And, of course signs and chants, "RUN LIZZIE RUN." I whooped and hollered. I waved and raised the roof. That joy was real; thank you. For making my story, part of your story. For making my day, part of yours.
And then there was today, a little creaky and a little sore. I spent time at Paw Patrol Live with my youngest son, and got walloped in Star Wars Monopoly this afternoon by my oldest. It's a normal, but there's something about it that feels new. There's something about me that is new, now.
Over the last five weeks or so, many people have shared their stories with me. That has been wonderful, putting my own experiences to use. I think there's more out there and I'll keep offering it up, as it comes. I hope you will, too.
I'm behind on 'likes' and 'adds' and thank you notes. I'll catch up. In the meantime, please stay tuned and reach out. I'm hopeful we can make a way forward together.