Want to Join Me?

I remember the morning so clearly, even now. My mom had asked me the night before if I wanted to go running with her, and I had felt a rush of excitement. When I woke up, that excitement hadn’t faded. I was eager, anxious, and enthusiastic all at once. It felt like an adventure, something new and special just for us.

The world outside felt quiet and calm, like it belonged only to us. I remember being surprised to see the stars and the moon still shining in the morning sky. As a kid, I hadn’t realized they could do that, and it made the moment feel even more magical. The air was cold, biting at my face and hands, and I remember breathing in the earthy, fresh smell of wet grass. That smell grounded me, made me feel connected to the stillness and beauty of the morning. As we stepped out of the house, the crunch of gravel under our feet on the driveway added a sharp, satisfying sound to the quietness, marking the start of our adventure.

As we started running, I felt the rhythmic crunch of our steps on the gravel of our driveway, as we headed out toward the sidewalk along Murray Road, and the cool air rushing past my face. I could hear the steady pattern of my mom’s breathing beside me, calm and controlled, and I tried to match it. My legs felt strong and full of energy, and I was thrilled to find that I could keep up with her, even run faster if I wanted. For a moment, I surged ahead, letting the excitement of speed carry me, but then I slowed down, realizing that running beside her felt even better.

I felt connected to her in a way that was hard to describe at the time, but now I see it clearly. It wasn’t just about the running—it was about moving and exploring together. At times we ran in silence, taking in every sight and sound, including our almost tandem breathing; at other times, we chatted away--actually, I believe I did most of the chatting--almost forgetting the need to breathe, too. Those early morning runs we shared were something that belonged entirely to Mom and me.

At that time, I was still short and carried a bit of "baby fat," pudgy in a way I wasn’t self-conscious about. My body felt strong and capable, even if it didn’t quite match the lithe, muscular image I would later aspire to. I kept talking, my words spilling out without hesitation, and she listened with the same patience she always showed me, smiling as I bounced from one thought to the next. She was wearing her look of patient acceptance. Her smile was warm and happy--I think she was almost as happy with my company as I was that she invited me to run with her--with perhaps a touch of amusement at my stream-of-consciousness banter. One day, years later, a fellow runner would tell me that being able to hold a conversation while you are running is a sign of cardiovascular fitness and that one has chosen the right speed for a long-distance run. I was already off to a good start.

The air smelled of wet grass and fresh morning dew, and the world seemed endless, full of possibilities. I felt alive, free, and proud—proud to be running with her, proud that I could keep up, and proud to feel like I belonged in this quiet, magical world we shared. The sensations of the morning atmosphere filled me: the sharp chill on my skin, the steady rhythm of my feet hitting the ground, and the pleasant, excited tingle in my head, limbs, and stomach.

At the end of that run, a hint of post-workout soreness and stiffness set in. That soreness increased somewhat in the days that followed. Although I may have been a bit surprised by this, I was not concerned but proud, maybe even joyful. My takeaway was not, "No pain, no gain," the phrase which became commonplace, especially in the gym and on the athletic field, in later years; rather, I just found that what I was feeling, although some might have described it as pain or strong discomfort, was not something I feared or disliked, but sort of like a badge of honor, internal proof that I'd challenged myself enough to cause a lasting response in my body.

Years later, after I was afflicted with ongoing, sometimes agonizing, gastrointestinal issues, my focus turned inward. My sensory experiences became less about the external world and more about listening carefully to my body. I had to learn to pay attention to subtle signals—aches, shifts, discomforts—that I might have ignored before. It was a different kind of connection, one that required patience and adaptability, and it reshaped the way I experienced and navigated life.

Coping became an essential skill. I began to see my body as a source of both struggle and wisdom, and I learned to address symptoms one by one, finding strategies to ease or manage them. This process of learning to cope with my body’s signals and needs colored my perception of the world and, later, of physical therapy itself. It taught me the importance of paying attention to the body—not just mine, but others’ as well—and of approaching every discomfort or limitation with curiosity, patience, and care.

Still later in life, I would also revisit the idea of "good pain," or "workout pain," versus "bad pain," or chronic or pathological pain, many times with my physical therapy patients.

Over time, I came to appreciate the lessons these contrasting experiences taught me. The early sensations of joy and pride in movement, and later the need to tune into the subtleties of pain and discomfort, became two sides of the same coin. They shaped not only my approach to my own body but also how I help others connect with theirs, whether through physical therapy or simply through shared understanding.