Sometimes Showing Up Means Letting Someone Else Carry the Mile

I have a PhD.

I have served in a war.

I have raised children.

I have built businesses, led organizations, and navigated more than a few genuinely difficult seasons of life.

And yet, apparently, I still do not possess the wisdom necessary to decline a footrace with a 10-year-old.

In my defense, she challenged me.

Actually, that's my entire defense.

I was at my daughter's softball practice when a 10-year-old wanted to race me. Somewhere deep inside my 43-year-old brain, the reasonable response surely existed.

No thanks, kid. My hamstrings are older than your parents.

Instead, I lined up.

And I didn't jog, either. Oh no. I sprinted.

Because if you're going to make a terrible decision, you might as well fully commit to it.

A few seconds later, I felt a pop in the back of my thigh.

I pulled my hamstring.

And perhaps the most humbling part of this entire story?

The 10-year-old still won.

For the past 12 days, I've been running at least one mile every day as part of 72 Days of Showing Up.

Seventy-two days leading up to Veterans Day.

One mile. One story. Every day.

When I started this, I knew there would probably be days when I didn't feel like running. Days when I was tired. Days when life got busy.

I hadn't factored in being taken out by an elementary school student.

But there I was on Day 12, with a leg that very clearly did not care about the commitment I had made on the internet.

And I had a decision to make.

At first, I think part of me felt like I needed to find a way to do the mile anyway.

Because that's what showing up means, right?

Push through.

Figure it out.

Don't quit.

If you've spent any time in the military, that mindset probably sounds familiar.

It's a mindset that has served me well throughout my life.

It's also one I'm slowly learning isn't always right.

Sometimes showing up means knowing when not to push through.

Sometimes it means asking for help.

And sometimes it means letting your Marine husband run your mile.

My husband, Lee, is also a veteran.

He's a Marine, and when he agreed to take my mile for me, I realized we had an opportunity to do something I want to do much more of during these 72 days.

Because this was never supposed to be 72 days of me talking about myself.

There are millions of people who have worn the uniform, and behind every one of them is a story.

Lee's begins, in many ways, with his brother Scott.

Scott served in the Marine Corps during the Gulf War.

Watching his older brother serve left an impression on Lee. Eventually, Lee followed in his footsteps and became a Marine himself.

Years later, Lee would deploy in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom.

Two brothers.

Two different eras.

The same Marine Corps.

The same title.

Marine.

For Lee, there has always been something deeply meaningful about that connection. It's a bond between brothers, certainly, but also something more difficult to explain unless you've experienced the strange way military service can connect people across years and generations.

Scott passed away in 2016.

But that connection didn't disappear when he did.

Lee still carries it.

The pride.

The memories.

The shared understanding.

The honor of knowing that both brothers answered the call to serve when their country asked something of them.

And on Day 12, while I sat nursing the consequences of making questionable athletic decisions, Lee carried that story for a mile.

Maybe I've Been Thinking About "Showing Up" Wrong

There's something I've been noticing as this challenge unfolds.

When I started 72 Days of Showing Up, I thought showing up would mostly look like action.

Put the shoes on.

Run the mile.

Tell the story.

Do the thing.

But I'm beginning to think that's only one version of it.

The day before Lee's run, five people met me on a trail in Export to walk and run a September 11th mile with me.

Five.

Not five hundred.

And it meant more to me than I expected.

They showed up because I asked them to.

Then, one day later, I was the one who needed someone to show up for me.

And Lee did.

Maybe that's what community actually looks like.

Sometimes you're the person doing the carrying.

Sometimes you're the person being carried.

Sometimes you're telling your story.

Sometimes you stop talking long enough to hear somebody else's.

And sometimes you have to admit that your hamstring has made the decision for you.

There Are So Many Stories Left to Tell

For much of these first days, I've been telling you pieces of my story.

The 18-year-old who enlisted after September 11th.

The soldier.

The veteran trying to figure out who she was after the uniform came off.

The funny stories.

And eventually, some of the harder ones.

But I don't want 72 Days of Showing Up to become 72 days of me talking.

I want it to become 72 days of us listening.

Because somewhere there is another Scott.

Another Lee.

Another veteran whose service changed the trajectory of an entire family.

Another story sitting in a photo album, a footlocker, a memory, or a sentence someone hasn't said out loud in years.

Those stories matter.

And maybe one of the best ways we can show up for veterans isn't by speaking for them.

Maybe it's simply by making enough room for them to speak for themselves.

So Day 12 wasn't my mile.

Lee carried this one.

And somewhere along the way, he carried a little piece of his brother with him, too.

I'm grateful he did.

And I'm grateful that this ridiculous pulled hamstring reminded me of something I probably needed to learn anyway:

Showing up doesn't always mean doing it alone.

Sometimes showing up means letting someone else carry the mile.

Day 12 of 72 Days of Showing Up.One mile. One story. Every day until Veterans Day.