100 Words Per Mile: Reflections - 7

I haven't stopped running.

This week, we’ve reached the c-plot of 100 Words Per Mile. Surprisingly, these memories are clear as ever. I thought revisiting the moments of my brother’s arrest and the path he put himself down would offer something illuminating. But hindsight isn’t any sharper this time around. If anything, I’m a little hardened by it all.

But that’s because I know how this story “ends.”

I will say this: my old mantra “stagnation is death” has lost some of its luster lately. I remain allergic to stillness and poorly equipped to relax. But rest is necessary. It’s something we’re emphasizing with our daughter, especially as she begins to resist naptime with greater frequency.

“Just keep [verb]ing” is a core millennial meme. Dory introduced it to us in Finding Nemo, and in an age where people can’t seem to deal, it’s probably time it had a renaissance. “Just keep running” could be “just keep writing” could be “just be keep reading.” More of us need to “just keep”—or go the Nike way and “just do it.”

Half a decade later, my brother lives seven-tenths of a mile away from me. I pass his apartment complex on my runs and there’s always this small instinct to swing by, knock on his door, and see what’s up. I’ve landed on this notion that all I’ll find is disappointment.

What’s wonderful about marriage, and again about kids, is how it shrinks your world into the manageable. Back in 2017, the miscarriage rocked me so because it was the proverbial straw. I was carrying too much, burdening myself with things outside of my control, and refusing to be honest about how it drained me. I thought a stoic sort of strength could be what defined me as a partner. I was a moron.

Now, it’s more difficult for the world and its happenings to assert their will on me. I am less inclined to feel passionate for anything outside my own walls. Sure, I remain a citizen of something larger, but before all else, I’m honey. I’m Dad. I’m only one man as much as I like to think I could be more.

As much as I play up my own bravado, it’s mostly just for show. I’m humbler than most people would guess. More attuned with my own mortality. The problem: humility just isn’t much fun. I play up my ego because it’s a better way to live. Just as having a good time and enjoying something is better than not. Sometimes, it really is that simple. Choosing happiness is always an option.

It’s interesting. I still harbor a bit of resentment for my brother’s scumbag friends. There’s probably little truth to it, but I think, had he been forced to sit in jail after his arrest, the immediacy of the moment would have been more impactful. Sure, he would face justice further down the line, but what if he’d just faced the repercussions sooner?

Could that have set him down a different path?

This is something I might’ve carried for too long back in the day. Now? I release it. Not my problem. I can’t afford it to be.

There’s more to come on my brother as well as my path toward parenthood. There are plenty more bumps in the road. Which is why I just. Keep. Running.