The Miles He Gave Me

When I was a kid, I used to stand in front of the shelf where my dad kept his trophies. They weren’t displayed like prized possessions; no special lighting, no glass case - just sitting there, quiet and humble. But I saw them differently. I’d pick one up, feel its weight, and stare into the mirror as I practiced the acceptance speeches I imagined giving someday.

I didn’t want to be famous.
I just wanted to be like him.

Back then, he’d take me out for runs on the weekends. Nothing structured, nothing intense - just enough for me to match his stride for a few precious seconds. He’d teach me how to breathe on hills, how to stay loose, how to find that moment when a run stops feeling like work and starts feeling like freedom.

I didn’t know it then, but he was passing something to me in those quiet moments. A way of moving through the world. A way of being.

Then everything changed. During my freshman year of college, my dad - once so full of life and motion - lost the ability to run. I don’t need to name what happened; the silence was loud enough. Just months later, I was dealt a blow of my own: a heart condition I didn’t see coming. Running, which had been so natural, so ordinary, faded from my life.

For a time, I wondered if it had been stolen - from him and from me. I questioned if I could ever lace up again. Could I run and carry anything real in my legs? Could I chase a dream when my heart wasn’t steady?

But when I finally healed enough to run again, the road felt different beneath my feet. Every step carried more weight. More memory. More gratitude. I wasn’t chasing a childhood dream anymore - I was honoring the man who quietly shaped me long before I realized it.

Now, when I run, I feel the echo of him every mile. Not the version of him who struggled, but the one who taught me how to breathe, how to stay patient, how to carry myself with steadiness even when the world changes around you. The man who I looked up to when I held his trophies and saw my future in their reflection.

I run because he once did.
I run because I still can.
I run because some legacies don’t end. They simply change hands.

And every time I finish a run, every time I catch my breath in the cool air, every time my shoes touch the ground in a rhythm I learned long before I understood it. I feel it:

I’m still that kid standing in the mirror, holding one of his trophies, wanting nothing more in the world than to be like my dad.

Only now, the miles are mine to carry.
And they’re also his.
They always will be.