(A slightly late post from my spring equinox reflection—still timely as I continue to find my rhythm in this new season.)
The spring equinox is nature’s perfect pause—a fleeting moment where day and night stand in balance before the light stretches longer. It’s a quiet reminder that everything moves in cycles, that no season lasts forever, and that balance isn’t a fixed state but something we continually adjust, stride by stride.
I think about this often as I move through my own many journeys—running, teaching, motherhood, marriage, travel, and showing up for friends and community. Some days, I feel strong and steady, hitting my stride effortlessly. Other days, it feels like I’m running uphill, out of breath, just trying to keep pace. But forward is forward, whether the road is smooth or full of detours.
Running has always been my teacher in persistence. Some runs feel light and freeing; others ask for everything I’ve got. But the lesson is always the same—just keep moving. Teaching feels similar. Some lessons spark immediate engagement, while others take time. Some students soar; others need extra space to grow. But learning, like running, happens in motion.
Hiking reminds me to slow down. The best trails aren’t rushed—the magic is in the journey, in the quiet pauses, in looking up and taking it all in. Motherhood has taught me this in the most personal way. My son is carving his own path now, and I’m learning to step back, to trust, to cheer him on from the sidelines. Parenting is its own kind of endurance—one that asks for patience, love, and the ability to let go.
Marriage, too, has its rhythm. My husband and I share miles—on foot, in life, in dreams. We push each other, but we also remind each other to breathe, to laugh, to be present. Like any long-distance journey, love isn’t about speed—it’s about pacing. It’s about knowing when to press on and when to simply walk together.
Then there’s the space in between: the friendships, the community, the celebrations, the responsibilities. The things that don’t show up on to-do lists—but live in the heart. I try to be present, to show up, to care deeply. But I’m learning that balance also means knowing when to rest, when to say no, and when to simply be still.
Life doesn’t ask for perfect balance—it asks for presence. Some seasons are full of motion—races, lesson plans, family commitments, travel. Others are quieter—reflective, slower, softer. And just like the earth tilting toward the sun, I’m learning to trust that I’ll always find my way back to center.
So here’s to the road ahead, to the mountains we climb, to the pauses that give us perspective, and to the people who make every step worthwhile.
Stride by stride, we find our way.
Stride & Wander 