Author: Lea

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A Gentle Strength

Reflections on my mother’s quiet love

Some days bring a gentle pull to the heart, the kind that makes you slow down and think about where you came from. Maybe it’s because today is Mama’s birthday, but I’ve found myself thinking about her more than usual. About the home she created for us, and the quiet strength she carried through so many seasons of her life.

When I look back on my childhood, I remember a warm and steady presence. Mama moving around our house and tending to her small sari-sari store. The familiar smell of food cooking, sometimes for us, sometimes for sale. The way she spoke about her children with quiet pride whenever someone asked how we were doing. At the time, those moments felt ordinary, just part of growing up, but now they rise in my memory as the things that shaped my sense of home.

As the years passed, life began to change her in ways we did not understand then. I was old enough to notice the early shifts. Some days she carried her usual lightness. Other days she grew quieter, more withdrawn, holding her thoughts and her worries close. These changes came in waves. She would find her way back for a while, then slowly slip into a softer, more fragile version of herself. We didn’t have the language for it, but we felt it deeply.

My siblings are younger than I am, so their memories might live in different parts of her life. That’s how families are. We each hold our own version of the same home, shaped by the moments we remember most.

Eventually, all of us began to leave. Not all at once, but slowly, as life pulled us into new directions. Back then, we didn’t have phones, so distance felt even bigger. Letters took time. Visits were rare and treasured. Now that I’m older, I often think about how long those quiet stretches must have felt for her. A mother’s waiting is its own kind of love. Quiet. Constant. Hopeful.

There is something she still does, even now, even if years pass between our visits. She pauses by our beds at night. Just long enough to take a breath and look at us sleeping, the same way she did when we were young. It is such a small gesture, but to me it says everything. Some parts of a mother’s heart never change.

And through all her seasons, one part of her stayed steady. Her tenderness for the child who needed her most. Louie, who has Down Syndrome, has always held a special place in her heart. She understands him instinctively, cares for him patiently, and loves him with a devotion that never wavered. No matter what shifted in her life, that love remained the truest expression of who she is.

As life went on and I became a mother myself, I began to understand her more. I understand what it means to love in different seasons. To give what you can, even when you are not at your strongest. To hold your children in your heart no matter how far they go or how long they stay away. To hope quietly. To worry quietly. And to love through all of it.

So today, in this quiet moment, I honor her.
For the warmth she gave me growing up.
For the ways she tried, even when life made things difficult.
For checking on me at night every time I came home.
For her devotion in all the seasons of her life.
For her strength, soft and steady, even when she carried more than she could say.

For Mama,
in the version of her I knew,
and the love she continues to give in her own gentle way.

Finding My Flow

Some seasons of life move quickly. Others feel steady and quiet. This year has been a mix of both, filled with teaching, running, family time, travel, and new opportunities. In the middle of all that movement, I found myself thinking more about ease and how I can move through the world with a little more clarity and intention.

The Let Them Theory surfaced during this time, and while I do not agree with every part of it, a few ideas stayed with me. They felt encouraging, almost like small invitations to shift how I show up. Not rules, but gentle reminders of the kind of energy I want to carry into the next season.

Not about letting people go.
More about letting things flow.

For me, it looks like this:

If someone reaches out, I welcome it.
If they need space, I respect it.
If plans shift, I adjust instead of resisting.
If friendships change shape, I try to trust the season rather than overthink.
If new people enter my life, I stay open.

With Jet, this mindset brings a sense of calm. When he calls, I am happy. When he is busy building his own world, I am proud. Trusting the ebb and flow of our connection feels natural.

In teaching, this approach helps me stay centered. Some students form deep connections. Others connect in quieter ways. All of it matters.

Running reflects this idea too. You cannot force every mile. You settle into your breath, trust your pace, and let the path guide you. Lately, life has been feeling similar. Steady. Open. More spacious than before.

These small shifts feel like steps toward the kind of life I want to build: one with more grace, more presence, and more trust in the natural unfolding of things.

For me, it becomes something simple:

Let the right things come in.
Let the right things stay.
Let the right things grow.
Let life breathe.

It feels like moving toward a lighter version of myself, one intentional moment at a time. And right now, that feels just right.

Seeds of Persistence

This summer, I picked up Hope Jahren’s Lab Girl. At first, I thought it was just a scientist’s memoir: labs, soil samples, and tree rings. But what I found instead was a story about persistence, scarcity, and the people who make survival possible. It felt strikingly familiar.

Jahren writes about the hidden lives of plants: how seeds wait for the right moment to break through the soil, how roots grow quietly in the dark, how trees endure long winters and storms but still leaf out each spring. She braids those images with her own struggles, chasing grants, facing setbacks, and leaning on her lab partner Bill when resources ran thin. Her story echoed my own.

In high school, scholarships covered tuition but little else. To get by, I worked summers as a house helper and babysitter. I’ll always be grateful to my English teacher, Ma’am Ellen, who gave me those opportunities and, more importantly, believed in the seed in me long before I could. She never asked for anything in return; she simply gave me a chance to grow.

Later, in college, Sr. Vic became another light in my path. I began at a small school in Bulan, working with the Daughters of Charity. When she was transferred to Sacred Heart College in Lucena, she brought me along. As a Vincentian scholar, I lived on campus, waking at 5 a.m. for “first report,” cleaning offices before classes. I rotated through assignments in the registrar’s, principal’s, even the president’s office. It wasn’t easy balancing work and study, but I had a community behind me. Sr. Vic, the Daughters of Charity, my fellow Vincentians, and the Sacred Heart College family gave me roots. Their faith nourished me, and because of them, I pushed through.

Like Jahren, I learned early that growth is never instant. Seeds don’t sprout on command; they wait. My own roots were strengthened by hard work but also by the quiet generosity of those who trusted me to grow. Their faith wasn’t wasted. I finished, I became a teacher, and now I try to pass that same faith on to my students.

That’s why Lab Girl resonated so deeply. Isn’t that the story of teaching? Some students bloom quickly, others take years, and many grow in directions we never expect. Our job is to keep tending, to offer light, water, encouragement, and to trust that even when growth isn’t visible, it’s happening beneath the surface.

I think of one student who rarely spoke in class. For months, I wondered if I was reaching them at all. Years later, I received an email from that same student in college, thanking me for teaching them how to wonder and ask questions. The seed had always been there. It just needed time.

Jahren also writes honestly about hidden struggles: the scramble for funding, the long hours, the invisible labor that keeps a lab alive. Teachers know that world well. We stretch small budgets, apply for grants (thank you, DonorsChoose!), spend evenings shaping lessons, and pour ourselves into our students, often without recognition. And yet, like her, we keep showing up because we believe in what might take root.

What I admired most is how she ties survival to persistence. Trees endure storms and winters, but each spring, they leaf out again. My own story taught me the same truth: it’s endurance, not ease, that shapes us. Teaching is no different. Every September, we begin again. Some years feel abundant, others test our patience, but still we return with hope.

I see that same lesson on trails and in travel. Hiking reminds me of patience, resilience, and renewal. Nature keeps teaching me what I try to teach my students: growth takes time, struggle is part of the process, and persistence carries us forward.

Reading Lab Girl reminded me that resilience isn’t loud. It’s quiet and steady, like roots spreading underground. It’s choosing to stay, to tend, and to trust that growth will come, even if unseen.

At its heart, Lab Girl isn’t just a scientist’s memoir. It’s a meditation on persistence. And in many ways, it’s my story too.

As this school year begins, I hold that reminder close: some seeds will sprout quickly, others will wait, and some will surprise me years later. My role is to keep tending, to teach, to listen, to stay curious, and, like the trees in Jahren’s book, to keep reaching for the light, season after season.

This reflection is also a quiet thank you to Ma’am Ellen, Sr. Vic, the Daughters of Charity, and the Sacred Heart College community for believing in the seed in me long before it bloomed. Their faith reminds me that none of us grow alone. As I step into a new school year, I carry their example with me: to keep tending, to keep encouraging, and to trust that with care and patience, the seeds we nurture, in ourselves and in others, will one day take root.

Among Humans: The Power of Uniqueness

I started reading Surrounded by Idiots early this summer, but it took me a while to finish. Part of it was timing, but part of it was the title. I wasn’t exactly comfortable pulling it out on the subway—the cover felt like it might draw the wrong kind of attention. The words sounded harsh, almost insulting, and definitely not something I’d want to say about the people around me. But once I got into it, I realized it wasn’t about calling people names at all. It was about personalities and how often we misread each other.

Thomas Erikson breaks people down into four colors—reds, yellows, greens, and blues. It’s simple, maybe too simple, but it makes sense. Some people are direct, others are dreamers, some are steady and calm, others need the details. What feels “too much” to one person might just be energy. What feels “too slow” might actually be carefulness. The point isn’t to label—it’s to understand.

That reminder followed me through the summer. In Costa Rica, I joined a field team studying bees and pollinators. Each of us carried a different rhythm into the work: the ones who jumped right in, the quiet observers, the steady hands who kept us grounded. Our uniqueness didn’t clash—it balanced out, making the work possible.

Not long after, I was back in New York for a summer institute on climate change at Columbia University. Again, the uniqueness of each person stood out. Some voices pressed urgently for action, others pored over the data, while some focused on storytelling and connections. The energy came not from everyone thinking the same way, but from the mix of perspectives moving us forward.

And then there was Mont Blanc. Hiking with friends across high passes and long valleys made those lessons feel tangible. Some charged ahead, eager to crest the next ridge. Others paced themselves carefully, saving energy for the long day. We regrouped at cols, like Col de la Seigne, where the wind whipped around us as we waited for the last of our group to appear. When everyone finally stood at the top together, looking out into the wide valley below, it didn’t matter who arrived first or last. What mattered was that we arrived as a group.

Stops at mountain refuges gave us time to rest, sip coffee, and share laughter. The faster hikers learned patience. The steady climbers reminded us to breathe. The storytellers lifted spirits when the trail felt endless. No one pace defined the journey. What carried us forward was the mix of styles—the push, the pause, the encouragement, and the uniqueness each person brought.

As the new school year begins, I find myself holding onto these lessons more tightly. My classroom has its own mix of “reds, yellows, greens, and blues.” The eager debaters, the quiet thinkers, the careful planners, the ones who bring boundless energy. Just like on the trail, it’s never about one pace or one style. It’s about learning how to move forward together.

Even Jet, when he first showed me the book, said he was curious about why some personalities click and others clash. And maybe that’s the real takeaway. In the end, we’re not surrounded by idiots. We’re among humans—different, complicated, unique humans.

And that makes all the difference.

Chasing Bees, Finding Home: A Week in Costa Rica

Growing up on a farm, I never imagined I’d end up in Costa Rica chasing bees. Back then, farm life felt like something I needed to outgrow. I thought if I let myself love it too much, I’d never leave. So, I didn’t let myself love it.

Funny how life circles back.

As a biology teacher, I’ve taught biodiversity more times than I can count. But fieldwork is different. This summer, thanks to the support of Math for America (MfA), I had the opportunity to join an Earthwatch Expedition in Costa Rica. Earthwatch connects volunteers with scientists working on urgent environmental research around the world. Our team was based at Monteverde Cloud Forest Biological Reserve, where mornings were misty, and hummingbirds hovered close by. Most days, we traveled down to San Luis, where the sun shone brighter, the flowers bloomed louder, and bees buzzed everywhere you looked.

Our work was simple on paper: catch bees, observe biodiversity, and support researchers studying how farming practices shape these ecosystems. Some days we swung nets and missed entirely. Some days we caught shimmering orchid bees that looked like tiny flying emeralds. Some days, nothing at all. That’s fieldwork. Either way, we always had stories to share over dinner.

Throughout the week, we met farmers living through the small, steady shifts of a changing climate—adjustments to weather, soil, and seasons that don’t make headlines but shape livelihoods over time. Their stories pulled me right back to my own childhood. Back then, planting and harvesting felt like something to leave behind. Now I understand it differently.

One afternoon we visited Alyssa’s family farm, perched high with one of the best views I’ve seen—mountains wrapped in clouds, flowers everywhere, bees and other insects moving through it all like they’ve always belonged there. It reminded me of home in a quiet, unexpected way.

As an introvert, this kind of setting—living, working, and sharing meals with a team for a week—can feel like a lot. But I surprised myself. Even in the long days and shared spaces, I found small pockets of quiet that felt grounding. A moment alone with the view. The soft hum of bees filling in the silence. Conversations that felt easy and genuine because we all cared about the same things.

Our final night was spent wandering through the forest looking for bioluminescence. We didn’t see much—nature doesn’t work on our schedule—but some tiny frogs, insects, and a few soft glows still found us. Enough to remind me that wonder doesn’t always need to announce itself.

While most of the group went out for drinks to celebrate, I stayed back to pack and reflect. On the bees, the forests, the farmers. On how different it feels to teach science versus live it. On how unexpected it is to feel grounded in a place you never planned to find yourself.

Morning came with hugs, goodbyes, and one last pura vida before heading home.

I didn’t just bring back souvenirs. I brought back a reminder of why I teach, why I care about sustainability, and why science matters—not just in classrooms, but in fields, forests, and communities.

Also, yes, I brought home coffee. A lot of it.

And who knows—after this, I just might end up back on a farm when I retire. Maybe one with bees, coffee, and no Wi-Fi. Full circle, indeed.

Pura vida.

I’m especially grateful to Frannie and Evie, two brilliant young scientists who made this fieldwork feel both serious and joyful. I also feel lucky to have shared this week with our team of educators: Danilsa, Derek, Lauren, Diana from New York, Diana from Maine, Susan, JoAnn, Cesar, Errol, and Chris. I learned something from each of them—about science, about teaching, and about the kind of good humor and heart it takes to make a week like this unforgettable.

Carrying Dreams: A Father’s Legacy


When the river rose, my father didn’t hesitate.

One rainy morning, the river had swallowed the spillway between our village and the town. The current was strong, the water high—but school was open, and I refused to miss it.

My father threw me over his back, grabbed the rope stretched across the rushing water, and stepped in.
One foot, then the next. Slow. Steady. Determined.
That wasn’t a rescue mission. That was my commute to school.

I grew up in a small village in Bulan, Sorsogon. Life was simple—but never lacking in the things that mattered. We didn’t have much, but we had food on the table, a roof over our heads, and the kind of love that made you feel safe even when the world outside was uncertain.

As the eldest, I always felt like my parents carried a quiet hope for me. They believed in who I could become, even before I did. That belief showed up in small sacrifices—like transferring me from our local elementary to central school in town. It was a public school too, but bigger, with more students, more teachers, and more opportunities. I thrived there—always on the honor roll—and I carried that sense of responsibility with me, even when the river threatened to block the way.

At home, we lived simply. We had electricity, but no fridge, no TV, no fan. We cooked in a dirty kitchen outside, using firewood. Eventually, we upgraded to a gas stove, and it felt like a big deal.

We didn’t have phone lines. If we needed to send a message to someone in another barangay, we relied on snail mail—or a trusted neighbor heading that way. It wasn’t fast or convenient, but it worked. People showed up when they said they would.

Water came from a nearby spring, and we fetched it in gallons. We took baths in the river or used water from a manual well in our backyard. Laundry happened by the river too—squatting on smooth rocks, soaping clothes, and letting the suds float downstream. I know it wasn’t eco-friendly, but back then, it was simply what we did to get through the day.

That stormy day—the one with the rope across the river—is a memory that lives in me like a quiet anthem. The rope wasn’t a toy or an adventure—it was a necessity. A lifeline built by the village to make sure children could still go to school and families could still reach the town market. Looking back, I guess you could say that was my first zip line experience—not the fun kind, but the kind built from bamboo, knots, and love.

That’s the kind of place I come from. We didn’t have a lot, but we had enough. We had ingenuity. We had each other. And we had parents like mine—who carried more than just our weight. They carried our dreams too.

I think about those days more often than I admit. Not out of nostalgia, but to remind myself of what shaped me. These stories aren’t just memories. They’re reminders that love, resilience, and community can carry you far—sometimes across rivers, sometimes across a lifetime.

Today would have been my father’s birthday.

He passed away almost 11 years ago, but I still feel the strength of his steps in every challenge I take on. The rope may be gone. The river, too. But his belief in me? That’s still here.
Still holding me.
Still carrying me forward.

Big Lessons from a Tight Fit

There was a time in my life when I held onto grudges—quiet but heavy. I didn’t speak of them often, but I carried them with me through the years. Most of these feelings were rooted in childhood memories, shaped by poverty and the quiet shame that came with it.

Growing up, we couldn’t afford much. For school recognition days and graduations, I didn’t have proper shoes. I remember borrowing a cousin’s pair—tight and uncomfortable, but the only option I had. Though they let me use them, I still remember the side-eyes, the sighs, the small comments that stung more than they probably intended. I remember telling myself, “One day, I’ll show them.”

My father would sometimes send me to borrow money from a relative so I could get to school. I hated those moments—not because of the borrowing itself, but because of how it made me feel. Small. Unwelcome. Like a burden. My aunt would hand me the money, but not without a remark, a tone, a reminder that I was in need.

I borrowed a neighbor’s typewriter for school assignments. Again, the same dynamic—I was given what I asked for, but not without feeling the weight of the favor. A reminder of where I stood.

For a long time, I nursed those memories as wounds. I believed they should have helped with open arms, without judgment, without making me feel less. I carried that bitterness and used it as fuel—“I’ll make it someday, and they’ll see.” And maybe, in a way, that fire helped me push through.

But now, standing in a different place in life—somewhat more stable, more whole—I’ve started to see things differently.

It wasn’t their fault we were poor. And it wasn’t their responsibility to provide for me. Everyone had their own struggles, their own limits, and their own boundaries. What I once saw as cruelty or coldness may have just been discomfort, or fatigue, or simply their way of protecting their own needs.

Maybe I was just envious. Envious that they had what I lacked. Envious that I had to ask. Envious that needing help meant also carrying shame.

But envy doesn’t serve healing. And neither does holding onto anger.

I look back now with a softer heart. I see those moments as complex, not cruel. I was loved in the ways my family could offer love. And the borrowed shoes, the borrowed money, the borrowed typewriter—those were still yeses, even if they weren’t wrapped in kindness.

I’m learning to let go. To forgive, not just them, but myself—for feeling the way I did, for resenting people who, in their own way, still showed up.

Growth means learning to see with clarity what pain once blurred. I’m grateful now—for the struggle, the borrowed things, and even the side comments. Because they all shaped the person I am today.

And I don’t need to prove anything anymore.

What did the uncomfortable moments in your past teach you?
Sometimes the tightest fits leave the deepest impressions—and the gentlest lessons.

Stride by Stride: Finding Balance in Life’s Many Journeys

(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.

Running Through It

I’ll be honest—I haven’t been excited about running lately. Usually, it’s my time to clear my head, get some space, and just be in my own headspace. But recently, it felt like I was just going through the motions—worrying about work, my family in the Philippines especially my mom, my health, and everything else in between. Even when I did make time for a run, my mind wouldn’t let me enjoy it. I was focused on everything but the run itself.

There are days when I feel downright lazy, when it feels easier to just stay on the couch or binge-watch something than to get out there. I’ll make excuses about being too tired or too busy—anything to avoid running. It’s something we all do, right? But on those days, I remind myself that it’s not about being perfect; it’s about showing up, even when it’s hard or when the motivation isn’t there.

Then, I realized that the best thing I can do is just show up. It wasn’t until one run, when I had that familiar feeling of “I should just skip it,” that I reminded myself why I do this in the first place. It’s not about checking off a workout on a list. It’s not about improving my time. It’s about taking a break from everything else and being in the moment. So, I did the opposite of what I usually do when I get in my head—I slowed down. I ran at a pace that felt comfortable, that allowed me to breathe and think, but not to stress.

And then it hit me—running is a lot like showing up for life. My parents taught me that. When life threw them curveballs, they didn’t try to be perfect. They didn’t run faster or harder than they could. They just showed up, day after day. My mom’s health challenges, and the way my dad took care of everything while she struggled, showed me what real strength looks like—not in overcoming everything, but in just being there and moving forward.

That’s what I had forgotten about running: the idea of showing up. Not to compete or outdo myself, but just to do it because I can. And it was a reminder that when things are tough—whether it’s health worries, work stress, or anything else—the best thing I can do is just keep moving. It doesn’t matter if it’s fast or perfect, as long as I’m putting one foot in front of the other.

In a way, my parents’ example has become my running mentality. They didn’t try to fix everything in one go—they just kept moving through it. That’s what I’ve realized I need to do, too, with running and life. Some days will be harder than others, but as long as I keep showing up, that’s what counts.

After running a 10K yesterday, I took the day off from work for a much-needed mental health break. Honestly, I’m feeling better already. Sometimes, we forget how important it is to just pause and take care of ourselves—whether it’s a run, a break, or a moment of stillness. I realized that running, after all, is about more than just the physical act. It’s about checking in with myself, slowing down, and being okay with not being perfect.

So, as I lace up for the next run, I remind myself that it’s not about the end goal. It’s about being there for myself, finding joy in the process, and remembering that showing up is enough. Just like my parents did, I’ll keep moving forward, one step at a time.

Miles to Go, Thoughts to Gather

There’s something about the rhythm of running that clears the mind. Some days, the miles feel effortless, carried by the steady cadence of breath and the rhythmic sound of shoes meeting the pavement. Other days, every step is a struggle, each mile a test of patience. But even on those tough days, something shifts. The mind quiets, the body finds its rhythm, and suddenly, I remember this is why I run. The crisp morning air, the hush before the world wakes up, the small but satisfying victory of putting one foot in front of the other—these are the reasons I keep going, whether in the quiet mornings of the weekend or the steady rhythm of afternoon runs after work.

Yesterday, I ran ten miles—the longest I’ve run since December’s Ted Corbitt 15K. It wasn’t fast, but it felt good. The kind of good that reassures me I’m on the right path for the NYC Half Marathon. Training isn’t always linear; I’ve learned to embrace the slower miles, the setbacks, and the days when progress feels invisible. But then a run like this comes along—a reminder that every mile, whether fast or slow, easy or hard, adds up.

Lately, I’ve been finding a similar rhythm in hiking. The trails offer a different kind of challenge—the slow, steady climbs, the unpredictable terrain, the way the landscape demands presence. The Tour du Mont Blanc is on my horizon, a trek that will test my patience and endurance in new ways. With every run and every hike with friends, I’m building strength, mile by mile, trusting that the effort will pay off.

Gear plays a part in this journey, too. My Garmin watch has logged every mile, quietly keeping pace through training cycles and race days. I don’t check it constantly, but it’s always there—a silent witness to the work I’ve put in. My running shoes have carried me through long training runs, and when the road feels endless, a handheld water bottle tucked into my palm is a small but necessary comfort. After a long run or a steep hike, stretching out sore muscles with a massage tool has become part of my routine, almost meditative in its own way.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on how running and hiking shape the way I think. The time spent moving—whether logging miles on the road or trekking with friends—allows thoughts to settle in ways they don’t during the rush of daily life. Books like Quiet by Susan Cain remind me that stillness—whether in a pause at a mountain summit or during a cooldown after a run—isn’t about doing nothing; it’s about creating space for clarity. And in Let Your Mind Run by Deena Kastor, I’ve found inspiration in the way mindset shapes endurance, both on the road and beyond it.

Every mile is part of a larger journey. Some are measured in time, some in distance, and some in quiet realizations that only come when you’re moving forward. Wherever the next adventure leads—whether it’s a marathon, a mountain trail, or simply another morning run—it’s all part of the same rhythm. One step, then another.

What’s a piece of gear, a book, or a routine that has shaped your running, hiking, or travel experience? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.