There’s always that moment, two minutes in, where I’m sure I won’t make it this time. My whole body wants to give up.

“Ouch! This is hurting! I change my mind. Let’s go home,” my legs cry out.

‘I’m not getting enough oxygen! I can’t do this!” my lungs scream.

“There are SO many better ways to spend this time,” my mind complains.

And yet I persevere and a few minutes later I’ve hit my stride. My legs have become accustomed to moving again, my lungs have found their deep-breathing relief, and my mind settles in and begins to relax to the quiet rhythm of the run.

An hour later, as I approach mile five, my body is on fire, my heart is pounding, and my lungs are gasping for breath. Rivulets of sweat pour from my face. But I feel amazing. Alive and invigorated and full of the sweet taste of adrenalin.

“We did it!” my whole body cries. “We persevered!”

If it weren’t for the memory of that feeling, I’d never make it past the second minute.