Stairs

There are 28 risers on a staircase going into a courtyard at the hospital next door to my apartment. I run them everyday. One hundred times up, one hundred times down. Sometimes I go in the morning, sometimes at night and sometimes in the heat of the Kansas City Day.

I do it regardless of who is there watching me. I do it hard. I do it serious.

People ask me what I'm training for.

Training? I look like I'm training for something. Wow.

A year ago, I was sick. Sickly. I bruised easily and healed slow. I got sick a lot and my blood sugar dropped, causing me to faint. Often. I was dying.

I have since been diagnosed with clinical depression following the end of a nine year abusive marriage.

With some ill-fitting exercise clothes from a thrift store and a good pair of second hand Nikes, I set out to get well. I drew my energy from the hospital. From the nature of the people who work there and want to help people heal. The courtyard is the access to the chapel. I drew from that a little, too.

I worked the stairs. The first time, once was all I could do. I worked up to 5, then 10, then started stringing sets of 10 together. Day by day, I got stronger.

No one told me to do it. No one told me how to do it, or when. This is mine. I will let no one take it from me.

People ask me what I'm training for. At first I said, "Nothing."

Then I started answering, "Life."

Now, I have a different response.

"What are you training for?"

My answer. "I do this for me. This is for the win, the gold, the whole ball of wax. I do this everyday, 100%, and I do it unbeguiled. I answer to no one. I do this for me."

Just do it.