02/01/2026
Snow in North Carolina
Snow in North Carolina always feels a little unreal. This isn’t how we imagine winter here. Ice last weekend. Snow this weekend. A strange rhythm for a place that usually shrugs off January with cold mornings and bright afternoons. Today, though, it is stunning. The kind of day that almost demands stillness. The sun catches the snow just right, and everything glows. The world looks cleaner, softer, quieter. Even familiar roads feel new again.
And yet—there is the run.
Marathon training doesn’t really care about beauty or novelty. It cares about miles. About consistency. About showing up when it would be easier not to. There’s a low-grade stress that hums in the background of days like this. A calculation running alongside the awe: snow depth, traction, icy patches, sore knees. The question isn’t can I run, but how do I do this without getting hurt?
The treadmill is the obvious answer, and also the worst one. It’s monotonous in a way that outdoor running never is. A loop of nothing. Numbers ticking forward while your mind drifts or rebels. My knees feel every mile now in a way they didn’t twenty years ago. I don’t bounce back the same. There’s a cost to every choice, and the treadmill seems to collect it upfront.
When I think about winter training, my mind goes to that image from Rocky III. Rocky out on the frozen roads, grinding it out in the cold, while Drago is inside—controlled, efficient, insulated. There’s something deeply appealing about that old image of grit. The idea that suffering outdoors somehow builds more than muscles. That it hardens you. Makes you real.
Winter training has always had a harshness to it. A stripping down. You learn who you are when comfort is removed. For a long time, that harshness energized me. It made me feel alive. Capable. Tough.
But something feels different now.
I don’t know if it’s age, exactly. Or if age is just the easiest explanation. Maybe it’s experience. Maybe it’s loss. Maybe it’s love. Or responsibility. Or simply the quiet accumulation of years spent doing hard things.
There’s a softness I notice in myself now. A gentler pull toward warmth and stillness. Toward sitting inside with a cup of coffee and watching the snow instead of charging into it. Toward appreciating the light rather than proving something to it.
That softness used to scare me. It felt like weakness. Like I was letting something slip. But lately, I wonder if it’s not weakness at all. Maybe it’s discernment. Maybe it’s finally understanding that not every moment needs to be conquered.
There was a time when my to-do list ruled me. Everything on it felt urgent. Necessary. If it wasn’t done, I felt behind—on life, on myself. Pausing felt like failure. Slowing down felt like quitting.
Now, I’m not so sure.
Maybe softness comes from realizing that doing everything is impossible, and trying to do so is exhausting. Maybe it comes from understanding that effort doesn’t always have to look like suffering. That showing up can take different forms in different seasons.
Marathon training still matters to me. It’s not negotiable. There’s meaning in the miles. In the commitment. In moving forward even when conditions aren’t perfect. But maybe the way I do it can evolve. Maybe starting on the treadmill and finishing on the roads isn’t compromise—it’s wisdom. A way of honoring both discipline and reality.
The roads are clearer now. Not perfect, but passable. The sun has done its work. The snow is still bright, still beautiful, but it’s no longer a barrier—just part of the landscape.
So that’s the plan. Head to the gym in a bit. Start inside. Warm up. Let the joints settle. Then step outside and finish where the world is open and real. Cold air in the lungs. Snow crunching underfoot. Light bouncing off everything.
Not proving anything. Not chasing some old version of toughness. Just moving forward.
Maybe that’s what softness really is—not the absence of strength, but the confidence to choose how you use it.
Enjoy the snow.
