To Be Young

But this isn’t a story about things lost. Youth. Running. Identity. It’s about the inevitable morphing one does in big and small ways. It’s about what that morphing takes, no matter how old we get.

Illustration by Liz

“Nice to be young, eh?” the man commented as I passed him with a smile and shy “hello,” as one does in my neighborhood. He and his partner were out for a walk, bundled appropriately for late winter temps. I wore shorts and a tee shirt, appropriate for running in that same almost-spring weather.

Maybe it was that getup, or my shy hello; maybe it was relativity – his own age probably 20 years ahead of mine – but the comment threw me. I laughed out loud.

This was my first run in weeks; possibly months; possibly my first of 2026. And there were many things this lovely man couldn’t possibly know: That this was the second mile of what would only be a two mile total; that I’d taken a break at home between miles one and two to accommodate my ever less reliable pelvic floor; that after I passed him I’d have to stop to accommodate a seizing hamstring; that instead of running these days, I work on strength and mobility to accommodate my middle-aged bones.

But yes, I thought, grinning, as momentum carried me past his small kindness, it’s nice to feel almost like I once did.

I started distance running when I was actually young, in college. I remember the learning of it; the bravery. I’d plod a few blocks, then walk, plod, then walk, ending with a bright red face that I’d have to carry past fellow coeds. I remember getting lost, working through new pains, and learning how to swing my arms and un-knock my knees (as best I could, I never fully got there). That’s youth in a nutshell, right? Facing challenges for the first time. Being brave. 

For me, running bridged youth into adulthood. It couldn’t, however, bridge the chasm that opened up between youth and parenthood. It was one of those identities that gets gobbled up in the transition from Oneself to One’s Mom. Now that I’m out of the baby haze, I’m re-engaging with some of those identities and I’m finding, unfortunately, that Runner has come out the other side maimed and mangled. My body has changed. My priorities have changed.

But this isn’t a story about things lost. Youth. Running. Identity. Or, at least, it’s not only a story about that. It’s about… well, what is it about? I think it’s about the inevitable morphing one does in big and small ways. But more than that, it’s about what that morphing takes, no matter how old we get: the learning. The bravery. The youth. 

This week, my daughter and I started our second Girls On The Run season, her as a runner, me as a coach. What a joy to watch these kids set lap goals and fight their individual battles. Some kids hurtle around the track, ferociously driven. Many plod, like I once did, then walk, then plod, then walk, overthinking how their arms should swing, un-knocking their beautiful knees. Who can say which kid will take to it, devoting years of their lives to this strange and ancient pursuit.

To be young, I think, as they put stickers on their lap-count journals, and giggle together in their belly-baring shirts and totally inappropriate footwear. To be learning all of this for the first time.

And that, I think, is what my neighbor commented on the other day. While I’d love to think that the late winter sunlight hid my grays and lines just right and my legs were long and graceful as I passed, I suspect that what he saw was something else entirely. 

Someone trying something for the first time again. Someone working on her next transition, from new parent to … whatever will come next. Someone trying on old identities, imagining new ones, and testing her bravery while the sun on her skin and the blood in her muscles called back a memory of youth. 

Nice to be young, yes.

Nice to feel so alive.