It started with a restless feeling—the kind that creeps in when you’ve been sick too long. My legs ached for movement, my muscles twitched with unused energy. I took that as a signal. Time to get back on the treadmill. Time to shake off the remnants of this nasty upper respiratory infection.
The first few steps felt good. Too good. Like my body had been waiting for this, like it knew before I did that I needed to move. But then, the deep inhale. A mistake. My lungs, still raw and angry, seized in protest, and suddenly I was hacking up what felt like a lifetime supply of phlegm. My pace slowed, my chest burned, and for a moment, I questioned whether I’d returned too soon.
But I kept going. Despite the coughing fits and moments where my breath felt ragged, I felt a slight lift. Each footstrike was a reminder—I’m still here. I’m still rebuilding. And even if my lungs aren’t ready today, they’ll be a little stronger tomorrow.
So I coughed, I gasped, I jogged. It wasn’t pretty, but it was movement. And for today, that was enough.