This Is Why We Run Together

I ran the Austin Half Marathon with my son because it felt like the most honest place to be together.

Side by side for thirteen point one miles. Same start line. Same finish line. Two different bodies. Two different seasons of life. One shared commitment to keep moving.

Running has a way of simplifying things. The noise drops out. The world narrows. What’s left is breath, rhythm, and presence. When you run with your kid, that simplicity sharpens even more. There’s no room for lectures or perfectly timed wisdom. You don’t lead with words. You lead with pace.

Early on, you settle in. Later, the conversation fades. Somewhere in the middle miles, you stop talking altogether and start paying attention. Posture. Cadence. Energy. You learn how to read each other without saying anything. When to push. When to ease. When to stay right where you are.

Leadership is about matching stride long enough for someone to trust their own rhythm.

What made this run different is that I’ve crossed plenty of finish lines over the years.

Marathons. Half marathons. 70.3 Ironmans. I know what long miles feel like. But this was the first time Zac and I ran something truly significant together, prepared, committed, and ready.

For me, it was familiar terrain, but that didn’t make it ordinary. I was genuinely excited to share this experience with him.

For Zac, at this stage of his life, it was a first. His first race of this length. His first time training with intention. His first time standing on a start line knowing fear and discomfort were guaranteed, and choosing to go anyway.

Watching him push through doubt, fatigue, and pain, staying the course one step at a time, was one of the proudest moments of my life.

We finished in two hours and nineteen minutes. On paper, that number may not mean much. But for someone just starting out, just learning how to train, how to pace, and how to trust his body, it meant everything. Commitment kept. Fear faced. Pain navigated instead of avoided.

When the emotion finally caught up to him at the finish line, the tears said it all. That wasn’t exhaustion. That was accomplishment. That was effort meeting belief in real time.

Running has always been where I go to think clearly. To listen. To get honest. It’s where I’ve worked through uncertainty and decisions I didn’t want to rush. This run wasn’t about noise or motivation. It was about showing up and taking the next step, even when it would have been easier to back off.

Crossing the finish line didn’t feel like a medal moment. It felt like a memory moment. One that will last far longer than the soreness or the photos.

Someday Zac will run without me. Make decisions without me. Face hard miles I’ll never see. When that happens, I hope he remembers this. Progress doesn’t require perfection. Strength is built one step at a time. Showing up matters more than showing off.

I’ll remember the miles. I’ll remember the tears. But most of all, I’ll remember running beside my son and watching him become someone stronger than he was that morning.

Here’s the question worth sitting with.

Who are you willing to slow down for long enough to truly run alongside, and what kind of person might they become if you stay?

And if you’re realizing you need someone like this in your own life, someone who will meet you where you are, help you find your rhythm, and walk with you through the harder miles, you’re invited to schedule a consultative coaching conversation.