Our paths first crossed during the first week of June. I had just dropped my kids at school and headed out on my daily run. I was childless, my headphones blaring, my mind already adrift like it always is when I’m running, busy untangling one of the many challenges I’d been grappling with that day.
And then I turned a corner and saw you in the distance. A runner like me, with a toddler and baby in tow.
From a distance, I watched as you found your stride and then stopped, pulling over onto the sidewalk to attend to your oldest. I couldn’t tell if he needed a snack or water, toy or snuggle, but I saw your patience as you comforted him. I saw the exhaustion as you again started to run.
It was around then that your tired gaze locked with mine. And in that moment, I knew. I knew how nice it must have looked to be running alone without a jogging stroller. I knew you’d probably spent more time preparing to leave the house than you’d get to spend running. I knew I’d gotten more sleep than you the night before. Make that every night for the past year.
There was so much I wanted to say to you, but you were running one way, and I was running the other. So, instead of stopping, I offered you a smile and continued. But for the rest of that run, you remained with me.
Because for almost a decade, I was you, pushing the Double BOB stroller. I was that sleep-deprived jogger determined not to give up that vital piece of myself, that piece that loves to run.
Sometimes, I ran with one child. For many years, I ran with two. In fact, I ran with with my Double BOB for so long that when my youngest started preschool, I found it awkward to run without it, my arms not quite sure what to do.
Seeing you reminded me of this. It also sent me back to that very first run I made with my oldest, back when pushing a stroller in run mode felt difficult and strange. I still remember trying to turn and realizing I had to lift the front wheel – a motion that proved not only difficult but terrifying as I gazed down at my tiny, jostling infant.
But running was a part of my identity I couldn’t forfeit, so I continued to push my stroller. And over the years, running with my kids provided endless entertainment.
It brought me cherished friends when I joined local Fit4Mom classes. It gave me stories my kids still talk about today. Like the time I ran us back from the beach with them screaming and a thunderstorm on my heels. Or the time my toddler son threw his sneakers out of the stroller on vacation, forcing him to spend the rest of the week in oversized water shoes.
Not to mention all the runs cut short for potty breaks and diaper changes, and all the times I lugged that jogging stroller with us on vacations all over.
Running with the kids was never easy, but it was always memorable. And as the years passed, I found that the part of running I’d always cared about – the distance, the time, the pace – mattered less than the memories we were making together as I logged all those stop-and-start miles.
Today, my runs are boring. There are no unexpected stops and no laughter as we search for lost shoes. I’m back to counting miles and comparing times, to using my runs to work out problems in my mind. And yes, sometimes I am thankful that preparing for a run is now simple. That I am free to swing both arms.
But seeing you reminds me of how quickly time passes. Three years ago, I always ran with a stroller. Now, we don’t even own one.
So, to the mom running with her jogger, I want you to know I see you. I see your tired eyes as you try your best to keep your kids happy. I see you wanting to break into a sprint but instead stopping to fill a snack cup or retrieve water. And I know how hard it can feel when you can’t go thirty feet without stopping. I know how frustrating it can be when a diaper change sends you running home instead.
I know how it feels to wish you could clock a few solitary miles. And I hope that you get the chance to do so sometimes. Solo runs will always be important.
But I also hope I see you with your double stroller again. And when I do, know I am cheering you on with every smile. Because one day, you’ll be dropping your kids at school, too. Your garage won’t hold a stroller, either. But you will have those memories of the steps you took along the way—some successes, some failures, and some stories that will grow into family lore.
You will know that during all those miles, your kids learned not just about patience but also about determination, self-care, and health. All while watching their mom do something hard. One day, it might inspire them to do something hard, too.
Or maybe it will even lead to your own running buddy. These days, my oldest often asks to go with me. I say yes as often as possible.
And sometimes while running together, older runners flash us a smile, just like I smiled at you. I wonder if they’re thinking what I am – that this phase will go fast. That one day, she’ll be too quick for Mom. Or if maybe they’re in on a secret we will one day unlock. That a runner’s journey is long—always changing, and never-ending. Just like motherhood.
