Running has sustained me over the past five years as my life has shifted and metamorphosed. Running has been my go to, my stalwart, my renewal, my one consistent thing. I could depend on my morning runs to regenerate my flagging spirits, to propel me into the day with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. I got out of bed early each morning, bounded out of my car at whatever destination I had chosen for the day, and virtually floated through my workouts, feeling invincible and light. Rain? No problem. Snow? Bring it on. Wind? I opened my arms like an airplane and soared. Or, I put my head down and powered through, reeling off the miles at a pretty decent clip for a slightly-past-middle-age woman who only recently laced up her running shoes. But lately I have felt heavy. Running feels like drudgery. I can barely make it a mile without taking a break. Still, I can’t imagine not running. In fact, on the two or three days each week when I can’t run due to work commitments, I feel horrible physically. I know that running improves my outlook and keeps me feeling fit, but I seem to have lost the joy I once felt, the lightness. I keep going because I figure I have nothing to gain (except weight) by stopping and because if nothing else, I am persistent. I am hopeful that my mojo will return if I keep showing up.