Friday MVP

In the warmer months — usually May through November, I like to take the 5 am gang to our local track.

And by "gang," I mean the women who willingly set alarms at an hour most consider unreasonable, show up before the sun has fully committed to the day, and then trust me when I say things like, "Today we're going to use the bleachers."

Today we ran them. Literally.

We ran up them. We hopped up them. We lunged up them.

We used them for push-ups, dips, and squat jumps. All the things their legs will remind them of tomorrow.

My husband often worries that one day these women are going to turn on me and leave me for dead in a ditch somewhere.

There are moments during these workouts when I can see it in their faces. Not full mutiny, exactly, more like quiet plotting. Some mornings they choose to keep their tongues so they don't say things they can't take back, and I respect that. Growth comes in many forms.

They show up.

They follow every crazy idea I throw at them. They modify when they need to. They push harder when they can. They laugh, groan, sweat, roll their eyes, and somehow still love me at the end.

Every Friday, we give out an imaginary MVP award.

There is no trophy. No plaque. No medal. Just a moment where we pause and recognize someone for whatever kind of win they brought with them that day.

Some Fridays, it goes to the woman who worked the hardest.

Some Fridays, it goes to the one who showed up even though everything in her world is falling apart.

Some Fridays, it goes to the one who simply got out of the car.

We know that wins don't always look like the fastest run, the deepest squat, or the heaviest push.

Sometimes the win is showing up tired. Sometimes the win is showing up sad. Sometimes the win is showing up scared. Sometimes the win is coming back.

Today, the imaginary MVP award went to me.

Not because I ran the fastest or jumped the highest or made the workout look easy. I most certainly did not.

Today was my first Friday workout back since my little hospital stay in January. It was my first Friday fully released from all the dumb medical restrictions, and I cannot tell you how good it felt to be back out there with my people.

It is very humbling having to pause when your body says pause — and it is super frustrating being told what you cannot do when you are used to just doing.

And there is something incredibly holy about coming back.

Not dramatically. Not perfectly. Just back.

Back at the track. Back under the beautiful Michigan morning sky. Back with women who have built something far bigger than a workout group.

Celebrating wins. Loud ones. Quiet ones. Messy ones. The wins nobody else sees.

Today, I let them celebrate me a little.

Which might have been harder than the bleachers.