This isn’t really the beginning.
January 1st. The month of January. It’s not the beginning.
It’s a practice.
And honestly, that’s a gift.
So many of us complain that we never get to practice life — we’re just thrown into it. But January gives us a rehearsal. A chance to feel where we are before we pretend to be somewhere else.
When I think about beginnings, I always remember something from Grade One.
I was on a relay team. Little Scarborough kid. Birchmount Stadium. I could run fast — and I was excited. Lined up at the starting line, heart pounding, ready to go.
The gun went off.
Everyone ran.
Except me.
I tripped over my shoelaces and went flat on my face.
I remember crying. Hard. Embarrassed. Certain it was over. Then my teacher — Mrs. Cowan — came over. White hair, calm energy. She tied my shoes and said something that stayed with me for life:
“You still have to get up and finish the race.”
I didn’t understand it then. Why…
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