Today’s post is written by Jacki Correll, who recently ran in her brand-new neighborhood after a move. Jacki shares how running keeps her grounded, no matter the location.

I recently moved into a beautiful three-story, century-old home located in an older neighborhood 15 minutes outside the city. It’s a big change from the newer ranch style house in the deeply suburban development where I’d lived for over a decade, and while change does make me anxious, I do love a fresh start. Reframing change as an opportunity, thinking of it like a new notebook full of nothing but possibilities, leaves me feeling more in control when change is afoot. Like I can choose my own adventure while finding small ways to bring the familiar with me into the new. 

Surrounded by mountains of cardboard in an echoing house that felt like somebody else’s, the first thing I unpacked after the bed linens was my running gear. All the fleece tights, wool tops, knit caps and warm mittens I’d worn over the years were carefully returned to the set of short plastic drawers that I’ve always used for that purpose. Don’t ask me where the hand soap is, but I can tell you without hesitation that my favorite running socks are in the top drawer, left side, toward the front. After the chaos of moving, I was eager for the familiar feeling of pavement under my feet and to explore the fresh terrain of my new community, so I checked the forecast, pulled out a warm outfit, and happily set my alarm for early the next morning.

When the alarm sounded, I jumped into my running clothes like a firefighter and bounded down the stairs toward the front door to throw on my shoes. But in my frenzy to unpack my gear, I’d neglected to unearth the most integral piece! I raced back up to my closet, which was packed to the ceiling with boxes, and relief flooded me as I spied a familiar black, white and red  Saucony shoebox on the top shelf. Hoping I’d still have time for 5 miles of exploratory running before my workday began, I headed swiftly down the stairs for the second time that morning, shoebox in hand, only to discover upon opening it… a pair of silver evening sandals!?  (NOTE: The me who started packing, all color coding and labels, and the me who hurriedly finished packing, as moving day approached, were clearly two different people.)  

Up the stairs and into the closet again, I started ripping open each box or bin marked “shoes” and tossing fashion sneakers, tall boots, and flip flops over my shoulder in search of my current pair of Sauconys. In the third such box I thought I’d found them, but quickly realized by lack of the shoe tags and insoles, they were my previous pair. “Good enough”, I proclaimed, grabbing an old pair of insoles from the bottom of a different bin and feeling like I’d already had a workout with all those stairs.

I stepped out the front door onto the porch, brisk air filling my lungs as I took a deep breath savoring the anticipation of my first run in my new neighborhood. Which way should I go? I had no route planned, only a vague idea of the direction where I’d find the main street, which, rumor had it, was filled with coffee shops, bookstores, and even the historical society. I went right at the first corner and then left.

The first thing I noticed as I started my warmup was sidewalks. Unlike my previous neighborhood where I had to cling to the edges of the road, my new neighborhood has wide cement sidewalks with tall curbs, which feel much safer, allowing me to enjoy a more relaxing run. 

Lifting my head, I began to take in the lovingly maintained, architecturally diverse homes along this new route. Even in various degrees of holiday undress, there were several houses on every block that caused me to slow my pace to take a longer look. Rendered in shades ranging from rich reds to sunny yellows and cool blues, there were ornate Victorian homes with gingerbread trim, stately Colonials bearing contrasting shutters, and a whole enclave of a dozen identical stone cottages reminiscent of Hobbit houses. Like a kid in Willy Wonka’s factory, I could barely tear my eyes away from all the colors and shapes. I was already looking ahead to warmer months when the caretakers of these gorgeous homes might be outside so that I could stop for a chat to learn about their histories. I noticed a sign about an annual holiday house tour that would definitely be on my “must” list next December.

Drawn to the main street by the scent of roasting coffee beans, I ran 3 blocks up a long but gentle hill, making a right at the top, and half a block later, I did find a cozy cafe along with rows of quaint shops I am excited to visit including two vintage clothing stores, a candle shop, and an embroidery place, but my time was running out. I needed to get back home—only I wasn’t exactly sure which way that was. 

In a hurry now, I did my best to retrace my steps, picking up the pace a bit and noticing that my breath fell into its usual brisk run pattern of  in-in-oooout, in-in-oooout. Soon I was passing back by the grand Victorian on the corner and greeting my new street like an old friend, reminding myself that no matter what change brings, the run is always there for me.