Tag: life

Running

Kristine Binder

I’ve always said that running saved my life.

What started as a “fun” way to exercise our new pup turned into something so much more—it became my therapy, my escape, my lifeline. I didn’t know it at the time, but each mile I logged was putting more and more distance between me and the truth I didn’t want to face.
Reading The Tell by Amy Griffin was like taking a deep breath and walking straight into a storm I thought I’d already weathered. I picked up the book expecting a compelling story. What I didn’t expect was to be gut-punched by line after line that felt like someone had crawled into my memories and written them down. When Amy started talking about running? I had to physically put the book down and walk away. I wasn’t ready. But eventually, I came back to it—because that’s what we do when we’re ready to face our truth.
“Denial is not a switch that can be turned off and on. Denial is a glass case that must be shattered before you realize you were trapped inside it in the first place.”(Amy Griffin, The Tell: A Memoir)
Wrong.
“As the years ticked forward, my body kept telling me to slow down, but I just couldn’t. I had two gears: Fast and faster.”
Running became my coping mechanism. 10Ks. Half marathons. Marathons. I kept pushing, stretching myself thinner and thinner, but never facing the one thing I needed to confront. I was so busy coaching Girls on the Run, thinking I was doing it for them—my daughters, my students, the next generation of strong, confident girls. What I didn’t realize was that I was teaching myself the lessons I needed to hear, over and over again. Lessons about worth. About boundaries. About love that doesn’t hurt.
He was a first responder—someone whose job demanded long hours, middle-of-the-night calls, lots of ‘overtime’ and stretches of time away from home. I was proud of how hard he worked. I justified every absence, every “odd” shift, every last-minute call-in. I believed in him. I believed in his mission. But slowly, painfully, I came to realize that I was the only one still believing. Everyone else knew—everyone but me.
And now? Even now, years later, I meet people in social settings who say, “Oh… you’re the one. I didn’t know you back then, but I knew what was happening. We all did. We just didn’t know how to tell you.”
Gut punch.
I was the last to know the truth about my own life. And all I ever wanted was to shield my kids from the pain, from the truth, from him. I thought if I kept the peace, if I kept him happy, there might be some stability—some version of a “normal” life for them. But peace built on silence isn’t peace at all. And in trying to protect them, I was failing to protect myself.
“You start off running from something, the point where it all began, and then, as it approaches on the horizon, you realize that you haven’t been running from it at all. You’ve been running toward it.” (Amy Griffin, The Tell: A Memoir)
When I finally shattered the glass case and got out of my marriage, I thought the hard part was over. But as anyone who’s been through trauma or abuse knows, that’s just the beginning. Years later, I’m still in therapy, still untangling the knots of shame and silence. Still trying to forgive myself for what I accepted. Still working to be the kind of parent my children need—reachable, not perfect.
“My children didn’t want me to be perfect—they wanted me to be reachable.” (Amy Griffin, The Tell: A Memoir)
Another gut punch. Because for so long, I wasn’t. I was too focused on controlling chaos, on avoiding conflict, on managing someone else’s mood instead of being emotionally available to my children. I see now that I was modeling a relationship I would never want for them. I was failing them. And I was failing myself.
They may never fully understand what I was surviving. Some of it I’ll probably never share. But maybe one day they’ll ask. And if they do, I’ll tell them—not to tarnish anyone’s memory, but to tell my truth…to share my story. To show them how cycles can be broken. To let them know they’re allowed to demand more.
And through all of this—the running, the reckoning, the remembering—I know this: I made mistakes. Deep ones. Painful ones. Choices in the throes of trauma that hurt not only me, but my kids and others around me. Some may never understand the decisions I made, and some may never be able to forgive me. But I hope that in choosing to heal myself, I can show others that I am worthy of forgiveness, of trust, of faith. That I am doing the work. That I am showing up. That even though I will never be perfect—far from it—I am trying every day to do better.
Little me needed the woman I am now—someone brave enough to face the demons, to speak the shame, to sit with the truth. Amy’s story reminded me that healing doesn’t come from hiding. It comes from telling.
So if you’re in a season of silence, please know this: you’re not alone. When you’re ready to tell your story, there are people who will sit beside you, hold space for you, and listen—really listen.
Running may have started as a way to escape, but now, every step I take is toward the life I was meant to live—a life of authenticity. A life of truth. A life of honesty and healing. A life I can be proud of.
And maybe—just maybe—my story will help someone else not make the same mistakes I did. Or at the very least, remind them that it’s never too late to stop running away and start running toward something better.
My motto has always been: forward is a pace. I’ve never been the fastest—but I have always been and will always be moving forward. Even if it’s in baby steps. Even if it’s one breath, one mile, one truth at a time. Forward is my pace forever and always.
Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace

Capable

Kristine Binder

Recently, a woman I admire deeply looked me straight in the eyes and said:
“One thing I know about you is that you are capable. You are one of the most capable women I know.”
That stopped me in my tracks.
See, little Kristine never really heard that. I have never been made to truly feel like I do things well—or that I do them right. I have spent so much of my life striving for approval, feeling like I was either already in trouble or about to be. The feeling of never being enough, never being good enough, runs deep.
And for a long time, I was terrified that I had unknowingly passed that feeling on to my own children. That they, too, might have inherited this quiet fear of not measuring up. The weight of generational trauma is heavy, and while I can’t undo the past, I can work to break the cycle. I can choose to do better, to be better—not just for myself, but for them.
So hearing someone—someone I look up to—say, out loud, that they see me as capable? That hit deep. Words like that don’t just land; they sink in. They breathe life into parts of me that still need healing.
Healing that inner child takes time. It takes patience. It takes work. But moments like this remind me how powerful it is when we speak truth into others. Because we all have things we need to hear.
So if you see something good in someone—say it.
Affirm them.
Remind them of their strength, their resilience, their capability.
Because you never know which part of their heart needs that reminder. And you never know just how much healing a few honest words can bring.
Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace

Dreams

Kristine Binder

When I was little, I didn’t dream about a wedding. I didn’t plan out my future husband’s name or picture a white dress. While other girls were playing “bride,” I was cradling my dolls, changing their tiny outfits, and rocking them to sleep. I wasn’t playing house—I was playing mom.
Motherhood was always the dream.
As I got older, that didn’t change. I loved babies, and I mothered any child I could. My nephews and niece? I doted on them, cared for them, and soaked up every moment. Holding them, feeding them, soothing them—it felt natural. Right. Like I had stepped into a role that had always been meant for me.
Marriage, on the other hand? That was never part of the picture. It wasn’t that I was against it, but it simply wasn’t what I longed for. Some people dream of love stories, wedding bells, and the perfect partner. I dreamed of cradling a baby in my arms, of hearing the word “Mom” spoken with love and trust.
But life has a way of surprising us.
I did get married. I prayed for the white-picket-fence life—the partnership, the shared responsibilities, the happily ever after. But that’s not what I got. Instead, I got another child and most of the housework. I became a mother in every sense of the word, to my children and, in many ways, to my husband too. The marriage I envisioned—the one filled with teamwork and equal weight—never quite materialized.
And maybe that’s because I was never meant to be a wife.
But even as a mother—the one role I always knew I was meant for—I haven’t been perfect. I haven’t always been the mom I imagined myself being. I have made mistakes, ones that weigh heavy on my heart. There are moments I wish I could go back and change, things I would have done differently if I had known then what I know now.
Hindsight is always 20/20.
I know mistakes were made, but I’ve also learned from them. Instead of letting them define me, I’ve chosen to forgive myself and do better. To be better. Motherhood isn’t about perfection—it’s about growth, love, and showing up, even when you don’t get it right.
Is there psychology behind all of this? Maybe. Maybe it was the desire to love and be loved unconditionally. Maybe it was the innate pull to nurture, to protect, to guide. Or maybe—just maybe—I was simply born to be a mom.
And I truly believe that’s enough.
Some people are meant to be partners first. Others are meant to chase careers, passions, or adventures. Me? I was meant to be a mom. That was always my purpose, my calling, my heart’s greatest wish.
Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace

SUN day

Kristine Binder

His jacket caught my eye first—Vietnam Veteran, embroidered across the back, the fabric worn but still holding its meaning.
“Thank you for your service,” I said as I passed him on the path.
“You’re welcome. What a cute dog…” he replied, his voice warm but quick to deflect my gratitude. He shifted the conversation almost immediately, turning his attention to Lucky, who, of course,  was delighted to be the center of it.
I slowed my pace and walked alongside him as he asked questions—How old is he? What kind of dog is he? Does he like walks? Simple questions, but I could tell they were more than small talk. This wasn’t just about my dog; this was about connection.
As we walked, he shared that getting out was hard for him these days. He was tired—tired of being inside but determined to take advantage of the spring sun while he could. I nodded, understanding in a way that had nothing to do with age or experience and everything to do with simply being human. Some days, moving forward is its own kind of victory.
After about a block, he slowed even more. “I need to sit,” he admitted.
“Do you need anything?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nope, just need to catch my breath.”
So, Lucky and I continued on, leaving him there on walker seat, bathed in sunlight, watching the world go by.
I glanced back and snapped a quick photo—not of him directly, but of the moment. A man, resting in the sun, taking in the small joys of the day. And I wondered—how many people passed him without a word? How many were annoyed that he walked too slowly, or that he took up space in the middle of the sidewalk?
How many veterans go unnoticed and unappreciated every single day?
I don’t have the answer. But what I do know is that acknowledging someone—truly seeing them—costs nothing. And sometimes, even a few shared steps on a walk can be a reminder that we all need a little kindness, a little connection, and, every now and then, just a moment in the sun.
Because people matter. Moments matter. Taking a second to see someone, to hear them, to remind them that they are not invisible—it all matters. We never know what a simple smile, a kind word, or a small thank you might mean to someone else.
The world is busy, and life moves fast, but in the end, the smallest moments of connection might just be the most important ones.
Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace

Grief

Kristine Binder

Grief is a strange, relentless companion. It comes in waves, some so powerful they knock me off my feet, while others gently lap at my ankles before receding into the background. Lately, though, the waves feel more like a storm. The world is so heavy right now, and I can feel that weight pressing down on my chest. Everywhere I turn, there seems to be another loss, another heartbreak, another reason to grieve.
Losing my dad has been a pain I can hardly describe. It’s not just the absence of his voice or his laugh—it’s the absence of his presence in my life, the anchor he provided, the memories we’ll never create. On top of that, dear friends of mine are mourning loved ones. A young person I cherished as if they were my own has left this world far too soon. Each loss feels like another stone added to the pile I carry, threatening to bury me.There are moments when it all feels so overwhelming that I want to crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head, and disappear. The thought of facing another day, carrying another burden, is sometimes too much to bear. But then there are other moments—moments when that grief fuels a fire in me to fight. To show up for my children, my students, my community. To prove that love and resilience can be louder than hate and despair.
Being my mother’s emergency contact now is a new weight I hadn’t prepared for. It’s a role that feels heavy with responsibility and the reminder of how fragile life is. Sometimes, the pressure of it all feels like it might crush me. But then I remember: forward is my pace. Even if it’s just baby steps, I keep moving. One foot in front of the other. One moment at a time.
Grief, I’ve learned, doesn’t go away. It shifts, it changes, and it continues to wash over me in unexpected moments. Some days, I feel like I’m barely keeping my head above water. Other days, I find glimmers of peace when the waves recede. But within those waves, I try to find the strength to swim. To reach out to others. To remind myself that while the world feels heavy, we don’t have to carry it alone.
Peace is not always easy to find, but it is there—waiting in the moments when the waves recede, offering us the chance to catch our breath. Let’s take those baby steps together, reminding ourselves that we don’t have to face it alone. In the moments when the storm calms, we can find breath, and maybe even hope, together.
If you’re reading this and you’re feeling the weight of your own grief, know that you’re not alone. Take those baby steps, no matter how small. Cry if you need to. Rest if you can. Fight when you’re ready. And remember: forward is always a pace.
Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace