On Monday morning I shocked myself. We were at the beach for one last day before we had to head back to our apartment and work for the week. I woke up around 7:30 am. That’s not the shocking part.

I looked at James and said, “Want to… work out? on the beach… or something?” It was similar to speaking Spanish. I wasn’t comfortable with what I was saying, but I wanted to try it out anyway.

When I sprained my ankle in April, I told myself that when it was healed, I wouldn’t take my healthy body for granted. I would move, not necessarily because I wanted to, but because I could.

I started with yoga two weeks ago. It was challenging, but only slightly more than usual. There were times when everyone put all their pressure on their right foot or bent back on their ankles and I just returned to downward dog. But in that 90 minutes, I said, Jenna – it’s time. You only get one life, and if you’re lucky, you get one healthy body. There are people who would kill to walk and run and stretch and move.

So on Monday, we headed out to the beach, barefoot. It was still cool and the sun was bouncing off the ocean to our left. The low tide made for a perfect running platform. We ran to the jetti where James asked if I wanted to do some sets. I wanted to lay down. I said sure. We squatted and lunged and push-upped. He asked if I wanted to run or walk back. I wanted to walk. I said run.

The pretend finish line was close, but I started to fall back. I wanted to stop. James did the only logical thing: he started singing the Rocky theme song and figure eighting around me. I reminded myself that this shortness of breath, this tightness in my legs, this sweat covering my body, was nothing. I can move. So I did.

On Wednesday night, I said it again.

I ran down a path that I’ve gone to before. I ran and I ran until I ended up at the park I sprained my ankle.

“This is where I hurt my ankle,” I said.

“And look at you now.” said James.