Exploring Self-Preservation and Freedom: Windy's 1st 5k

It was still night when we woke—3:00 a.m., the house dark and hushed, the world outside asleep. Windy had crawled into my bed the night before, falling asleep curled beside me like she used to when she was smaller. When the alarm went off, its chime piercing the quiet, she startled and rolled right out of bed with a soft thud. We both laughed, sleep still in our eyes, her little body blinking in confusion before she stood up, already smiling.

We moved through the dark like two travelers preparing for a sacred journey. No words, just the soft rustling of clothes, the zipping of jackets, the quiet clatter of water bottles. By 4:15 a.m., we were on the road, the car headlights cutting through the soft dark as we made our way toward Blue Ridge, Georgia.

This was Windy’s first official 5K—the first time she was fully registered under her own name, wore her own bib, and earned her own race time. But it wasn’t her first race. She had been beside me for years, tucked into a jogger as I pushed her through the streets of Decatur during the Four Miler, or bundled in a blanket as we rolled along the Atlanta Mission 5K to End Homelessness. Just a few weeks before this, she had run an entire Juneteenth race by herself—her little legs moving with determination—but she wore my number that day. Her effort was real, but invisible to the official record.

This day was different. This day was hers.

The drive was long but gentle, the kind of still morning where even the trees seem to be holding their breath. Windy drifted in and out of sleep in the passenger seat while I drove, music low, heart full. We were headed to the Blue Ridge Freedom 5K, held in a beautiful mountain town wrapped in mist and meaning.

When we arrived, the sun was just beginning to rise behind the hills. The town was waking slowly, bathed in that early golden light that makes everything feel like a memory as it’s happening. The mountain air was fresh, cool, and charged with something sacred.

Just before the race began, Windy was asked to hold the American flag during the national anthem. I paused—an emotional contradiction rising up in me. As a Black mother, as someone who knows the history not just of this country, but of our place within it, I have complicated feelings about that flag, about what it represents, and what it obscures. But as I watched her step forward with calm, upright grace, I felt something else, too: pride.

She stood strong, flag in hand, facing more than a thousand runners and spectators who looked on with admiration. For a moment, the cheering crowd fell into stillness, and every eye rested on her. Windy didn’t shrink from it. She didn’t smile or perform. She just stood in her power—steady, present, holding the weight of a symbol far older and more layered than she could yet understand.

I watched her and thought: You don’t have to carry it all. But today, you carried something, and you did it with dignity.

Then came the race. And with it, a return to breath and movement, to the sacred simplicity of the body in motion. We weren’t there to win. We weren’t chasing time. We were there to move. To feel. To celebrate life with our feet on the ground, and the road under us.

Windy set her own pace. I ran beside her sometimes, behind her other times, watching her find her rhythm. It was as if the hills and curves of the mountain road welcomed her, folding her into something ancient and joyful. Running, for me, has always been spiritual. Meditative. A way of praying with my body, of letting motion unlock the things my mind can’t always name. I wanted Windy to know that. I wanted her to know running as something more than a sport—as something restorative, freeing, joyful.

When we crossed the finish line, there wasn’t a grand parade—just the quiet completion of something that mattered. We took a picture, medals around our necks, damp hair stuck to our foreheads. And then we found breakfast—thick pancakes, orange juice, and the satisfaction of having done something brave before most people had even woken up.

Later, I told Windy what I hoped she would always remember: that running can be hers forever. A private ritual or a public celebration. A way to move grief or call in joy. A reason to rise before dawn and remember that the world is still full of quiet miracles.

That morning in Blue Ridge, we ran our way into memory. Into bond. Into a deeper understanding of who we are and what we carry forward. Windy’s first 5K was never just about a race—it was about freedom. About a girl discovering what she can do, and a mother giving her the space to do it—even if it meant holding contradictions. Even if it meant holding the flag.