Devon took up jogging because a doctor suggested movement might help his anxiety. The first morning, his lungs burned, his legs protested, and his mind screamed, Turn around. Each footstep sounded like a drumbeat of doubt.
Halfway up a small hill, he slowed to a shuffle and muttered, “This is pointless.” Then, almost by accident, another sentence slipped out: “Thank You that I can still move.” The words surprised him. He tried again on the next hill. “Thank You for this breath. Thank You for this day.”
Soon, every run became a string of simple thank-yous in rhythm with his stride. When worry shouted, gratitude answered. Some days he barely made it around the block, but he noticed something: though his pace was slow, his panic was slower.
He began to call his route “the praise path.” Neighbors saw a man in worn shoes, earbuds in, circling the neighborhood. They didn’t see the battle in his chest—the shift from dread to trust, from spinning thoughts to steady breaths.
The problems that drove him outside didn’t disappear overnight. But now, when his heart raced, he had a response: keep moving, keep thanking, one step, one sentence at a time. Exercise had become more than cardio; it was worship disguised as a workout.
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