Today’s run in the park turned into something far more profound than just exercise.

As I jogged past a father teaching his son how to do pushups, I paused mentally to admire the dynamic between them. The father guided with intention, balancing between teaching and letting his son figure out the effort on his own. It struck a chord deep within me. I’ve never truly savored such a father-son relationship myself—my memories are fleeting, like the time my dad asked me to lift bricks on the terrace. Perhaps, unknowingly, I was doing bicep curls, yearning for a sense of strength beyond the physical. Back then, buying dumbbells was a luxury we couldn’t afford, but the experience shaped me with an understanding that strength can be built from simplicity.

A little farther, I saw a grandpa in his sixties sitting under a tree, facing the shimmering water, scribbling something in his diary. The sight filled me with both admiration and longing. What stories and wisdom might be filling those pages? How does one reach a stage where peace is found in slowing down, sitting quietly under the shade of nature, with a cool breeze carrying fleeting thoughts? I wonder if I’ll ever get there—if life’s experiences will someday gift me the grace to pause and simply be.

Then came the runners. Some glided like the wind, so smooth it seemed effortless. Others fought through every stride, their determination etched in their faces. I found myself respecting the latter even more—for the courage it takes to face discomfort head-on, leaving behind the comfort of a warm bed to tackle something so physically demanding. Watching them, I couldn’t help but think: Will consistency transform their struggle into grace someday? Will they, too, learn to run like the wind?

As for me, I tackled my own run. My legs ached, my breath was ragged, but I pushed forward, determined to complete my 5 km goal. Why else would I wake up early, brew a hot black coffee, and step out into the glorious morning? That sense of accomplishment was my reward, and I treated myself to a fresh coconut water right outside the park gates. Never before had I enjoyed a drink as deeply—I think it tasted sweeter not just because it was delicious, but because I felt like I truly earned it.

And that got me thinking. Isn’t life made up of these small, seemingly insignificant moments that somehow carry the weight of meaning? A father guiding his son, words filling up a diary under a tree, runners chasing the wind, the satisfaction of a well-earned reward. Maybe happiness isn’t in grand gestures or monumental milestones. Maybe it’s in appreciating the beautiful simplicity of small wins, fleeting connections, and quiet reflections.