Today might be full of surprises.

As a little kid, I had severe asthma.

Gym class at school was a nightmare. Other kids would sprint around the track, play soccer, and slam basketballs. Meanwhile, for me? Almost any kind of physical exertion sent me into wheezing spasms — tight lungs, inflamed airways, gulping for breath.

I used an inhaler filled with medication and a big, clunky machine (I think it was called a “Nebulizer”) to un-constrict my lungs so I could breathe normally. I wasn’t allowed to have carpeting or stuffed toys in my bedroom — because those were potential allergy triggers — and at one point, an asthma attack sent me into the hospital. Not very fun.

I outgrew my asthma as I got older, as many kids do. By the time I was in my late teens, I had no symptoms at all.

But inside my mind? I was still the “sick kid” who “couldn’t run.” That’s what I firmly believed.

“I can’t run. Never.”

And so I didn’t. Run, that is. Absolutely never. Somehow I managed to get through three decades of life without ever moving at anything speedier than a brisk walk.

Then one day, on a whim, I signed up for a group fitness class. The class description mentioned nothing about running, so I figured I was safe. But then, to my horror, the instructor asked us to run back and forth across the room — not far, and not long, just twenty seconds or so.

At first, I considered skipping this part of the routine. But it was just twenty seconds, and everybody else was doing it, so… I tried it. To my surprise, it actually felt pretty good. Energizing. Invigorating. My heart pounded, my skin gleamed, and a strange little voice inside said, “I think I might like this.”

Twenty seconds of running turned into two minutes. Two minutes turned into two miles. Two miles turned into my first 10K race — outside in the crisp autumn air, lapping around a gorgeous park, as my parents cheered at the finish line, applauding their (very grown-up) daughter as she claimed her “You’re not very fast, but good job for participating” medal. It was one of the happiest days of my life.

On the day of that 10K race, I burst into tears somewhere around the 4K point. Tears of amazement. Tears of gratitude. Tears of shock.

“I can do this. It’s happening. I’m doing this.”

The girl who couldn’t run. Running. For real.

This is a brand new year. A brand new week. A brand new day.

Today would be a wonderful day to shock and amaze yourself.

Today would be a wonderful day to prove yourself wrong.

Today would be a wonderful day to lace up your sneakers, unroll your yoga mat, pour that Diet Coke down the drain, write the first page of your book, say “I forgive you,” say “I love you,” or do something you previously thought you couldn’t do. Maybe just for one minute. Maybe just twenty seconds.

Today might be full of surprises.

Today is not over yet.