Learning from Mrs. Santa

It’s not every day I find myself walking in a sea of red suits and white beards, but that’s exactly where I was yesterday: a 5K Santa run, organized the Rotary Club and sponsored by the company she works for. Every year we go, and while I said yes out of love and support, it always becomes a test of something deeper: my ability to let go and just be. Spoiler alert—I'm not great at it.

You see, I’m a competitive person. Even though this wasn’t a race in any official sense—just a lighthearted, holiday-themed charity event—something about seeing others breeze past me started to gnaw at my brain. That inner monologue kicked in: They’re getting ahead. Why are you walking? Shouldn’t you be running? My pace quickened, almost instinctively. Meanwhile, my wife, a picture of poise and joy, stopped to admire the high school band playing "Jingle Bells" on the street. People streamed by, their faux Santa hats bobbing in the winter sun. Not that I could ever win this race with two hip replacements. I had to keep saying to myself, “This isn’t about winning. It’s about enjoying ourselves!”

Ah, the present moment—that elusive, slippery concept. It’s been my nemesis for years. I’ve tried meditating, grounding exercises, even reminding myself to savor the breeze during a Cubs game. But the present moment always seems to be a thing for other people—like my wife, who can pause mid-walk and take in the world. She snapped a selfie of us with a blow up gingerbread man. There I was, caught in the photo with a half-smile that hid my inner struggle to relax.

The irony of the day is obvious but a continuous struggle for me. The Santa 5K wasn’t about who could finish the fastest or how many people passed us. It was about community, laughter, and sharing something meaningful with my wife. She didn’t care about keeping pace; she cared about soaking in the little moments that make life richer—like the sound of the high school band playing, the cheerful chatter of kids in oversized Santa suits, and the neighbors cheering us on no matter where we were.

By the time we crossed the finish line—far from first but not dead last—it dawned on me: the real victory was being there, side by side, with the person who knows how to pause and savor life when I forget how. And maybe, just maybe, I can learn to follow HER lead.