Men's Cross Country | 4/28/2026 10:51:00 AM

CROOKSTON, Minn. - The End: not as a definition, but as something we only recognize once we've already passed it. It doesn't arrive loudly—it lives in ordinary moments that never feel final at the time.

We move through semesters, assignments, practices, and deadlines believing there's always more time ahead. Another paper to write, another story to tell, another season to play. But time isn't kept in big stretches like we think—it's built from late nights, early mornings, conversations, and quiet routines that slowly become memories without asking for our attention.

And maybe that's where we all connect. As students, as athletes, as readers—we're all moving through something that won't last forever, even if it feels like it will. As I look back, not just as a student-athlete but as a writer, I realize how much of it existed in those in-between moments—the ones I was lucky enough to capture, and the ones I almost let pass.

We spend so much time wondering what's next. What comes after this semester, after this season, after graduation. We check the forecast like it might finally tell us something different—if the wind will ever slow down, if it'll stop snowing in Crookston, if things will just settle for a moment. We're always looking ahead, waiting for something to change.

But in doing that, we miss what's already here.

That's something I came to realize over the course of my four years. I used to dread the 6 a.m. workouts, count down the days to deadlines, and sit there frustrated while writing, thinking, why can't this just be done already? I was always looking ahead—toward the next break, the next season, the next step—without really sitting in where I was.

I noticed it even more about a summer ago when I was injured, constantly wondering when I'd be back instead of appreciating where I was at that moment. I noticed it when I planned out my semesters, so focused on what was coming next that I wasn't even fully present in the class I was sitting in.

And then, something changed.

I stopped counting down the time. I focused on the rep I was in, not the end of the workout. I slowed down. I let myself sleep in when I could. I started appreciating the people around me a little more, the conversations that didn't need to be rushed, the moments that didn't need to lead anywhere. As a writer, I stopped worrying about the next story and focused on the one in front of me.

I began to understand that every day is an opportunity—a gift, a chance to be exactly where you are.

So slow down. Pay attention. Let things be what they are while they're still yours to experience.

So as you read this, slow down and enjoy the now. Take a deep breath. Notice your surroundings—the way the trees move without a care, the warmth of the sun resting on your skin, the quiet hum of a campus that never really stops moving. Pay attention to the small things—the sound of footsteps between classes, the crisp air in the morning, the way time feels still for just a second when you let it.

Enjoy the lunch that turns into laughter with friends, the conversations that don't need a purpose, the moments that won't come back in the same way again. Whether you're a college student, an athlete, or just someone trying to figure it all out—be here for it.

Because this—right now—is something you don't get twice.

And as this comes to a close, I can't help but see it for what it truly was—an opportunity. An opportunity to write, to tell stories, to connect with student-athletes, and to meet people I otherwise never would have crossed paths with.

More than anything, it gave me a reason to slow down. To pay attention. To be present in moments that would have otherwise slipped by unnoticed.

For that, I will always be grateful.

And like the wind that once passed quietly through it all, this chapter moves on too—without asking to be held, only to be remembered.

Thank you, Crookston.