There are little things in life that matter. Routine. Habit. Hobby. Things that if one is missing something feels a little off balance.

Unfortunately running really isn’t that popular in Istanbul. The only intentional exercise I see people doing outside takes place at parks where there are a variety of ‘weight’ machines with zero resistance. You could do a hundred bicep curls without breaking a sweat, yet people here actually use them pretty seriously. No joke. Thus said- my experiences running through the crowded city streets have not been that enjoyable. It’s not hard to tell by the scornful distaste displayed on faces that an American female running around town isn’t necessarily a common scene. In the neighborhood I lived in when I first arrived, I found a path along the Bosphorous so running wasn’t that bad. However, running in my new neighborhood -regarding the above details- is impossible. I feel like I’m the exhibit in a zoo, so I’ve avoided it at all costs. This loss of something that my routine has been shaped around since high school slowly began to sneak its effects into my system. Crabby attitude. Difficulty sleeping. Lower energy. Each conversation with my mentor has gone something like: Are you able to run? No. Hmmm maybe you should run.

Whoever knows me knows that if there is ever a moment that I’m not singing, something must be wrong. There is always a song in my heart. Ones I know by heart or ones I know only the first line of and then make up the rest -much to my sister’s chagrin. It’s a habit I cannot break. Regardless, singing brings me immense joy. In fact, if I had to choose one thing to do for the rest of my life, it would be to sing. For Him. Boy- heaven is going to be a blast!

Any and every excuse to bake I jump at the opportunity. I’ll often unwind by emptying my cupboards and see what I can create with the contents. Sometimes I even trade my baked goods for physical labor- example: men moving furniture into our apartment and promising them brownies in return. They think they’re getting the good end of the deal. Wrong. it’s me. I win. Because I get to bake. In my kitchen I can breathe and I can have control and I can use my hands… I could get all poetic and write a whole page about the magic that happens whenever I have a whisk in my hand, but I’ll spare you. The point of the matter is baking has been and will be a staple hobby of my life.

If I were to make a coat of arms to share who I am, three of the four sections would be
1. Running 2. Singing 3.Baking

(The 4th section would be People- I’ll write another post on that later)

Why am I sharing this? Because as flexible and adaptable I try to be, sometimes some things simply cannot change in order to serve at full capacity.  And I realized it only when one day this past week I was overwhelmed by how after being here for three months I had never felt as fully transitioned as I did in that moment. Key things that changed for me to feel like ‘myself’:

1. I joined the gym across the street (separate floors for men and women)
2. I began serving by leading worship at my international church of 20 beautiful new sisters and brothers
3. Because of the holidays, my oven has had many excuses to be regularly set at 350 degrees F.

Before coming overseas I was encouraged to write a list of ways to practice self-care.
The little things do matter, and I think I can finally check them all off now.


The Comeback


For all you athletes, we know this dreaded acronym stands for Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation. It  works when obeyed. However, both the trainer and the athlete know all of the above might be followed except for the R. Rest is hard. One of the main reasons for injuries is lack of rest, so if that’s a problem to begin with, habit and overuse isn’t likely to stop. Or maybe the injured victim thinks they’re doing a good job at resting, when really, they’re still doing more than they should. I’m praying this isn’t me. This summer I was strictly prohibited from running. So I didn’t run.
At all.
Until my departure date.
The weather was perfect. There was a slight September breeze. Colored leaves had drifted from their assigned branches unto the pavement below. I couldn’t help it. It was a red letter day. I had to run.
The next day my feet felt the repercussions. Patience, Kimmy. I rested. Again.
Until London.
It’s nearly impossible to live across from Hyde Park and not go running. Even non-runners go on runs there. So I ran. Dealt with the consequences. Rested.
Until my birthday.
Everyone deserves a birthday run, right? Especially a birthday run along the Bosphorous River. Oh it was such a good run. I felt no pain. Until the next day.
It’s been about a week since that birthday run. I decided to attempt another one. It’s now the evening of this run, and my feet are in fine shape. Ladies and gentlemen, it appears to be that I’m making a comeback…