Kenosha, Wisconsin is a bit of small town America nestled resolutely on the tough windy shores of Lake Michigan. Just an hour north of Chicago, the tiny metropolis with its clean streets and charming trolley cars seems to maintain the delicate balance of preserving history and reinventing itself to save its future. As you walk towards the port, you notice shiny new town homes, expensive yachts and large green spaces.
Yet it’s clear that these things were not the original inhabitants of this space. Digging a little deeper into their history, one will find that these spaces were originally factories that used the port to ship their goods. At some point those factories closed their doors. Yet today, little Kenosha stands strong and where the ghosts of industry linger, the city has found a way to survive and succeed.
This past weekend, I stood on that same windy shore ready to run a my 33rd marathon, which happened to be in my 29th state, and for the first time in a while my dad was there to cheer me on. I stood at that line, a veteran of so many races, sure of myself, yet vulnerable at the same time. I was a little beaten and weathered after the past year of losing my mom. Yet there I was, redefining myself and my relationship with my dad after losing someone who was so much a part of both of our lives.