As I looked down at my feet the other day, a wave of nostalgia and surprise washed over me.

 Holes were starting to form in the toes of my nearly two-year-old running shoes. Dirt had seeped into the soles, forcing the bottom to fade to a dull white. I couldn’t believe it; they still seemed so new to me. On the other hand, we have been on quite a journey together.

In the summer of 2012, I decided I was going to run a half marathon that coming fall. The tennis shoes I had were completely deteriorating, and I was left running in my sister’s shoes. Finally, I went shopping. I browsed through different brands, sizes and colors. Just when I thought I wasn’t going to find anything, I turned my heard and I saw them. They were on display — bright pink Nikes with gray laces and a purple swoosh. I bought them and left happy, eager to start running.

Our first few weeks together were rocky. Blisters covered my feet and my arches ached every time I took them off. It took a little time, but we got used to each other.

Race day was a crisp October morning, and I laced up my shoes feeling nervous and excited. The 13.1 miles were rough, but we made it through alive. Every time I looked down during those two and a half hours, my little pink shoes were smiling up at me, making the journey a little more bearable.

Since the half marathon, my shoes have accompanied me many places. They’ve trudged through fresh mud after it’s rained and gone on countless walks with my mom and I around the neighborhood. Even though the color of the soles has started to fade, the pink is still vibrant as ever. They may not have reached retirement age yet, but I have a feeling I’ll be wearing them until my toes are bursting out of the tops.