The 5:30 am alarm was a familiar, almost comforting sound, but for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, it wasn't a sound I dreaded.
The gnawing, gut-wrenching anxiety that had been my constant companion for three weeks had finally receded, leaving in its place a clean, sharp-edged excitement. The 6k run felt different this morning.
My legs, which had felt like leaden weights just twenty-four hours earlier, were lighter, more responsive, carrying me through the quiet, sleeping streets of London with a renewed sense of purpose.
The air was cool and crisp, and each breath felt like an affirmation, a cleansing of the doubt and fear that had clouded my mind. Today, we faced Chelsea. The team that had so brutally dismantled us in preseason, the team that represented everything we were not: wealthy, established, a production line of elite talent.
