Part I
The Quiet Hour
There is a quiet hour before the world fully awakens.
It is my favorite part of the day.
The house is still.
The notifications have not yet begun.
The calendar has not yet started making demands.
Outside, the first light slowly begins to replace the darkness.
Inside, another kind of awakening quietly takes place.
For many years I believed I woke up early simply to go for a run.
Looking back now, I realize that isn't true.
I wake up early because I need a few moments to remember who I want to be before the day asks me to become everything everyone else needs me to be.
Running happens later.
The ritual begins long before the first mile.
Like many people, there was a time when running drifted in and out of my life.
It always seemed to return whenever I entered a new decade.
Almost as though each chapter of life quietly invited me to rediscover it.
In my twenties.
Again in my thirties.
Again in my forties.
Each return taught me something new.
But none of those seasons lasted.
Only after turning fifty did running stop feeling like exercise and begin feeling like part of who I am.
Sometimes life gently guides us toward what we need.
Other times it interrupts us.
In August of 2022, an unexpected medical event became one of those interruptions.
Moments like that have a way of changing our perspective.
They remind us that our health is not something to be assumed.
It is a gift.
Recovery gave me more than renewed appreciation for my body.
It gave me clarity.
I realized I didn't want movement to be something I occasionally returned to.
I wanted it to become one of the quiet disciplines that shaped my everyday life.
Nearly four years later, it still is.
People sometimes ask why I run.
The simplest answer would be because it keeps me healthy.
That answer is true.
It is also incomplete.
I run because running creates a conversation between my mind and my body.
It reminds me that both deserve attention.
Both deserve care.
Both deserve gratitude.
When I finish a run, I almost always feel more patient.
More focused.
More optimistic.
Not because running solves my problems.
Because it changes the way I return to them.
Over time I have discovered that running makes me a better architect.
A better husband.
A better father.
A better son.
Not through dramatic transformation.
Through small, almost invisible improvements repeated day after day.
Perhaps that is how most meaningful change happens.
Longevity has become one of my quiet aspirations.
Not because I fear growing older.
Quite the opposite.
I hope to grow older with strength, curiosity, and gratitude.
If life grants me one hundred years, I want those years to be lived fully.
Not simply counted.
Running has become one of the ways I honor that hope.
Not to prove anything.
Not to compete with anyone.
Only to become the healthiest steward I can be of the life I have been given.
Before every run, there is another ritual.
Gratitude.
Before I stretch my muscles, I try to awaken my mind.
Before I think about pace or distance, I remind myself that simply being able to run is already a privilege.
I am grateful for my legs.
For my lungs.
For my heartbeat.
For the opportunity to step outside and move.
For the family waiting for me at home.
For another morning I did not earn but was graciously given.
Only after that conversation do I begin preparing my body.
Looking back, I realize I always awaken my mind before I awaken my muscles.
That sequence matters.
Because life is rarely transformed by what we do first with our bodies.
It is transformed by what we first choose to cultivate in our hearts.
Depending on the day ahead, the ritual changes slightly.
Most weekday mornings begin with a shorter run.
Longer weekend runs ask for more preparation.
A little honey.
Some carbohydrates.
Electrolytes.
Sometimes a small cup of coffee.
Lately, I have enjoyed experimenting with cold brew before heading out.
But interestingly, coffee is not always part of the ritual before I run.
Most weekdays, I prefer to enjoy it afterward.
That surprised even me when I first realized it.
Because I discovered something important.
Coffee is not simply fuel.
It marks a transition.
Sometimes it prepares me for movement.
Other times it becomes the quiet reward that allows me to reflect on what the run has just given me.
In both cases, it serves the same purpose.
It creates space between one moment and the next.
I often think that architecture taught me something similar.
Every meaningful building prepares us before we reach its destination.
A courtyard prepares us before entering a home.
A shaded walkway prepares us before arriving at a garden.
A staircase slows us before revealing the next floor.
Transitions matter.
Running has taught me the same lesson.
The first mile does not begin when my foot touches the road.
It begins much earlier.
It begins with stillness.
With preparation.
With gratitude.
With intention.
The miles simply reveal what those quiet moments have already begun to build.
Part II
The Conversation Between Movement and Stillness
The first mile is always a conversation.
Not with the road.
With myself.
Before my body settles into its rhythm, my mind quietly takes inventory.
How do I feel today?
Am I rested?
Am I distracted?
What kind of run is this going to be?
What do I need to adjust?
Those first minutes are less about physical effort than they are about honesty.
Running has taught me that pretending rarely lasts very long.
Within the first mile, my body always tells the truth.
Some mornings feel effortless.
Others require patience.
Both are equally valuable.
Because every run begins exactly where I am, not where I wish I were.
There is something deeply liberating about that.
The road asks only one thing of me.
To begin.
By the third or fourth mile, something begins to change.
The conversation inside my mind grows quieter.
My breathing finds its rhythm.
The body stops resisting and starts cooperating.
Momentum quietly replaces effort.
This is usually the moment when ideas begin to appear.
Not because I force them.
Because I finally make enough space for them to arrive.
Many architectural problems have found their solution somewhere between the third and fifth mile.
Business decisions.
Ideas for TA·ZA.
Thoughts about our family.
Even sentences that later found their way into these essays.
Running has become one of the places where unfinished thoughts slowly become complete.
Not because I am trying to solve them.
Because movement somehow helps me listen more carefully.
I have learned never to chase ideas while I run.
The best ones always seem to arrive on their own.
People often imagine mindfulness as complete silence.
That has not been my experience.
My mind is often very active while I run.
I reflect.
I plan.
I revisit conversations.
I imagine possibilities.
I think about architecture.
About TA·ZA.
About our boys.
About the life Ana and I are building together.
But something important is different.
Those thoughts no longer compete with the present moment.
They move alongside it.
I can be deeply immersed in reflection while remaining fully aware of the morning light, the sound of birds, or the rhythm of my footsteps.
Running has taught me that presence and reflection are not opposites.
Sometimes they are companions.
That is one of the reasons I rarely listen to music when I run outdoors.
Silence is never truly silent.
There is wind moving through the trees.
Birds announcing the morning.
The distant rhythm of a city slowly waking up.
Footsteps finding their own cadence.
Even breathing becomes part of the landscape.
Those sounds remind me that I am not running through nature.
I am running with it.
Music has its place.
When I run on the treadmill at home, I sometimes enjoy it.
But outdoors, I prefer allowing the world to become the soundtrack.
It has been composing beautiful mornings long before I ever arrived.
One of the most memorable runs of my life took place far from home.
It happened during a family trip to Dubrovnik, Croatia.
One morning, before the city awakened, I quietly stepped outside while everyone was still asleep.
I had no route planned.
No destination.
Only the desire to run.
The streets were almost empty.
The cafés had not yet opened.
The city belonged to its earliest inhabitants.
A few locals beginning their day.
A delivery truck.
The distant sound of birds circling above the ancient walls.
I found myself running through narrow stone streets polished by centuries of footsteps.
The early morning light gently reflected from the limestone beneath my feet.
At times I could see my own reflection shimmering across the worn stone as though the city itself were quietly running beside me.
Every footstep echoed softly between walls that had witnessed generations far older than my own.
There were no crowds.
No urgency.
No itinerary.
Only movement.
Only gratitude.
The walls seemed almost alive.
Not speaking.
Simply listening.
Every corner invited another discovery.
Every small plaza felt like a pause rather than a destination.
I wasn't following a map.
I was following curiosity.
It remains one of the most beautiful runs of my life.
Not because of the distance.
Not because of the pace.
Because, for a brief moment, I experienced something rare.
I wasn't simply moving through the city.
I felt welcomed by it.
As I ran through Dubrovnik that morning, gratitude quietly became the rhythm beneath every step.
I found myself thinking about Ana.
About Jacob and Sam, still asleep at the hotel.
About the privilege of sharing the world with them.
About the extraordinary gift of health.
About the countless decisions, sacrifices, and unexpected turns that had somehow made that morning possible.
None of those thoughts were dramatic.
They simply arrived.
One after another.
Like gentle reminders that the richest moments in life are often impossible to plan.
They can only be received.
Looking back, I realize that run was never only about Dubrovnik.
It was about perspective.
Running has a way of reminding me that joy often appears when we are moving slowly enough to notice it, even while moving quickly enough to cover ground.
Perhaps that is one of its greatest paradoxes.
Over the years I have come to understand that running is not something I do to escape life.
It is one of the ways I return to it.
When the run is over, my responsibilities have not disappeared.
The work is still waiting.
Projects still need decisions.
Problems still need solutions.
But I return to them differently.
Calmer.
More patient.
More attentive.
Running rarely changes my circumstances.
It almost always changes me.
And sometimes...
that is exactly what was needed all along.
Part III
Every Step Matters
There is a quiet lesson that running continues to teach me.
One that has very little to do with running itself.
No meaningful run begins when the watch starts.
It begins much earlier.
It begins the night before, when I decide to prepare my shoes instead of leaving them scattered on the floor.
It begins when I choose to go to bed a little earlier.
It begins with the first thought of gratitude after waking.
It begins while stretching muscles that are still asleep.
It begins with a small moment of stillness before movement.
It begins with intention.
By the time I take the first step, the run has already begun.
The miles simply reveal how well I prepared for them.
The longer I have reflected on this, the more I have realized that life works much the same way.
We often admire visible achievements.
The completed building.
The finished painting.
The successful business.
The marathon medal.
The beautiful cup of coffee.
Yet almost everything we admire is simply the visible result of hundreds of invisible decisions that came before it.
Every meaningful outcome is quietly built long before anyone else notices.
Perhaps that is why I find so much joy in rituals.
They remind me that the smallest decisions often shape the largest experiences.
Running has also changed the way I think about consistency.
When I was younger, I often believed motivation was the key.
Now I know better.
Some of the most satisfying runs are the ones I almost didn't begin.
The mornings when I would rather stay in bed.
The afternoons when work has been overwhelming.
The evenings when excuses seem entirely reasonable.
Those are often the runs I remember most.
Not because they were physically exceptional.
Because they quietly reaffirmed something much deeper.
Discipline is one of the purest forms of self-respect.
It is a promise we make to ourselves long before anyone else sees the result.
And every time we keep that promise, we become just a little more trustworthy in our own eyes.
Over time, I have also come to see an unexpected parallel between running and preparing coffee.
At first glance, they seem completely unrelated.
One asks the body to move.
The other invites us to become still.
Yet both begin in remarkably similar ways.
Neither rewards hurry.
Neither can be meaningfully rushed.
Both ask us to respect the process.
Preparing for a meaningful run is not very different from preparing a thoughtful cup of coffee.
Every step matters.
The water.
The temperature.
The grind.
The bloom.
The pour.
Just as every stretch.
Every breath.
Every moment of preparation.
Every mile.
Every recovery.
Each one quietly contributes to the experience that follows.
Neither ritual is something we improvise.
Both are carefully built through small acts repeated with intention.
Perhaps that is why I have never viewed specialty coffee as a luxury.
To me, it is something far more valuable.
It is daily craftsmanship.
Accessible.
Repeatable.
A reminder that ordinary mornings deserve extraordinary care.
People sometimes ask whether coffee and running belong to the same lifestyle.
To me, they absolutely do.
Not because coffee makes me run faster.
Or because running somehow justifies drinking coffee.
They belong together because both invite me to become more intentional.
One prepares my awareness.
The other strengthens my resolve.
Together, they create a rhythm that has quietly shaped my mornings for years.
A rhythm that reminds me that wellness is not built through occasional moments of inspiration.
It is built through ordinary days lived consistently.
Our sons have never become runners in quite the same way I have.
They have each found their own sports, their own passions, their own rhythms.
And that is exactly as it should be.
I have never hoped they would simply imitate me.
What I hope they remember is something much deeper.
That caring for ourselves is not an act of vanity.
It is an act of gratitude.
That discipline is not punishment.
It is freedom.
That consistency matters more than intensity.
And that the promises we quietly keep to ourselves often become the foundation upon which we build every other promise in life.
If they learn those lessons, whether through running or through something entirely different, I will consider them among the most meaningful inheritances I could leave behind.
When Ana and I created TA·ZA, we never imagined we were creating a brand centered around coffee alone.
Looking back, I realize we were trying to give a home to the rituals that had quietly shaped our lives.
Observation.
Craftsmanship.
Gratitude.
Movement.
Conversation.
Intentional living.
Coffee simply became the language through which those ideas could be shared.
Every thoughtfully prepared cup carries within it an invitation.
To slow down.
To notice.
To prepare ourselves well.
To begin the day with purpose rather than urgency.
Running has taught me something remarkably similar.
Every run begins long before the first mile.
Every meaningful day begins long before the first meeting.
And every meaningful life is built long before the moments by which it is remembered.
It is built one thoughtful decision at a time.
One conversation.
One act of kindness.
One morning ritual.
One carefully brewed cup.
One intentional step.
These days, when I lace up my running shoes before sunrise, I no longer think only about the distance I hope to cover.
I think about the privilege of being able to move.
I think about the family waiting for me at home.
I think about the work I have the opportunity to do.
I think about the countless ordinary mornings that, together, quietly become a lifetime.
Then I begin to run.
Not to escape life.
But to return to it more awake.
More grateful.
More prepared.
Perhaps that is all any meaningful ritual is ever trying to do.
To remind us that the life we hope to build tomorrow...
is already being shaped by the way we choose to begin today.
About the Authors
Andrés and Ana Rubio are the founders of TA·ZA Coffee, a specialty coffee company rooted in Colombian origin and inspired by a philosophy of intentional living.
Born and raised in Colombia, they immigrated to the United States in 2000, where they built their careers, raised their family, and eventually transformed a shared passion for craftsmanship, hospitality, wellness, and specialty coffee into TA·ZA.
Andrés is an architect whose work has long been guided by thoughtful observation, human-centered design, and the belief that meaningful places enrich everyday life. Ana is a nurse, artist, and entrepreneur whose appreciation for beauty, care, and creativity has helped shape both the visual identity and the spirit of TA·ZA.
Together, they believe that great coffee is more than a beverage. It is a daily ritual that invites us to slow down, pay attention, and reconnect with the people, places, and moments that give life its richness.
They live in Georgia with their two sons, Jacob and Sam.
About The TA·ZA Journal
The TA·ZA Journal is a collection of founder essays, reflections, and educational articles exploring the intersection of specialty coffee, architecture, craftsmanship, wellness, travel, Colombian heritage, art, and intentional living.
Some essays teach.
Others simply invite reflection.
All are guided by one belief:
The way we prepare our coffee can shape the way we experience our lives.
Through personal stories, thoughtful education, and a deep respect for craftsmanship, we hope to inspire a slower, more intentional way of living, one cup at a time.