Inhabiting myself
Grief tried to pull me out of my body. I needed to not abandon myself in the chaos of losing John. Running helped me hold onto myself.
In the days and weeks after John died, my world was completely muffled. This lasted for months. On the fourth day after he died, I peeled myself out of bed in the early morning to head out on my run. I went through all the familiar motions — removing my pajamas, putting on my running clothes. Tying my running shoes. And I headed out into the very early summer morning.
Yes, I only took four days “off” from running after John died. That might sound insane to you. But running kept me connected to myself. And I am built for connection.
My mind was loud. No — scratch that. The memories of the last four months of John’s life were loud. My world had collapsed. There was no fixing it, and I could not wrap my mind around the new reality I found myself in.
And my running wasn’t about escaping that reality — that was impossible. It was about grounding. Staying grounded in my body. In my heart. My body, my heart, tell me the truth. Running is the threshold of perception and reflection.
It was one of the only things that felt natural at that time — to choose to move. I would show up every morning. My body responded. This matters. My brain was exhausted, but my heart was alive. My heart is alive.
When I would climb out of bed in the morning, showing up inside my own body, I would face what was there. The beginning miles would be heavy with thoughts and questions and memories. But as my feet hit the pavement and the miles rolled over, I let my heart keep time.
Love and running — collecting heartbeats.
Over the months, summer turned to fall, and I got to witness the most beautiful sunrises, morning after morning. Fall turned to winter, and I am still catching those sunrises daily.
Showing up for myself, morning after morning, has been a major anchor in what allowed me to remain inside myself. It reminded me of my agency. I feel free when I run and fully in my body. Where I remember that this body, this heart — my body, my heart — are not just merely surviving loss, but are still capable of joy, love, and forward motion.
Running didn’t heal me.
The goal was never healing.
Holding onto myself.
My life is growing around my grief.
Running kept me inhabited.