Sometimes my recollection is a series of flashbacks, so bear with me.

I first started running with my dad.

We were always doing something active–my dad took his physical fitness seriously in the Air Force. We were running or riding bikes around the various Air Force bases we found ourselves stationed at. Even in middle school, I did well at cross country running and beat my classmates at the longer distance events. I didn’t live anywhere long enough to ever become part of a team, though.

In high school, I would find myself running down the old railroad tracks near my parents’ house. Back then, the tracks were covered by dense forest; it was almost like running through a lush, green tunnel, the canopy never knowing crown shyness. The interwoven leaves provided the perfect cover on those sunny, humid Indiana days.

When I was bartending in San Francisco, I started going on short runs during the breaks I could piece together. There were two motives for taking on such a risky activity at night. Running prevented me from drinking and helped me prepare for a different dream. Several times in my life, I have endeavored to become a cog in a bureaucratic machine, as if I would make some sort of difference.

Shortly after my first marriage started falling apart, I found myself running along the shores of the bay. At the time, my ex-husband said if he had known it was the end, he would have tried harder to catch up to me.

At the beginning of the pandemic, I got laid off. The foundation was cracking; the career I worked so hard for and the life I built around it started to crumble. But I still ran. If anything, I pushed myself farther and harder. I retreated into the wilderness. The literal wilderness of the Eastern Sierra and the figurative wilderness of my mind.

In late December of 2021 and early January of 2022, I developed Post Acute Coronavirus Syndrome. Although everyone’s life came to a grinding halt during the pandemic, mine was at complete standstill with no end in sight. I went to several doctor’s appointments, trying everything I could to create some semblance of “normal”, whatever that is. During that time, I had an amazing occupational therapist, who would often suggest all the things I could work on, and I would often disregard those things and try to run. I was having blood pressure problems (amongst many other health issues) and I finally had to resign myself to the limitations of my body. My favorite thing she shared with me was that it “made sense I was runner because I’m competitive with myself.”

My grandfather passed away last spring. I missed his final moments, but I made it for the funeral. I loved my grandfather. He was the only grandfather I knew (my mother’s parents passed decades ago, so I never met them), but he was the best grandpa a kid could have. I remember when I was pregnant and I came back for my uncle’s funeral. I was saying goodbye to my grandpa and he wished me well. He told me he loved me and to have a wonderful life, since this would probably be the last time I would see him. I laughed it off and told him to not be so dramatic and that I would see him soon. He was right, though. I have and had so many regrets about the things I said or didn’t say. When I’m around my family, I suppress my feelings and just manage to function. However, that trip I had reached my limit of gatherings, grief triggered arguments, and ceremonies. I found my opportunity to escape. Those railroad tracks I ran as a teenager? They were transformed into a busy, suburban multi-use trail. My doctor advised me not to run (still in the midst of my long covid problems), but I threw on my running gear and ran at a pace I hadn’t attempted in months. I made it about 3 miles before I broke down in tears, my grief hidden by the torrential downpour.

I’m thankful for the ability to run. I know I’m not as fast as I used to be, but I’m just glad I can do it again. It is a much needed outlet—running is something I’ve done throughout the highs and lows of this human experience. Even though I also love other outdoor activities, I always come back to running. Recently, I’ve noticed certain groups shaming others for “needing the outdoors to improve their mental health or to find themselves.” I see nothing wrong with finding solace in something so sacred that ultimately leads you back to yourself. We take the little things for granted, the ability to move, or breathe, or enjoy another day. It’s not a competition; we don’t win prizes or earn medals for whoever has the best reason for being outdoors. We are in a race against ourselves, in defiance of time and senescence. Sometimes all we can do is keep moving forward.