Running to Catch My Breath

After Dakota was born, I started running. I went from hating running to being addicted to it in a matter of months.

It was the feeling in my body that I loved. During a run, I could get into a flow, almost like a drumbeat. Inhale. Exhale. Footfall after footfall. With each breath, I felt strong and capable of moving my body forward that next mile or five or ten.

I had never thought of myself as a runner. I wasn't good at it. I couldn't run very far without getting a side ache and having to stop. But once I discovered I could run a mile, I thought, Well, I could probably run two. And if I could run two, I could probably run three.

How far could I go?
How much could I push myself?

Half marathons and marathons became part of my regular routine for about nine years.

Running gave me something else, too: permission to leave.

I loved being a mom, but I was overwhelmed. I had a new baby and a growing business, and somehow I couldn't justify being away from my family for work and for pleasure. But training for a race? That was different. Training had a purpose. A goal. Something I was striving toward. So those miles became my time for me.

And I loved the woman I was when I ran. Strong. Capable. Disciplined. Someone who could do something she'd once believed she couldn't do. Looking back, though, I know I wasn't just running those miles to get to a finish line. I was also running from myself, trying to get somewhere I believed I would finally be happy.

Under the obsession was an image of myself that took years to craft: a lean, strong body, a disciplined mind, a routine that couldn't be interrupted, a diet that made me feel like I was in control. There was a drumbeat to it. Diet. Exercise. Work. Family. Roles. Expectations. Keep everything moving. Keep everything predictable. Keep going.

I remember one night very distinctly. I was getting ready for bed when I suddenly became aware of my own thoughts. Food. My weight. The way I looked in a bikini. How much more weight I wanted to lose. How many miles I would need to run. How many fewer calories I could eat.

For whatever reason, that night I actually heard myself.

It was like I'd been sitting in a dark room for a very long time, that steady drumbeat keeping all the parts moving in sync, and someone suddenly turned on the light.

I saw what I was doing to myself. And I didn't like what I saw.

So I turned the light back off. Metaphorically and actually. I went to bed and carried on with my own predictability. I kept running.

I've always been pretty good at predictability. Show up. Be your usual self. Chipper. Thoughtful. Kind. Present. Patient. Positive. Even in moments when I wanted to throw something, break something, scream, fight back or just remove myself from the room. Sameness equals certainty. Until it doesn't.

In December of 2025, a different kind of drumbeat started.

It was subtle at first. Then the thumping began keeping me awake at night. Pain in my side. Nausea. Vomiting. I went to the ER. Within a week, I was diagnosed with shingles and CLL, a type of leukemia. I am incredibly grateful that CLL is treatable and can often be simply monitored for a long time. But I heard the word "cancer". And cancer had frightened me since I was a child.

My whole identity around health and wellbeing tipped upside down. Suddenly there were oncologists. Appointments. Blood tests. Information I didn't understand. Uncertainty.

And my mind did what minds sometimes do when confronted with something they cannot control. It tried to figure out how I had caused it. Did I do this? Was this the result of my emotional state? Had the stress in my marriage somehow made me sick?

I can see something now that I couldn't see as clearly then. Even blaming myself offered a strange kind of certainty. Because if I had caused it, then perhaps there was something I could do to control it. The alternative was much harder to accept. Sometimes frightening things happen that I cannot control. Bodies are unpredictable. Relationships are unpredictable. Life is unpredictable.

No amount of running changes that.

I've spent a lot of my adult life trying to escape feelings that felt like too much to feel. Some feelings take my breath away.

So I run.

Not always in running shoes. Sometimes I clean my house, fixating on the dust, the specks, the smears, the things that aren't perfectly in place. Sometimes I cook a huge meal for people who didn't ask for it and honestly don't care about it nearly as much as I do.

It's the doing. The preparing. The energy it requires. The drumbeat becomes consistent again. Keep going. Keep moving. Don't stop long enough to feel too much.

What am I running from? Maybe it's simply the feeling of being me. In time and space.

Without a grocery list in my hand. Without a plan or an agenda for the day. Without the need to smile when I'd rather sigh. Without needing to say the right thing when I'd rather sit in silence. Just me.

That had always been surprisingly difficult.

And then there's 3 a.m.

The middle-of-the-night wake-up when cortisol is firing and honestly, I might as well be dancing around a fire pit in my pajamas, howling at the moon. That would probably be the better choice. Instead, a middle-of-the-night pee can become an existential crisis.

Who am I?
What am I doing with my life?
Why am I such a terrible mom?

And my exhausted brain immediately responds:

Yes! Let's work on this right now. I'll help you sort out your entire existence before 7 a.m.

A few months ago, I could put myself into a complete panic over all the things I was convinced I was screwing up. And that panic was almost always coupled with shame. It reminded me of that night years ago when the light came on and I saw what I was doing to myself - the running, the dieting. Except this time, I didn't turn the light off.

I stayed. I let myself feel it. I let it move. And yes, there were tears. But they weren't the same tears. These tears felt more like: Thank you for finally letting me breathe.

The more I moved toward myself instead of away, the more space I began to feel in my body. My grip loosened. Eventually, I fell back asleep. And when I woke up, I felt like I had actually rested. Almost as if my body was beginning to understand something before my mind did: She's not going to run away from me every time the drumbeat gets too loud.

I used to fear anxiety. For a long time, I claimed I didn't have it.

Somewhere along the way, I had formed an idea of what a "spiritual woman" was supposed to look like. In the face of worry, family troubles, marriage troubles, uncertainty... she trusted that everything would work out. If you truly believe in a power greater than yourself, I thought, then you're safe. You're happy. Or at least you should be.

Fear wasn't allowed. Except, of course, it entered my mind and body anyway.

I'd feel it on the surface, talk about it on the surface, then override it and believe I was "cured" of it. Until something unpredictable happened and the fear returned. I think I'm beginning to understand spirituality differently now.

Maybe trust doesn't mean I'm never afraid. Maybe surrender doesn't mean I make the fear disappear. Maybe being whole doesn't mean becoming the woman who finally has all of this figured out. Maybe it means I don't abandon myself when I don't.

The frightened part gets to be here. The angry part too. The disappointed part. The self-doubting part. The strong woman and the exhausted woman. The woman who trusts and the woman who is scared shitless. None of them has to leave the room.

I still hear the drumbeat. But my tendency to immediately run from it has gotten a little quieter. In its place, there's something new.

Curiosity.

What is asking for my attention?
What does this part of me need right now?

I don't always like the answers. And staying doesn't always feel comfortable. I'm still getting used to it. But something in my wiring is changing. Sometimes I feel it in my body before I understand it with my mind. My shoulders drop. My gaze softens. My heart opens a little to what is possible, but also to what is already here.

I don't think the drumbeat is something I need to silence anymore. Maybe it is simply part of the rhythm of being human. I still run sometimes. Maybe not in my running shoes. Sometimes it's into a project, a plan, a freshly cleaned kitchen or a problem that suddenly needs solving. I'm getting better at noticing.

And when the drumbeat gets loud, I'm learning not to outrun it. I'm learning to stay. To listen.

Eventually, my shoulders drop. My grip loosens.

And I breathe.