Month: January 2024

The whistle of the wind rustling through the trees. The resounding crunch of the leaves below my feet. The harmonious chirping of the birds. The swoosh of the stream as it flows over the rocks. There is a peace to be found on the trails that is difficult to match.

Running trails is fairly new to me. I had lost my running mojo. Running began to feel like a chore and I was no longer looking forward to lacing up my shoes and hitting the pavement. Running became purely goal oriented and I had forgotten the reason I got out there in the first place, purely for the sake of running. For moving. For feeling the gentle breeze tickle my skin. For basking in the radiant sunshine. For experiencing the outdoors in all the seasons. For the solitude and also the camaraderie. For the time spent in reflection. For the natural mood-enhancing benefits. For the reduction in stress and anxiety. So many reasons that I loved running and yet they all seemed to vanish when I was focused on a singular goal. Those positive experiences were sacrificed when all that seemed to matter was pace and mileage and PRs and it sucked out all the joy I had for running. I wasn’t ready to give up on running. After all, it had always been there for me when I had felt otherwise alone. But a change had to be made.

Enter trail running. Running trails is not about speed. It’s about setting your own pace while connecting with nature. It’s about immersing yourself in the natural beauty around you. Losing yourself in the embrace of the towering trees and escaping the chaos of daily life. I dropped my weekly mileage and brought some of my longer runs to the trails. Immediately the pressure to run fast or reach a certain distance was gone. The focus instead was absorbing the tranquility of the natural environment while also maintaining my footing.

I incorporated trails to rejuvenate my love of running. I did not expect to gain so much more. In the midst of those wooded havens I have felt a peace that transcends any I have experienced elsewhere. Trail running is quite meditative, helping to clear the mind of all the noise. It requires a level of attention that road running does not. The uneven and ever changing terrain forces you to be present in the moment, focusing on the rhythm of your steps as they navigate the various obstacles. The serenity and solitude allows for self-reflection and provides a safe space to be present with my grief. Never lonely on the trails though because trail running also provides ample opportunity for connection with my fellow runners.

Venturing into the realm of trail running has improved the entirety of my running experience. By moving away from the rigid constraints of paces and distance I paradoxically surpassed the goals I had previously set for myself without conscious effort. I am still loyal to the familiar predictability of the roads but the trails have become a treasured escape to which I can always return. By incorporating both into my running regiment I have once again found my joy in running.

Racing heart, beating like the loudest drum, feels like it’s going to explode right through my chest. Shallow breaths, gasping for air. Clutching my hair, feeling an overwhelming need to escape my skin. Irritability, trembling, sweaty palms, panic, heightened anxiety, more frequent tears. A funk I can’t seem to shake. A desperate urge to bury myself under layers of blankets, to curl up and hide from the world. The intensity is suffocating, and I can’t find a safe place. While no stranger to panic attacks, these recent moments seemingly emerge out of nowhere, catching me off guard. Then, the realization hits. My body betrays me, vividly recalling moments I try to bury in my mind. It remembers the day our world changed; the tumor on the x-ray, the urgent MRI, the phone call not even 20 minutes after the MRI, the oncologist appointment scheduled for the next morning, and the words “most likely malignant.” My body relives those moments; it remembers the full body shakes while trying my damndest to hold back the tears because Ariella was sitting across from me at dinner when I was hearing this information. It remembers feeling hot and dizzy and weak and doing everything in my power not panic. Trying my best not to scare Ariella. It remembers somehow getting Ariella to her dance class and then calling David to tell him. It remembers trying to hold it together downstairs in the dance studio but failing mightily while being held by another dance mom. Despite not being always at the forefront of my thoughts, my body refuses to forget the day we learned Ariella likely had cancer.

It was a Thursday (Thursday-also the day Ariella died). On that Thursday seven years ago (February 2, 2017 to be exact (February not a great month for me between diagnosis day, the anniversary of my father’s death, and the anniversary of Ariella’s bone marrow transplant)), our perfect world crumbled. The subsequent days were a chaotic whirlwind of tests and scans and jargon and biopsies and doctors and binders and information overload. But mostly fear. Fear and a complete feeling of helplessness. Total loss of control. We learned to control what we could during treatment yet remained at the mercy of cancer. And chemo. And blood cells. And fevers. And countless uncontrollable factors. In just 2 years and 4 months from that pivotal day Ariella endured unimaginable challenges, and we faced the unfathomable. And we somehow persevered. But despite having emerged from the darkness I once experienced, my body continues to stubbornly pull me back to those moments, even when I try to resist.

Typically the anticipation of upcoming significant dates or milestones has been harder than the actual day. And the next 3 1/2 months is just that. The memory of one traumatic event after another. My sentences above are about nearing diagnosis day. But we are also entering the anniversary of the beginning of the end. Ariella went into the hospital February 18, 2019 for what we hoped would be her cure. Instead we left without her on May 9 after witnessing her endure trauma after trauma. Other times of year are hard for sure. But these next few months? Nothing compares to how this time of year affects me. So. I still know I’m in a different place than previous years. And I know I will get through it again. But it might be ugly.