This article originally appeared in the January/February 2016 issue of SELF.
I don’t race, I don’t train, and I stop before any joint pain sets in.
Time, distance, calories, music playlists and fitness apps hardly ever cross my mind.
I haven’t always liked running.
In fact, I used to do everything in my power to avoid it.
But running, I was convinced, would do me in.
It required a different pop in of stamina.
And I simply had no motivation to do it.
Then Gregg burst into my life.
We were in our mid-20s, spending long hours at a chaotic online start-up in Seattle.
Our relationship was slow to start, though once we paired up, things took off quickly.
After our first kiss, Gregg insisted that I shareexactlyhow I felt about him.
Four months later, we were engaged.
“you could go a lot faster,” he said with a mischievous grin.
Our relationship was a lot like that.
We were like teenagers, talking late into the night and musing about the meaning of life.
If I ever felt unsteady, Gregg would ground me, filling me with love and confidence.
We wanted to dial down our frenzied pace and put down roots.
That’s when Gregg decided to start training for a marathon.
And that’s when everything fell apart.
It was a bright Sunday morning in early September, about a month before Gregg’s big race.
After he’d increased his mileage all summer, this long training run was critical.
I remember thinking that Gregg resembled a statue, silently standing there with a vacant look on his face.
Why wasn’t he rushing to embrace us?
“I feel weird,” he said, his last words before collapsing.
After an hour, he was pronounced dead at the hospital.
An autopsy later revealed that he’d died of a massive heart attack.
Though he was in perfect shape on the outside, his major arteries were nearly completely blocked.
He was 39 years old.
In shock and numbness, I went through the motions of talking to doctors and tending to my daughter.
I kept dropping things.
The ground swayed beneath me.
I felt nauseous and unmoored.
And then a thought occurred to me:Just run away.
There was no plan; I knew that I had to move.
So I handed Lizzie to my mom and took off.
The wind filled my lungs and whipped back my hair as I sprinted into the unknown that evening.
My body felt surprisingly strong and fast, my limbs full of energy.
Just as quickly as that surge had arrivedlikely an adrenaline-fueled flight responseit was over.
About a half mile in, I gasped for breath.
What had started as a small side stitch was now piercing my gut, forcing me to double over.
But I didn’t stop.
So I kept shuffling forward, slow and hobbled, until exhaustion took over.
“One step at a time,” I repeated to myself, over and over.
Runs were also when I felt most connected to Gregg and talked to him during imaginary conversations.
(Me: “Hi, are you there?
I miss you, I love you.
Are you running up in heaven?”
Him: “Hi.
I love you and miss you, too.
Great job with your running.
Keep going, you’re looking good!")
Even more than my weekly grief-therapy group, my daily runs helped me grow stronger mentally.
They inspired forward movement despite the void in my soul.
Running never asked, “How are you coping?”
Running gave me a sense of control after my world had crumbled around me.
And so my grief became less of an open wound and more like a chronic, dull ache.
But I wondered: Did I really need to push myself like this anymore?
I bought new clothes for my now-toned physique.
Around the eight-month mark, eager to meet new people, I started dating.
Lizzie often came with me now, in a baby jogger.
Then it evolved into a companion for the challenging slog of moving toward a new future.
An 18-month courtship led to a beautiful wedding on Memorial Day weekend.
Lizzie, 312, walked me down the aisle.
I reached a few more milestones after that.
I got pregnant again.
And I decided to go out on my own as a freelance writer.
It’s been 13 years since Gregg died, and sometimes I still imagine us talking.
And so I keep runningno longer from my fears but to see how far I’ve come.
Photo Credit: Emiliano Granado