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Alison Desir lives in a small town outside of Seattle.
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People say motherhood changes you.
This was certainly true for me.
More than that, though, my world had narrowed.
The only thing that mattered to me was my sonhis health, his safety, his future.
I felt empowered to say what I wouldnt have said before on issues of racism and racial justice.
I remembered I had the email of the top editor at the nations leading running publication.
So I opened my computer and wrote him an email.
I said that I was writing out of fear and anger.
But a discussion about the dangers of white supremacy for Black runners had been notably absent from the conversation.
I took a screenshot of the email and posted it on Instagram.
I hoped people would see it, but didnt anticipate any sort of outcome.
I put my phone down, nursed the baby, took care of some emails.
By the time I looked at my phone again, it was on fire.
The outcry was loud and vocal, and people were rightly and justly horrified by Ahmauds murder.
But I felt mostly anger.
Where had they been?
Dont these same people read the New York Times?
In Georgia, the McMichaels had finally been arrested, almost ten weeks after the murder.
It was May 8, on what should have been Ahmauds twenty-sixth birthday.
It wasnt until the evening that Amir and I finally got out to do our 2.23 miles.
All day I kept telling myself I would do it, but something in me didnt want to.
I was conflicted about honoring his life by running the miles associated with his death.
Were we honoring Ahmaud?
Or was this for us?
Amir and I put the baby in the stroller and headed out.
We ran down 132nd to Randalls Island Park, did a small loop, and finished as a family.
As always, I gained a sense of clarity that comes after a run.
