I don’t really remember my first run, or the rationale behind it. I think it happened subconsciously; I just found myself running one day, in a way similar to how one might find themselves doing something when the body and mind are so in the midst of a trauma that a natural survival instinct takes over. I’m sure there was actually a decision involved because I’d have needed to dress for the occasion. It’s interesting, what pieces of information we do and don’t recall.
“Running on feel” is a term used by professional coaches when they’re trying to describe trusting your body and moving to whatever it’s capable of on each given day. It’s running beyond the metrics; a hyper-attuned connection with yourself. I was both running on feel, and running to feel. It was something I did intuitively. It’s as if I somehow knew that running would be what would save me.
I had lost a baby, and I was by myself. I hadn’t told my parents – to protect them from my pain, or something – and I didn’t have the right support network around me. I sat with my grief privately and patiently, feeling a gulf between myself and the outside world as I processed it while also trying outwardly to move forwards, show up as a friend and stay on top of work. But I was suspended in time. You see, I knew I was pregnant from the minute I was, weeks before a test could ever confirm it, because I felt it, dreamed about it, even. So I knew – spiritually, emotionally, bodily – when it was gone.
Most people, women included, don’t know how to talk to you about a loss like this; a loss so abstract but so tangible, and so personal. It’s not their fault. People are often too scared of saying the wrong thing, so they say nothing at all; people also operate on different emotional bandwidths. People sometimes project inappropriate assumptions and expectations about how a woman should be feeling. Don’t do that. Instead, ask, but don’t pry. Create a safe space, and give space. Be compassionate. The reality of loss, as with most things in life, is deeply complex. Silence, I learned, can be deafening.
So I ran. Besides therapy, it was the one thing that made me feel like I was moving forwards, because I was quite literally moving forwards. Initially, it was mindless; I ran to tune out from the world and to dial in to myself. I didn’t have a running watch or even a pair of actual running shoes. I had no concept of pace or how far a kilometre was. After quite some time, a friend put me onto the Nike run app. I genuinely had no idea what I was doing.
Then I joined a running club, and realised running could be joyful. This was a few years ago now, when clubs were more intimate and before they became a meme. Suddenly, my world expanded by about 30 to 40 people. That debut club run was the first time I’d knowingly ever ran 10k. I started to build my week around it; going to bed early on Friday nights to wake up feeling fresh. I bought a pair of running shoes from On and a new pair of leggings. I started to feel excited again. People were talking about doing a half marathon together, encouraging one another to sign up. I had never paid much attention to marathons before, but it stirred something in me. Opportunity, perhaps. Optimism. Something unknown. Something new.
As an adult, and as a woman, it can be difficult to give ourselves the permission to try anything we’ve never done before, especially when it comes to sport. We self-consciously talk ourselves out of it before we’ve even entertained the idea. Men generally don’t do this.
But women are good at running. Endurance running especially. Men peak in their 20s, but women peak later, in their 30s, and it continues throughout our 40s and 50s. It’s the one metric that defies societal norms. We are told from a young age that we fall off the cliff at 30; that our bodies are a ticking clock and it’s all downhill from here. This can be a profoundly painful thing to acknowledge amid losing a baby after 30; it’s not just grieving this loss, but the loss of a potential future for yourself. I struggled with direction; I didn’t know what was next.
Running has taught me many things, but giving myself the grace to simply try has been a lesson of a lifetime. You never know what you might discover about yourself, or your potential. I’d like to say I found a sense of direction through running, but really, this purpose found me. I learned to trust myself, and to trust others. I learned to not underestimate myself. That I am brave. And resilient.
You need to be resilient to run 26.2 miles. I have, by now, ran five full marathons, in New York, Chicago, London and Berlin. A race offers a sense of accomplishment that’s entirely ours, and isn’t reliant on what society deems worthy of praise. A medal is physical proof of the achievement. It’s intentional and it’s important. I’ve done things I never dreamed I would, and have travelled the world to do so. I’ve run 75km as part of a non-stop team relay through France; I’ve run in Yellowstone and Palm Springs and the Alps. Sport can give you the freedom to have wild ambitions, if you just allow it.
Trails uncharted, territories unknown – but forging ahead nonetheless. This accidental hobby has become my life and a deeper metaphor. Go further. Aim higher. Don’t settle. Find the meaning. I was always supposed to end up here, with these beloved women who I stand next to, and run alongside, every week. We lift each other up. We empathise. We listen.
A gift. That’s how I feel about my loss. Souls together for a very short time, but with life-changing impact. A fleeting existence became a beautiful legacy. I found myself; transformed myself, even. Last summer, I ran alone down a country road in the pitch of night, somewhere in the south of France. It was too dark to see the road stretched out in front of me, but I knew it was the right one. I looked at the sky. The moon was full, and Venus shone. My footsteps punctuated the silence. I’ve never felt so present, and at peace. Alive.
Grace Cook is the creator of Salty, a weekly newsletter about sport and culture.