There are runs that feel like movement, and then there are runs that feel like reckoning. I didn’t know it when I laced up that morning, but this would be the latter.
I’d been trying to reconnect with running in this new season I’ve been thrust into, and on a stunningly perfect fall day — crisp air, golden sun, not a cloud in the sky — I decided to drive 30 minutes out to one of my favorite trails. It’s not a particularly hard one, but it winds along the shore of Percy Priest Lake, quiet and peaceful, and I thought maybe a change of scenery would be the spark I needed.
I had 2.5 to 3 hours on the schedule. The trail is only 8 miles long, but I figured I’d loop back to the car halfway, grab fuel or water if needed, and tack on the rest. If I felt good, I’d push to 16. If not — well, I’d see.
The Setup: A Perfect Day, A Heavy Heart
The long sleeve and shorts combo was perfect, and I quickly peeled off my thin gloves. The weather couldn’t have been better. I told myself that today, the only goal was to end the run on a happy note — however long that took. If I felt joy at mile 2 or 15, I could stop then. Just get to that feeling.
But even a mile in, the magic of the trail wasn’t working. Not really. The scenery, the air, the light filtering through the trees… I tried to feel gratitude, but it all landed flat.
I started playing a game with myself — focusing on the way sunlight hit the leaves, the soft rustle of the wind — trying to anchor myself in something. Anything. But I could feel the dread creeping in.
Running Has Nowhere to Hide
I’ve never been a headphones runner — a fact that tends to horrify people. But running has always been a form of therapy for me. A moving meditation. A time to be alone with myself in a world that constantly demands stimulation.
It’s where I sort through thoughts, ask the big questions, get honest with myself. And that’s exactly what happened.
About 30 minutes in, I realized that was my undoing.
In almost every other part of my life, I can distract myself. I can scroll. I can throw myself into work or cleaning or Instagram. I can convince myself that this new life — pregnancy, motherhood — is something I’m ready for.
But on this trail, with nothing but the sound of my footsteps and breath, there was nowhere left to hide.
Truth That Demands to Be Felt
The thought caught in my throat before I could even finish it:
I don’t want this. I don’t want this life.
It was too big to swallow, too heavy to run with. My breath caught. I stopped mid-stride, moved to the side of the trail, and tried to breathe through it. In for four, out for four. Again. Again. Then I started running again, briefly, before the truth hit even harder.
This wasn’t something I could breathe through. This wasn’t something I could “process later.” This feeling demanded to be felt — here and now.
Meditation, Mantras, and Sitting With It
At most, it’s 10 yards from where I stopped to the rock I sank onto. The tears were already falling.
The trail is usually quiet this far in, and for that I was thankful. I imagine anyone passing by thought I was simply enjoying the view — the sparkling water, the golden leaves, the warm sun on my face.
But inside, I was unraveling.
I let the tears come. I let the truth I’d been outrunning catch me. I finally turned inward — the very thing I’d been avoiding — and let myself feel it all.
For the first time since I saw that second pink line two weeks earlier, I admitted it:
I’m scared.
I’m absolutely terrified.
I’m afraid I’ll be a bad parent.
I’m afraid I’ll lose myself.
I’m afraid my life is already slipping through my fingers, and that I can’t stop it.
I’m afraid I don’t want this — and that it’s happening anyway.
That was my truth. Not the forever truth, not the whole truth, not the final truth. But my truth in that moment.
And then came my mantra:
I forgive the past. I release the future.
Over and over again.
I forgive the past. I release the future.
Until eventually, I added the third line:
I honor this present moment exactly as it is.
I don’t know how long I sat there, but eventually the rock started to dig into me and the cold sweat clung to my back. I asked the universe for peace. For clarity. For maybe, someday, joy. For now, peace.
Coming Back Hollow and Lighter
I ran another 10 minutes before my legs began to feel heavy. I skipped my gel — my favorite brand was out, and the backup kind turned my stomach. I turned around just shy of 4 miles.
I walked the technical parts. I wanted to walk the whole way back, honestly. I wanted to give up on the run entirely. But after doing the math on how long that would take, I ran simply because it was faster.
I made it 7 miles — not the 16 I set out to do, but more than I thought I’d finish.
I felt lighter, like something had been released. But I also felt hollow.
Meditation is incredible for identifying what’s going on inside me. Running, too. But sometimes I’m left asking:
Now what?
Now that I know what I’m carrying, what do I do with it?
And maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe the knowing is enough. For now.
If you’ve ever felt emotions that don’t “match” the moment, you’re not alone. Sometimes joy and grief walk together. Sometimes love is complicated. Sometimes the most honest thing we can do is let ourselves feel it all.
