I wasn’t shocked to discover that my grief counselor is also an avid runner. Both grief and running share a vital thread: to work through the pain of loss, you must embrace the grieving process, just as you must continue to run to build endurance.
Seeking therapy became essential as Alzheimer’s increasingly overshadowed my relationship with my mom. As her presence faded, I found myself overwhelmed with grief.
Unexpected moments often trigger my sorrow. Grief catches me off guard in the frozen yogurt aisle of the grocery store, reminding me of joyful evenings spent with my mom. It envelops me while I play with my kids, striking me with the painful realization that they will never experience her in her prime. Grief lurks like a shadow, swinging from moments of tranquility to deep, lonely despair.
In the past, I attempted to dismiss grief. I would insist that my children are thriving, my spouse is loving, and that feeling sorrow was pointless. I believed that acknowledging my pain meant surrendering to Alzheimer’s, and I refused to let that happen. I buried my grief deep within, hoping to replace it with joy and optimism, but it always resurfaced, leaving me feeling nauseous and isolated.
In therapy, I confront grief head-on. We sit together and discuss my mom — the harsh reality of her illness and everything I miss about her. After each session, I feel a bit lighter, as if grief has temporarily stepped aside. When it returns, I try to engage with it patiently, just as my therapist advised, saying, “Let’s sit together for a while.”
Poet Nayyirah Waheed wisely said, “Grieve. So that you can be free to feel something else.” So now, on days when grief feels overwhelming, I allow myself to deeply miss my mom. On those long, sorrowful nights, I picture us sitting together on a sunlit beach, her laughter filling the air as she shares stories with her unmistakable confidence. I cry — sometimes for just a moment, other times for hours — until the weight of grief begins to lift.
When I recognized that grief mirrors the experience of running, I decided to embrace my identity as a runner once again. Both grief and running require persistence and dedication.
During runs, I frequently encounter discomfort, just as I do when I feel sad in the mornings. But I can’t stop; life demands I keep moving forward. I push through the aches (celebrating Mother’s Day regardless), and I run despite the heartache (accepting that mom may not recognize me). Soon enough, I reach a more uplifting mile (my children are truly wonderful), and before I realize it, I’m running longer distances (like visiting a nursing home — I did it because I had to).
In running, there’s no avoiding the challenging miles (so many people rely on you). You can’t sidestep the pain (grief will find you no matter where you go) — you must confront it, embrace it, and run through it. Some runs will be easier than others, but with each step, I grow stronger.
The sweat and blisters serve as tangible reminders that I am alive and feeling. I am running (I am grieving).
It is during my runs that I mentally draft emails to my mom’s caregivers. I rehearse conversations with my dad about her evolving care needs. I find the words to explain her behavior to my young children. I envision discussions with my mom — the vibrant version of her from before — seeking her wisdom as I run. The lines between my tears and sweat blur, and with every mile, I shed feelings of anxiety, insecurity, and sorrow.
This summer, I completed three 5Ks, a 10K, and two half marathons. I may not be at the front of the pack, but my therapist, whom I now fondly refer to as “Coach” in my calendar, reminds me that my journey isn’t about winning. It’s about my experience, my distance, my resilience, and my connection to my mom.
Alzheimer’s may eventually take my mom, and I will grieve her forever. But I will grieve while I move forward. With every step on the pavement, I acknowledge the pangs of loss in my heart and legs.
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Summary:
Running has become a crucial outlet for coping with my grief over my mother’s battle with Alzheimer’s. Just as running requires endurance and resilience, so does the grieving process. Embracing my emotions during both activities has allowed me to navigate my sorrow while finding strength and solace in movement.