When I first laced up my running shoes and hit the trails, it wasn’t about pace, distance, or even fitness. It was about survival. I was searching for a way to quiet the noise—those whispers of doubt, the echoes of pain, and the shadows of experiences I wasn’t sure I’d ever fully outrun. What began as a desperate attempt to escape soon became the very path that led me back to myself.
Running Through the Pain
They say trauma has a way of embedding itself in the body—muscle memory that lingers long after the mind has tried to forget. For me, that tension was palpable: clenched fists, stiff shoulders, a heart that felt too heavy for its own rhythm. Running, at first, was just a means to shake off that weight. I pounded pavement and tore through trails, each step a desperate act of rebellion against everything that had hurt me.
But as the miles grew longer, something shifted. The rhythm of my feet against the earth became a heartbeat, steady and grounding. Breath after breath, I found a cadence that quieted the chaos. It wasn’t escape anymore; it was confrontation. I wasn’t running away from the pain—I was running through it.
The Chaos and the Calm
An abusive relationship is like living in constant turbulence—never knowing when the next storm will hit, bracing for impact, flinching at every raised voice and every heavy silence. The chaos wraps itself around your thoughts, tangling them until even the idea of peace feels foreign. It’s a noise that drowns out everything else—your own voice, your own power, your own worth.
But out on the trails, there is only the sound of my breath, the crunch of gravel, the whisper of wind threading through the trees. It is the first time I remember feeling quiet—not just outside, but within. Step after step, I unraveled the noise. I let it spill out behind me, replaced by the rhythm of my feet and the steady beat of my heart. I didn’t have to brace for impact anymore. I just had to move forward.
The Meditative Miles
There’s a magic in distance running that only those who have chased the horizon can truly understand. It’s the way your mind surrenders somewhere around mile six, slipping into a place that is neither here nor there—just the present moment stretching infinitely. The long miles are like therapy sessions with no time limit, where thoughts are free to roam, resurface, and, finally, rest.
Out there on the trails, with only the wind and the sound of my breath, I learned to confront my thoughts without fear. I faced memories I had buried, emotions I had numbed, and truths I had refused to speak. I also faced the shadows of an abusive relationship—those fractured moments that left invisible scars. Mile after mile, I let the grief surface. I let the tears fall. I let the anger rage. And somehow, I kept moving forward.
Finding Strength in the Struggle
Endurance running taught me that pain is not the enemy. It’s a teacher. Every hill, every cramp, every blister was a reminder that I am stronger than I knew. That my body, despite everything it had endured, could still carry me forward. It could still heal.
I stopped running to forget. I started running to remember—to remember who I was before the trauma, who I wanted to become after it, and the strength it took to keep going when every part of me wanted to stop. Running helped me reclaim my power, step by step, leaving pieces of that past on the trail behind me. Endurance running became my sanctuary, my safe place to unravel and rebuild, one step at a time.
Healing in Motion
I don’t claim that running is a cure for trauma, but it has been my way through. It has been the space where I can feel everything without judgment, where I can confront the hardest parts of my story with the simple act of movement. The trail became my therapist, the miles my medicine. In the silence of those long runs, I found something that had been stolen from me: peace.
If you’ve known pain—real pain—the kind that sticks with you long after the storm has passed, maybe you’ll understand. Maybe you’ve found your own version of healing in the miles, too.
And if you haven’t yet, maybe it’s time to lace up and take that first step. Not away from the pain, but through it.
Magnolias + Fluff 