There’s this moment that happens when you’ve been treading emotional water for too long. When the world feels like an endless tide pulling you under—no breaks, no boats, no signs that anything… or anyone… is coming to save you. No guarantee that anybody even realizes you’ve been missing—let alone that they’ll start searching.
You’re just… floating. Surviving. Trying not to drown in the weight of it all.
And then, your foot brushes something solid. Not enough to stand on. Not at first. Just enough to make you question if it’s real. But you try again—and it is. A rock. A moment. A person. Something that steadies you in the middle of all that water. Something that says, You’re not crazy for being tired. You’re not invisible just because you’re struggling.
He wasn’t a lighthouse. He wasn’t a rescue boat. He was a rock.
One that disappeared with the rising tide and reappeared just when I was about to let go. He didn’t save me—but he held me. Even for a moment. Long enough to breathe. Long enough to feel seen.
And maybe that’s what grace looks like. Not permanence—but presence. Not a guarantee—but a glimpse.
He was the sidewalk side of the street. The man who instinctively moved closest to traffic when we walked, who didn’t announce his protectiveness but lived it. The kind who draped his jacket over my shoulders when I was cold without asking, like it was second nature. He made menu suggestions—things he knew would help during my race—and let me take the lead without ever making it feel like a compromise. It wasn’t about sacrifice. It was about care. Thoughtfulness. Quiet support. He looked at me—food on my face, sweat on my skin, exhaustion in my eyes—and never once did I feel disgusting. I felt wanted. I felt beautiful.
He touched me without rushing. Held me when my body was shaking and my mind was reliving a moment I hadn’t yet spoken aloud. He gave me back something I didn’t know I could reclaim—the feeling of being safe in my own skin.
Our flirtations lived in the thumbs-up emoji. What started as a sarcastic jab at its passive-aggressive energy turned into a running joke. And somehow, it became one of the most meaningful things he could send. It was his way of flirting with me—dry, ironic, weirdly tender—and I always felt it when it landed. He gave me a meet-cute. He gave me what was basically a scene from a movie, but in the middle of real life. Basically everything and nothing at the same time. Basically not nothing. It was our way of saying: We know this has more meaning than either of us is saying out loud. Even though when it breathes, the exhale is undefined.
In a way, he had been my 100-mile race. Not in running stamina, but in emotional stamina. Not in finish lines, but in the pain, the persistence, and the grit it took to have enough belief in myself to keep going. Because when life was trying to show me the total sum of the miles I had left, he reminded me to focus on the steps I was taking—meeting each one, increasing my distance every time I was brave enough to keep moving forward.
During my 100-mile race in Chicago, I faced challenges I didn’t even think to train for. At mile 3, I got stung by bees—a full-blown allergic reaction I had to manage for 15 miles. Three hours in, unexpected heat picked up, making it difficult to stay hydrated. At mile 32, I started vomiting. I didn’t stop until I DNF’ed at mile 65.97. More than 30 miles of the race, my body rejected everything I gave it. But still—I kept moving. I kept showing up.
Because I wasn’t just running a race I had trained for—I was surviving one I hadn’t.
I wasn’t just learning how to step into ultra running—I was learning how to have my own back.
How to show up for myself in moments I didn’t think were survivable.
How to advocate for myself, because somewhere in my training, I’d learned how to love myself enough to stop apologizing for doing what’s best for me.
That’s what loving him felt like.
Unpredictable. Unplanned.
An accident I was being intentional about.
A love transformation in motion.
The race taught me endurance. And sure, you could say that my DNF was my moment of surrender. But from my view? I could’ve stopped at mile 3. To me, pain doesn’t always mean it’s time to stop. Sometimes it means it will cost you everything not to keep going.
What I first called a failure, I now see as one of my greatest accomplishments. Because it was never about the finish line. It was about how my growth unfolded along the journey. How not finishing that race helped me finish something inside myself.
And that’s what he was to me. He was the journey that needed to unfold so I could learn what it meant to love bravely.
To hold space without needing control.
To know that loving someone didn’t require them to become mine.
To sit in uncertainty and still offer softness.
To see flaws and not flinch.
To stay open, even when shutting down would’ve been easier.
I wouldn’t be who I am if I hadn’t met him.
He was the one who told me there were no bad parts of me—even after I’d sent him several text messages so unhinged and emotionally obscure they belonged in a Netflix docuseries. The one who read my chaos, didn’t flinch, and still invited me in.
At times, he let me be a lot—without making me feel like I was too much.
His presence, imperfect and uneven as it was, mattered more than he probably thought he deserved.
Maybe that was our shift.
Maybe this is my clarity.
This is how I loved him.
Bravely.
Whether he chose me or not.
© 2025 Kimberly Beth Thomas. All rights reserved.
This piece came from a love I didn’t know how to carry—a love that felt like holding my breath underwater and trying to call it beautiful. Sometimes the hardest part isn’t losing someone, but loving them while knowing they might never stay. Have you ever felt that? I’d love to know your thoughts.