Part One: The Starting Line I Didnāt See Coming
If you had told me in 2018 that running would become the thing that rebuilt me, I wouldn’t have believed you.
Back then, life felt heavy. I was in a relationship that was slowly draining the color out of everything.
The kind where you look in the mirror and donāt even recognize yourself anymoreānot because youāve grown in ways youāre proud of, but because youāve been shrinking just to keep the peace.
By 2020, I was tired. Tired of myself. Tired of my relationship. Tired of looking in the mirror and feeling like I wanted to crawl out of my own skin because of how uncomfortable and embarrassed I felt wearing it.
And then COVID hitābecause why not add a global pandemic to the list, right?
At first, I coped the same way everyone did: banana bread, wine, pretending to like Zoom happy hours. But eventually, the walls started closing in, and I needed somethingāanythingāto pull me out of the fog.
That āsomethingā turned out to be running. Not because I loved running. Oh no. Back then, running and I were in what you might call a situationship.
Iād flirt with it for a week or two, go for a few jogs, then ghost it for months at a time. Commitment issues. Classic.
But during the pandemic, I found these running groupsāmasked up, face shields, the whole awkward apocalypse vibeāand for the first time in a long time, I felt like I could breathe.
Which is funny, because running in a mask is not easy.
COVID courtesy meant keeping the mask on whenever people were nearby, even if it felt like sucking air through a straw. But because I was usually so far behind the pack (slow runner perks), I could unmask when I was alone and actually gulp air like a normal human being. Somewhere in the middle of all this, the weight started to lift. And, not just the physical kind. The kind that had been sitting on my chest for years.
The Beer & Bagel Run
My first official race was called the Beer & Bagel Run.
Their motto: Iām a drinker with a running problem.
I knew about the race because someone in my running group had shown up one day wearing the shirt, and I remember thinking, I want that shirt. So I registered. What I didnāt know was that this day would also mark the end of my relationship. Technically, the breakup happened right before the race.
We were in the parking lot during packet pickup, me grabbing my bib and T-shirt, him ending things like it was just another errand on the to-do list. Then I lined up and ran three miles anyway. I crossed the finish line sweaty, exhausted, clutching my little participation medal like it was Olympic goldā¦ and for the first time in years, I felt free.
Running hadnāt just given me endorphins that day.
It had handed me a clean slate.
Watching From the Sidelines
Around this time, I also started volunteering at racesāhalf marathons, marathons, the big ones where people ran distances I couldnāt even imagine. Itās a strange thing, standing at a finish line when youāve never run that far yourself. Youāre clapping, youāre cheering, youāre genuinely happy for the runnersā
but thereās this ache in your chest, too. A tiny, quiet jealousy.
Not the kind where you want people to fail. The kind that whispers, God, I wish I could do that. I didnāt even consider myself a runner back then. Those finish lines felt like a different planet. Twenty-six miles? Impossible.
Watching people stumble across the line after hours on their feet, medals clinking around their necks like armorā
they felt like warriors. I felt likeā¦ the water girl.
But that jealousy? It lit a match. It made me want more.
Brittany, Me, and the Half Marathon
Somewhere in the middle of all this, I watched Brittany Runs a Marathon. Twice. The first time, it planted the seed: Maybe I could do something like that. The second time, it poured Miracle-Gro on the idea. By then, I was freshly single, running with my new crew, and starting to feel little sparks of possibility again.
So I did what any impulsive, mildly unhinged person does when they feel a glimmer of hope:
I signed up for a half marathon.
13.1 Miles of Regret
The race was called The Leftovers Runāfitting, because it was the weekend after Thanksgiving, when everyone was still half-turkey, half-pumpkin-pie. It was cold. It was hilly.
It wasā¦ so much longer than I thought 13.1 miles would feel.
By the time I crossed the finish line, I was limping. My car was parked across the street, and I remember sitting down in the grass thinking, I might need someone to carry me to it. Likeā¦ actually carry me. When I finally made it home, medal in hand, my roommate asked how it went.
āI finished,ā I said.
āBut I will never, ever run farther than that. 13.1 miles is my limit. Absolutely not. I canāt even walk to the car right now.ā
She just shrugged and said, āYou might surprise yourself.ā I laughed. No, I would not be surprising myself. 13.1 miles had nearly killed me.
I was done.
Or at least, thatās what I thought.
Copyright Ā© Kimberly Beth Thomas. All rights reserved.
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Next up in Part Two: The 17-Mile-Per-Hour Fall Before the 26.2-Mile Climb
The half-marathon felt like the peakā¦ until life shoved me right off the mountain ā one that came in the form of a foot scooter, literally at 17 miles per hour.
From signing up for my first full marathon to breaking three metatarsals on a scooter (because of course), Part Two is about pain, stubbornness, and the long road back to running when everything tried to stop me.
š Catch up on the series:
šš» Part 2: The 17-Mile-Per-Hour Fall Before the 26.2 Mile Climb
šš» Part 3: The Miles Between What Shattered the Hope That Brought Me Back to the Starting Line
šš» Part 4: Balancing the Fall: Joy that Bridges Connection