Part 4: Balancing the Fall: Joy that Bridges Connection

It came down to three simple, innocent words:

“Just trust me.”

Before I even knew what was happening, I was climbing onto another scooter, only this time, Kim was driving. I think it took a handful of seconds before we found ourselves in the middle of the street, on our backs, laughing uncontrollably.

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Let’s Back Up a Little

We’d just met. That very morning. I was invited to the beach by a mutual friend. Kim was there with her husband. From the start, it felt like we’d known each other for years. The conversation flowed. The laughter came easily. Being around all three of them—my friend, Kim, and her husband—was simple in the best way—I didn’t have to measure myself or perform. I could just be.

One of the first things Kim told me was that in her groups of friends where there were multiple Kims, she was always “Kim 2.” I grinned and said:

“So you’re like K2D2—my favorite Star Wars character.”

It was just a joke, I mean… Even the character in Star Wars is “R2D2” which was why I thought the comparison was funny. But as soon as the words passed over my lips her face lit up. She told me she had always felt like “just the second Kim,” but this gave her a twist—something that made her feel unique. From then on, she was K2D2 to me.

So later that same day, when she threw her leg over the front seat of the scooter, patted the seat behind her, and said, “Just trust me,” I climbed on without further contest.

My second scooter ride. My second Kim. And the last thing I expected was that this one would give me back a piece of myself I didn’t know I’d been missing.

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The Fall

The last time I fell off a scooter, it left me with souvenirs, demanding I never forget what happened—three plates, fourteen screws, and a body that felt more metal than bone. Trauma. Pain. Months of crutches. Years of learning to walk—and eventually run—again.

So when I climbed onto K2D2’s scooter, felt the center of balance tilted, and felt the descent to the pavement as we lost control and fell over, panic was my first reflex. I know it was on me that we fell. As soon as my feet lifted from the ground, I threw our center of gravity for a loop; the memory of that old accident surged through me like a warning flare. We became a self-fulfilling prophecy of a thought I’d never even spoken out loud. The thought took form through the energy I felt in my body. Because scooters were just bad news. I thought, there was no way we weren’t going to fall.

As soon as I made contact with the ground, my brain ran the scan before I could even breathe: Am I hurt? Am I bleeding? And then the irony hit.

The last time, I shattered. This time, I laughed. Hard. Flat on my back in the middle of the street, headlights somewhere in the distance, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: release. Relief that I was okay. Reclaiming a part of myself I thought scooters had stolen forever. Joy so ridiculous I was completely possessed by laughter, gasping for air.

K2D2 was laughing too—whether before me or after, I don’t even remember. We were just gone with it, like two kids who forgot the world was watching. Except the world was watching.

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The Porch Woman

Across the street, a woman sat on her porch, taking it all in—two grown women sprawled on the asphalt, laughing like fools, not a care in the world. Shortly after witnessing the whole embarrassing but hilarious event, the same woman told K2D2 it reminded her of her own best friend. She felt so moved, she went inside and called her after what she admitted was an extended period of silence between the two of them.

That floored me. What felt like a moment between two friends when the rest of the world had its back turned was unforgettable to someone else. Proof that the smallest moments can ripple outward in ways we never see.

That’s when it hit me: there’s no space left in my life for people who aren’t the “right” people. For people who aren’t a good fit. Sometimes the right ones are the people who show up for you after you’ve broken your foot in a motorized scooter accident to get you to your doctor’s appointments. Sometimes they’re the ones who run you across finish lines. Sometimes they’re the ones who fall with you, laughing until your ribs ache. Sometimes they’re the ones who get into the passenger seat of the car that you drove to the darkest corners of your mind with you and say, “You’re not alone. I’ll sit with you here until the light comes back.”

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The First Step

People celebrate the finish line, but the finish line only exists because you dared to take the first step.

For me, the first step was after I shattered my foot. And, sure, I’d run plenty before this fateful fall. And, yeah, I’ve stopped running for stints in the past and then picked it right back up again when I was ready.

But this time? This time was different. This time felt final. Like running was no longer an option for me. But then, before I was even back on a treadmill again, I signed up for that virtual 5K. After surgery. After crutches. After months of doubting if I’d ever run again. I didn’t know if my foot would hold. I didn’t know what my physical therapist would say. I just knew I needed to feel like me again.

That “yes”—messy, reckless, stubborn—was the most important yes of my entire running life. Without it, there is no marathon. No 100-miler. No story.

And here’s the thing: the people who show up for you matter. Of course they matter. But they can’t take that first step for you. Only you can do that. Showing up for yourself is what opens the door for others to show up beside you. If you never start, you’ll never know who might have been waiting for you at mile one, or mile 22, or at the finish line.

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The People Who Show Up

That first marathon I thought I’d run alone. But, then, mile by mile, people kept showing up. A stranger with an extra seat in their ride to the early start. Friends calling my name from the sidelines. My boss sending me words that felt like scripture: “It’s not about the person ahead or behind you. It’s about the ground under your own feet.”

And Maggie—my friend, my rock—leaving the warmth of her car after running her own race, running backwards on the trail just to find me, and then running me over the finish line.

Those moments—those people—still make me emotional today. They kept me moving when quitting felt easier. They showed me I wasn’t running alone.

And sometimes that’s the difference: the people who remind you of your strength when you’ve forgotten it yourself. The ones who give you back the fight you thought you had lost.

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What We Don’t Get Back

Sometimes, I think about moments I wish I’d shown up differently. The ones I wish I could run back to and freeze in time.

When my mom was still alive, she always wanted to take pictures. And more often than not, I’d say no. At the time, I didn’t want to be part of the comparisons she’d go up against with her two sisters. I didn’t want to be seen. So I robbed her of joy in those moments because I made it about me.

Now she’s gone, and I’d give anything to stand beside her, snap the photo, and let her have that joy. Not because the picture itself would fix anything, but because I finally understand what I couldn’t then: tomorrow isn’t promised.

Presence is everything. We don’t get to rewind. We only get to show up for the people who are here now—and for ourselves.

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Lessons in Fear and Failure

If I had never failed, I’d know nothing today. I failed kindergarten for not raising my hand enough to ask questions. Years later, I got fired from a job for asking too many. Full circle. Ironic. Sometimes brutal. But every stumble carved out a lesson.

And here’s the truth: I’ve never walked into the big challenges fearlessly. Not once. I go in afraid. I ask myself endless questions, run circles in my head, calculate and recalculate risks until I’ve driven myself mad with numbers that aren’t even numbers—just outcomes I can’t predict, variables I can’t control.

But courage isn’t about erasing that fear. As Nelson Mandela said:
“I learned that courage was not the absence of fear,
But the triumph over it.
The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid,
But he who conquers that fear.”

Courage is not the absence of fear—it’s the decision to continue to move forward, to act, in spite of it.

That’s the undercurrent of my life: falling, failing, recalibrating, showing up scared—and trying again anyway. Not perfect. Not fearless. Just unwilling to stay down.

And the people who show up—those who cheer at mile 16, those who run me across finish lines, those who answer the phone in the late hours of the night when the spiral is darkest—remind me of who I am when I’m at risk of forgetting.

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The Mantra

Every laugh in the street. Every stranger who calls their best friend. Every friend who shows up at mile 22. Every night when someone sits in the passenger seat of your spiral, just so you don’t ride it alone. Every picture you didn’t take but now wish you had.

Every step counts.

But here’s the sequence: it starts with you. You showing up for yourself opens the door. And then it’s the people who walk through it with you—the ones who remind you of your strength when you forget—who make the miles mean something.

Because life isn’t just about crossing finish lines. It’s about who’s beside you along the way—and the courage it took to step onto the course in the first place.

The starting line matters more than the finish line—because the starting line is where you choose yourself. Over and over again.

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Copyright © 2025 Kimberly Beth Thomas. All rights reserved.

If this story hit you, I’d love to hear yours. Share it in the comments or join the conversation on The Berbly Project. Because sometimes the reminder we need most is that we’re all running our own race—but we never really run alone.

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🔗 Catch up on the series:

👈🏻 Part 1: Beer, Bagels, and the Half Marathon Hangover

👈🏻 Part 2: The 17-Mile-Per-Hour Fall Before the 26.2-Mile Climb

👈🏻 Part 3: The Miles Between What Shattered the Hope That Brought Me Back to the Starting Line