As soon as 2 days after Charles’ suicide in June 2015, I went for my morning run.
Numb and shocked, carrying the weight of grief in every limb, I forged out on the trail to find relief.
Yes, I was a mess.
No I didn’t want to go.
But I did.
Good God this hurts.
It was how I had coped before he died and now it had to be how I coped after. Standing still, the grief would consume me. That first week, my running path buddies stopped and hugged me. I ached and I cried and carried my ugly, … Read more...