Grief, That First Run, and the Women Who Carried Me

Editor’s Note: The following article discusses the topic of pregnancy loss—a common but often private experience that some readers may find emotionally challenging.

My dear Trail Running Sister,

If you opened this story because you’ve experienced pregnancy loss too, know this: you are not alone. There are women like you and me, from every corner of the world, who know the hurt you’re feeling right now. In what can feel like the most isolating experience — a grief that shakes you to your core — there exists a quiet, bonded community. A sisterhood of women who carry both love and our grief through the trails. We carry it together.

Flash back to March 2020: my husband and I were expecting our second baby. My 3-year-old, Indiana, was ecstatic to soon find out if she was having a little brother or sister. At the time, I seldomly ran nor did I have the desire to. Being 20 weeks pregnant, I opted for barre classes and walking. The time arrived for our anatomy scan and we were so excited to share with our friends, family and daughter the gender of this next baby. We entered the ultrasound room and the tech got right to work. What was first an effortless conversation with her, turned into her being silent and taking longer than we had expected. She left the room, promising to return shortly. An hour later, we were moved to a different room — the one where everything changed. You know that room. You know the feeling of having the news delivered, but not quite comprehending what’s going on.

“Your baby’s heart didn’t develop properly.”

“Quality of life….stillbirth….palliative care…..”

My husband and I drove home in silence, unable to come to terms with what the pediatric surgeon had told us. But what was clear, was that our perfect beautiful baby girl, wasn’t going to be coming home with us.

Five days later, I sat in the hospital bed, holding my still baby in my arms.

I left the hospital a shell of myself and didn’t know how to tell our three year old that mommy was okay, but that her sister wouldn’t be coming home. Five years later, Indiana still tells everyone she loves her baby sister even though she isn’t here.

One thing I’ve come to notice about the trail and ultra running community is this: many of us have found healing through movement after heartbreak or trauma. Within a couple days of her being born still, the world declared a pandemic and everything shut down. Counselling being inaccessible, not allowed to visit with family and friends, unable to hug each other out of fear. Without an outlet, my anger grew into something unbearable — an insurmountable pressure. Then, my old running shoes (at least 10 years old) started calling to me. I put them on and went out the door. Though I had never considered myself an athlete, I was surprised at how little I could run without being out of breath. I would wager I ran 400 meters and then had to stop and walk. I repeated this run walk motion for another half hour and then headed home. My lungs burned. My legs ached. I was a mess, definitely not the picture of a runner. But something in me had shifted. But what was reborn, was a clearer mind different pain that temporarily overrode the deep ache I had in my heart.

I repeated this painful experience of the run walk that every runner experiences in the first few months of learning how to run again. That painful run-walk became a steady jog. And somehow, over time, I became a runner — not because I had to be, but because I wanted to be.

Running with grief is both beautiful and brutal. If you have a hard time giving yourself permission to rest, please take this as your green light to take the rest. There are days when I didn’t feel like getting out of bed, let alone go for a run. If you’re having one of those days, what can you do? Can you walk to the mailbox? If it’s one of those days where even that doesn’t seem manageable, what about stepping outside your front door and letting the sunshine warm your face? Every forward motion, every step, is slowly healing you. There are times to push yourself and there are times to rest.

Shortly after Baby Googoo was born (the nickname Indiana gave her) we found out we were pregnant with our third and last baby, Ireland. Pregnancy nausea soon became crippling again and I found myself unable to run again. That’s when I finally realized what had been there all along with my newfound love for running. Community. Nature. Fresh air. Friendship. As much as the trails healed me, I had made new friends and met other moms who had experienced loss who went to the trails for some time for themselves. Opening up to these women about my experience created life long friendships and a mutual understanding that ultimately is unique to our community.

Ultimately, the theme of this story is that you are truly never alone. Reach out for help. Be vulnerable with those around you, so that we can welcome you with a warm embrace. Be gentle with yourself and do that inner work to see if you truly need the rest, be outside with the sun on your face or if you’re ready for that run.

Healing doesn’t mean forgetting.
Losing a baby, a pregnancy, or a loved one leaves a scar that never fully fades. What begins as an open wound slowly becomes part of who we are — tender to the touch, but carried with strength.

So if you’re out there on the trails, walking, crying, sitting in stillness, or flying, know that there are people around you that are here for you. You are seen, loved, and held by a community that understands.

Keep going. One step at a time.

With love,
Your fellow trail sister.