Marathon Reflection

I was a few miles into one of my normal running routes, making my way across the Union Street Bridge in Gowanus, Brooklyn, when it suddenly hit me: I’m never going to talk to my dad again.

After weeks of suppressing my emotions, talking to a therapist and walking around like a zombie, I finally was able to feel and accept this tragedy. Without breaking my stride, I felt tears begin to well up in my eyes, making their way to the surface in the most natural, human way after weeks of wondering if they’d ever come.

Running was more than an outlet for my emotions; it was the catalyst that evoked them when I needed them most.

But, first, let me tell you how I got here: How, last summer, my father was murdered.

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July 1, 2023: A lovely Saturday morning was gearing up to be a big day. I was going for my first run of any significant distance after being sidelined with an injury and undergoing weeks of physical therapy. I had finished the New York Road Runners’ Brooklyn Half in my backyard a month before. I also recently wrapped up my MBA program — my mom and dad cheered for me, phones in hand, taking photos as I walked across the stage — and was looking for my next big goal. I hadn’t registered for my first marathon yet due to injury but knew, in the back of my mind, that this trial run would help determine if I’d be willing to take the leap and sign up in mid-November. 

I completed six healthy miles and was feeling optimistic about my progress from PT. I posted about it on my Strava account with a brief caption about how excited I was to return to running. It was a great day. I had dinner plans with a friend and a fun New York City staycation planned for the weekend. 

Until that night, when I received the worst news of my life. Right after I sat down at one of my favorite Korean restaurants in Brooklyn and ordered a cocktail, my aunt’s number popped up on my phone. My mom and aunt live next door to each other in rural Maryland, and I had a feeling that something was wrong. I picked up and the voices on the other end were filled with fear and dread.

Over the course of a few minutes, I had to face the fact that my dad — along with my beloved uncle and dog — had been shot and killed in cold blood in the comfort of his own home. That call from my mom and aunt came as they sheltered and hid in a bathroom, afraid for their own lives, even more terrified of the realities that were lurking behind the door. I later found out that a person who attended my parents’ church turned himself in for this seemingly random and absolutely vile act. This was a man to whom my parents had opened their house and extended kindness on multiple occasions. (The case is still open, and he is facing charges.) 

The next few hours were a whirlwind: I boarded the outgoing first train available, arriving back at my mom’s house — now a crime scene — in the wee hours of the morning, bleary eyes blinded by red and blue police car lights flashing in the front yard. The following weeks were even more of a blur. I pivoted between being the “strong” presence in our family, quickly planning a large joint funeral and all of the arrangements that come with it, and shuffling around in a complete fog. I was eating everything in sight, lying around and finding myself unable to run more than two miles without extreme fatigue and a high heart rate. I felt robbed of my breath, as if the universe was ripping one more thing from me.

But, I wanted to prevail.

—

It wasn’t a surprise that, despite tragedy, the tears were hard to come by. No one, at any stage of my life, has ever accused me of being too emotional. I remain stoic in most situations and have a hard time relating to those who wear their hearts on their sleeves. That said, in the few weeks following my father’s tragic death, I envied those types of people. I couldn’t fully grasp the loss, and I felt guilty for not outwardly projecting the sadness and emptiness I felt. 

Meanwhile, my family, which has been a rock for me, had no problem letting the emotions flow. Someone would be in the middle of making themselves a cup of coffee and burst out crying. Other family members scrolled through photos of my dad and uncle on their phones while tears streamed down their faces. We all stayed together at my aunt’s house for a while (my family’s house was going through a crime scene investigation, a major biohazard of cleaning and renovations) and you could often hear people sobbing from the next room over. 

I, for the most part, was silent.

I did one of the only things that felt right at the moment, and that was pushing myself to run and continue on the road of injury recovery. The tears still didn’t come when I started to get back into jogging but I did feel some relief from the physical exertion. It wasn’t until weeks later, back on my home turf of Brooklyn, that I felt the tears spill over and was able to work through some of the pain.

Initially, I thought that the tears finally falling during that run would be the epitome of my running and grief journey. But instead, it was just the beginning. I signed up for the Philadelphia Marathon later that day. 

—

Week over week, I’d cross completed runs off of my simplistic marathon training plan. Some runs felt great. Others felt awful. I wanted to give up, quit and go back to watching horrible, mind-numbing TV shows on my couch. But I kept showing up, no matter how subpar the session was.

For anyone going through a hard time, I’d highly recommend running if you are capable. When I was grieving, I constantly found myself holding my breath, suppressing emotion and fighting feelings to be a pillar for my family. Running allowed me to let it all out.

As I physically exhausted myself, I felt my mental barriers coming down. During runs, I’d find my mind wandering toward happy memories of the time that I spent with my dad. Reflecting now, I truly don’t think anything beyond exercising would have been able to draw those emotions out from within me.

While running was great for me physically, it also helped me figure out how to mourn because, as it turns out, a grief journey is a lot like marathon training.

Mainly, I don’t think I’m great at it. Only half-kidding here. There are a lot of people out there who are way more efficient and effective, or at least seem to be that way. Comparing yourself to others’ highlight reels, I’ve learned, is a horrible way to grow. 

When it comes to running, there will always be someone (actually many, many people) faster than you. This realization, at times, can make a runner feel extremely inadequate. On the contrary, there will be slower runners, but that never tells the whole story. Maybe they’re battling injuries or dehydration. Maybe they’re just embracing the journey. Perhaps they have completely different motivations to run. You never know.

I saw a parallel in how others perceived my grief. I was often complimented at my uncle and father’s joint memorial service or in the weeks following for seeming “so strong” compared to other family members. But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t struggling. Seeing someone in a brief moment is not a true measure of success or capacity. Like how seeing someone in a sprint doesn’t necessarily mean they’re a better runner than you, because someone is more emotive than you does not mean that they’re not recovering as quickly. You cannot judge someone from a singular moment in time, whether that’s watching them in a race or seeing them deliver a speech to honor their loved one.

Whenever someone says, “it’s a marathon, not a sprint,” I’m likely to roll my eyes at the cliche. However, the last few months of sorrow and pain have proven that to me. Grief is not linear. Some days, I had great moments. Others were horrible. I battled through a bunch of nagging injuries and bawled my eyes out thinking about my dad while on a run. I often wanted to just take the easy route out. 

To avoid quitting, accountability was key and, once again, my running journey paralleled my grief journey. Just like I needed to rely on family, friends and therapy to continue the long slog of my grieving process, I needed structure to continue to show up to runs. I joined a run club for my long runs (shoutout to Dashing Whippets) and signed up for races to eliminate some barriers to entry. It would have been easier to try to go it alone, but knowing that there were people on the other end of the RSVP made it much easier to not quit.

In the weeks leading up to my first marathon, I beat myself up. I didn’t train speed often enough or invest in the perfect gear during this training period. I battled serious Achilles pain the week of the race. My time goal was looking out of the question. 

But, that was OK because I toed the starting line and one thing was on my mind: My dad, and how proud he would be, no matter the time, and no matter how ugly it got. Even though the finish line was still 26.2 miles away, he would have recognized the progress, the months of hard work and the hundreds of miles of self-improvement.

Like every good thing that has happened to me over the last few months since my dad’s death, the race had a bittersweet ending. I had a great race, and I left standing with my head held high. I did it. I crossed the finish line and reached my goal, but I still felt a dad-sized absence in my cheering squad.

The marathon may seem like the ultimate finish line, and it was, indeed, a great benchmark. It helped me come to terms with my new reality, and connect with emotions that weren’t readily available at first.  But that isn’t the end of this story.

As I take crucial time to rest and find respite from a long training and grieving cycle, I am already eager to get back out there. I finished my first marathon for my dad, but now I owe it to myself to keep putting one foot in front of the other.