Find my footing

Find my footing

Someone once said, “If you just get people moving, they’ll heal themselves.” Anyway, I'm sold. Four years ago my mother left my father. How did I, a blind, heartbroken 25-year-old, react to this? I ran. In the six months following a tearful family meeting at which my mother unexpectedly announced, “I have decided to end our marriage,” I made serious marks.

My 3-mile loops through the park near our home in Seattle served as therapy. The hit of feel-good brain chemicals and accompanying head clarity brought on by running allowed me to overcome the sadness of my parents' separation, if only for half an hour or so.

But I wasn't always alone. My father and I were running buddies for a long time, providing each other with moral support as we trained for this or that race. On Sunday we met at a popular trail, stuffed our bags with Banana Gu, and settled in for an easy out-and-back route.

Shortly after D-Day, our conversations turned personal. “Hey, guess what I found when I was going through some old boxes last night?” I asked, my arms swinging loosely at my sides. "Those rainbow wind chimes from that street festival in Port Angeles. How old was I then, like 6?"

“Sounds about right,” he replied, laughing and walking next to me.

“I remember Mom dressing me in a pastel striped jumpsuit,” I said. "Kevin was probably throwing a tantrum, you had more hair..." Then the tears started flowing: How would I ever be able to see my parents as anything other than a unit, a team?

He made me cry every time. As we walked in sync and shared fondest memories (camping trips in British Columbia, heated badminton games in the old backyard), we celebrated and affirmed the decades-long strength of our little family. Change—big change—was afoot, but a few divorce papers could hardly rob us of our shared history.

We couldn't have bonded like that over coffee. Emotions that came easily mid-step (“I’m sorry you’re hurt”) would get caught in my throat as we sat across from each other in a coffee shop, a pub, or in the front seat of my dad’s Dodge. They sounded awkward and cheesy coming out of my mouth.

Other than my zip code (I left Seattle for New York City last year), not much has changed since then. Although Dad and I talk on the phone regularly, I've noticed that we "save" sensitive conversations - most recently one about the ups and downs of dating - when I'm visiting. Once we are reunited on the trail, limbs loosen, hearts open, and inhibitions remain in our dust.

While solo runs allow me to unwind from stress, running with pops ensures that I'm firing on all cylinders and expressing a healthy range of emotions: sadness, love, worry. After my parents' divorce, I was able to face my sadness head-on and finally come to terms with my mother's decision. The talk therapy format of father-daughter outings was and is a first-class strategy for tackling difficult terrain - minus the therapy co-payments.