The Gift You Didn’t Know You Needed
Sometimes those gifts are a genuine wrapped-up-in-gold paper-shake-it-and-try-and-guess-what-it-is-surprise.
The week had started out strong, but a visit to my parents to take my dad out for coffee hadn’t gone well. Alzheimer’s is a thug. It muscles its way in, takes up space, and gradually shuts down the volume of personality. Aggressively tearing down memories of children, grandchildren, holidays, and events. Stealing the joy of a shared private moment, scourging the brain of the ability to make and follow a conversation.
Alzheimer’s coupled with vascular dementia is awful.
I left demoralised and with the feeling of having become the parent. Having a parent trusting you to take care of them when it should be the other way around, it’s uncomfortable.
The Therapy
Huffing and puffing my gym gear and laptop down next to my husband at his desk, it took me exactly 5 minutes before I announced, “that’s it, I’m going for a run.”
And out it all came. The emotion, the anger, the acknowledgement that this feeling of weighty gloom wasn’t hormones, wasn’t a late night, it was sadness. I was sad and that was ok.
With nothing to distract me, just the pounding rhythm of my feet and the sound of my breathing, I let it all wash over me. Just half an hour of what some might call mindfulness or meditation, but what I call silent prayer.
And not always silent — those unvoiced fears and frustrations — they form as much a prayer to me as any theological meditation.
Your restless, angry heart — it needs an outlet.
Running As A Gift
Now, as a runner, you’ll know we do NOT stop talking about running. Like so many sports, there’s almost a religious quality to the worship of putting one foot in front of the other.
But while I relate to that, it’s not how I view my running. Not as an idol to be worshipped, but instead the most unlikeliest gift I could ever receive. On a par with my husband receiving a briefcase for his 15th birthday — unexpected and somewhat baffling.
Out of my window right now, I can see the green freshness of the South Downs. Packed with trails to run, woods to explore and coming to an abrupt halt at the edge of the cliffs, I love this part of the world.
My 12-year-old self would beg to differ.
Packed off to run the hills in PE, we shivered and plodded our way up steep, flinty ascents, fell down rabbit holes, and frequently got lost. As an unfit, slightly overweight, shy kid — I loathed it. Coming last every time was a weekly humiliation I dreaded. It felt tortuous, unnecessary, and downright cruel.
Even the encouragement of a kind teacher who mentioned she admired my determination to finish did nothing to lift the mounting fear and anxiety of Tuesday morning PE.
As soon as was humanly possible all sporting and exercise came to a crashing halt, thanks to the shinier offerings of parties, friends, and alcohol.
How It Began
Flash forward a couple of decades and I’m standing on a bridge in Geneva and looking out across The Arve river crashing and twisting its way over rocks and boulders far below me.
It’s probably around March and Spring hasn’t quite sprung, there’s a dampness to the air and I’m shivering. At home, my newborn is probably grizzling for food, while my toddler runs amok. I’m depressed and for the briefest of seconds, I think how nice it would be to not exist.
Then I run on, determined to finish week two of Couch To 5k which, by the way, I hate pretty much every second of.
Weeks later, I’m laughing and running with friends who keep me accountable to weekly meetups. Months later, I enter my first race, and years later, I complete the London Marathon. I am an actual runner.
And as I reflect back today after that angry, mental health run, I think about that journey. From the kid full of shame about their body to the new mum feeling overwhelmed on the bridge and I realise — running is a gift.
If you’d asked what I wanted, I would never have asked for running, but in that silent prayer for help, that’s what I got.
What does running mean to you? I’d love to know.
