Editor's note: Runner and author Emily Halnon's new book,Into the Canyon: Running, Grief, Resilience, and 460 Miles of the Pacific Crest Trail' was released on May 7th.
CNN
โ
When my mother passed away, I spent a lot of time trying to drown my sorrows. For example, stuff another pile of bills in your junk drawer so no one can see the mess inside.
A month after her funeral, I went to a friend's house for dinner. I was floating in the suburbs in the evening. Fragments of conversation floated around me, but my head was foggy with sadness. I couldn't grab anything because of the fog.
My gaze was caught by a framed photo of a friend and her mother, arms tightly drawn, in front of a rose bush in Eugene, Oregon.
pegasus books
Her memoir, “To the Gorge,'' tells the story of how running gave Harnon the space to let down her guard as she grieved over her mother.
That photo reminded me of the last time my mom came to visit me in Oregon. She posted updates on her Facebook from all three of her airports between Vermont and Eugene. A photo of a book cracked open on her lap in Salt Lake City and a coffee cup next to it. “3 hours and 17 minutes until I meet her daughter.”
I picked her up and she jumped over the terminal to get to me. We spent the weekend running along the Willamette River, visiting covered bridges at the base of the Cascade Mountains, and finding the best pastries within a 50-mile radius. She ran a half marathon. She was 64 years old. I thought we would still be together for decades. I have another 1000 miles to go.
Memories evoked sadness. I headed to my friend's bathroom as quickly as I could, trying to hide why I needed an escape. My throat tightened. My eyes were clouded with tears.
I slipped into the bathroom, sat on the toilet lid, and shoved a handful of toilet paper into my eyes. The pain consumed my heart. I took a photo of my friend and her mom. I thought of all the years, visits, and miles I had lost with her mother. I swallowed back a sob, conscious of the thin door between me and the room filled with laughter.
It was a familiar move. At work, at the climbing gym, and in line at a brewery on the north side of town. I tried to hide my sadness from others. I bit my lip and pinched my eyes as I felt tears welling up. I pretended I was okay even when I wasn't. I've learned that I rarely honestly answer the question, “How are you doing?”
My mother had been suffering from a rare form of uterine cancer for 13 months before her death. I have already been a sad girl for a long time. I felt uncomfortable having people so close to my most painful emotions. And how society wanted me to isolate and accelerate my journey of grief and loss.
Many times I have faced uncomfortable silence and quick farewells when someone has tried to run away from me. Over the past 14 months, our friendships have faded, and I've watched colleagues avoid my cubicle when I return from a trip to Vermont.
The relationship ended when my then-boyfriend wanted nothing to do with my emotional reality.
“I don't think you're being positive enough,” he said after my mother was diagnosed with advanced, terminal cancer. She had just learned that her mother would probably die within a year. The positivity felt like it was on another planet.
When my mother passed away in January 2020, I felt like I wanted to do something to celebrate her life and her bold and brave spirit. She ran her first marathon at the age of 50. When she turned 60, she learned to swim so she could attempt her first triathlon. In the same year, she jumped out of a plane to celebrate her birthday. And she overcame her 13 months of cancer with extraordinary courage and joy.
My mother felt the weight of cancer, but she still told me to live my life to the fullest. She walked the dirt roads around her home in Vermont almost every day because of her illness, despite the harsh side effects of her chemotherapy. She texted me and told me about her friends who were there and how blue the sky was above the rolling hills.
โThatโs what keeps me going,โ she said.
I decided to run a 460 mile section of the Pacific Crest Trail across Oregon. And he decided to run faster than any human before him. It was because of my mother that I became a runner. After watching her mother run a marathon for the first time, she felt inspired to run a marathon herself. I fell in love with exploring my limits through running, so I kept running.
Running a big run in her honor felt like a natural way to overcome the upheaval of her death. But when I started training for it, I thought it might be a terrible idea to attempt such an extensive run while trudging through the heaviest of grief.
The first day of training, I repeated the movements to get ready. Sadness weighed heavily on every movement. I tightened the laces, dragging my fingers through molasses. I walked out the door, wading through the mud, questioning my decision.
I headed towards the wooded hill behind my house. I let out a breath as I stepped on the soft dirt between the pine trees. My breath flowed through me like a river, finally breaking free from the blockage that was firmly trapped within me.
The soft soil gently enveloped the sound of my footsteps. The wind rustled the pine needles and enveloped me. I remember taking her mother on this trail and feeling her hot tears roll down her cheeks and fall to the ground below her. My intense longing for her was with me on the trail.
As I ran, I remembered my first marathon with my mom.
I was going so fast that I hit a wall of fatigue about half way through the race, and I felt like I couldn't go on like this any longer. As I struggled, I saw my mom jump past me around mile 14. And I was amazed at how strong her stride was and how confident she was.
I called out to her, โMmmmm!โ It was like she was five years old again, crying for her mother. But her race was so crowded that she couldn't hear me.
I yelled again, โUgh!โ
I didn't even try to hide how I was feeling at that moment. Few people do that when running marathons or long distances on roads and trails. When you stand on the side of a marathon course, you can see the true emotions of humans on display.
It's one of the things I love most about running.
Similarly, in a 100-mile race, you'll almost certainly hit a low. Few people make it to the finish line without experiencing some terrible things: debilitating self-doubt, missing muscles, sour stomachs, crushing feelings of overwhelm.
And when that happens, we don't run to the bathroom to hide our feelings behind closed doors. We face the worst of it in front of fellow runners, friends, volunteers, and spectators.
When I failed at mile 40 of my first 100 mile run, I told my crew members, “I'm in so much pain right now,'' and they didn't flinch from my struggles. They helped me sit in a camp chair, brought me quesadilla slices, and stayed by my side. They gave me enough space to get fit.
When we step to the starting line of a marathon or 100-mile race, we embrace the vulnerability that comes with distance. We understand that it may be difficult. We know that we may become running billboards during our most difficult moments. And we face that reality head on. We promise those who stand by our side that we will witness what they endure and that we will not turn away from them.
There are very few spaces that bring that kind of emotional honesty and create space for that.
I received a bereavement at work for 5 days. In this culture, your time as a sad girl with someone other than your closest friends and family has an expiration date. There's pressure to move quickly from the heart of Griefville to the perfect streets. Even though I'm not.
On the trail, you are free to feel your emotions. When I step into the forest, I shed my skin like a snake, leaving my softer parts exposed. You can let your guard down and allow your raw emotions to bubble to the surface.
I was worried that the Pacific Crest Trail Run would be too much. But as he continued to train, he found that running was one of the best places for him to process his grief. I was able to work through my sadness instead of swallowing it and keeping it to myself. Running gave me something I desperately needed after losing my mother. Things that are harder to find than they should be.
Running has given me a place where I don't have to cram anything. There, her love for her mother and the sadness of losing her too soon could spread out with miles and take up as much space as the ground beneath her feet. And above is a wide, wide sky.
Sign up for CNN's Stress, But Less newsletter. Our six-part mindfulness guide provides information and inspiration to reduce stress while you learn how to reduce stress..