The Love That 'Runs' Through It

When the finish line fades, love takes a different route.

I woke up this morning with a lump in my throat. My Team for Kids coach sent the final reminder email: Race Day is Tomorrow. The kind that’s supposed to make your heart race with excitement. But instead, it hit like a wave of grief. Because tomorrow, I won’t be running the Brooklyn Half.

I signed up for this race as a love letter to myself. A kind of experiment in movement, commitment, and joy. I wanted to see what my body, this body that’s been through a lot (like in a wheel chair at one point), could do. Weirdly, through this process, running became a way I connected with myself. With my breath. With the stillness of early mornings. With finding gratitude for each day’s weather. With strangers in the City who became silent cheerleaders. And most importantly, with the love I forgot I was allowed to give myself: steady, simple, unconditional.

But love, as we know, isn’t always easy. Sometimes it breaks you. Quietly at first, in the form of a dull ache in your hip. Then louder, after the Tar Heel 10 Miler, when I pretended not to notice the pain because I just didn’t want to stop. Denial is a powerful thing.

Eventually, though, heartbreak has its say. An MRI. A doctor who looked me in the eye and said, “If you keep running on this, you could do real damage.” And suddenly, I was in a different kind of training. Learning how to rest. How to accept. How to grieve what I thought this weekend would be.

Injury has been lonely. Running was a quiet companion, a ritual I didn’t know I’d miss until it was gone. There’s no playlist that fills the space in quite the same way. But I’m starting to believe that rest can also be a form of love. That protecting this body, listening to it even when it’s not telling me what I want to hear, is part of the practice too.

I’m still holding the dream. The NYC Marathon in November has been the goal all along. I’ll be there. Stronger, wiser, slower if I have to be. But there.

For now, I’m trying to sit in the in-between. To honor what this race meant to me, even though I won’t cross the finish line.

To all the runners lining up tomorrow, especially my fellow Team for Kids teammates (I see you Mary Claire), I’m cheering you on with everything I’ve got. I hope that Coney Island hot dog hits just right. Let’s get it bby.

There’s a quote from Coach Carter I’ve always loved. One that feels right today:

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure."

Running showed me my power. And choosing to stop, for now, reminds me that my worth was never tied to the miles. It was always in the love I gave, the courage it took to begin, and the grace it takes to pause.

To those who generously donated to my race fundraiser: thank you. I’ve officially deferred my bib to the 2026 Brooklyn Half, and because of your support, I’ll have the opportunity to run it when I’m truly ready. Your kindness carried me through more than you know.