I didn’t run for two weeks. The agonizing pain of grief stole so much of my sleep, I’ve not had any motivation or energy to do anything other than what has to be done—and I am much more busy than I have been since having kids.

I ran today and all I could think was how awful it felt. How terribly heavy my body seemed to be, thumping along in the heat. I looked up at the sky and screamed in my head to you: I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING, I NEED YOU!

You always told me I’d get running back, the way it was supposed to be—passion, not punishment. For fun. For finding peace of mind. For breathing deeply. But I don’t know how—today was too much. I feel like I’m in over my head in everything. A little bit like I’m losing control.

You’d file today’s run under punishment. I panicked after eating gluten at dinner and became disgusted with myself for not working out for two whole weeks. Grossly unproductive. I had to suddenly fix it immediately. And set forth a plan that tonight is the beginning of a lot of running and no more gluten and…

Losing the freedom I’ve been working for.

The running piece, the gluten piece, the scale piece, the piece where you and I sit and chat about life and your wisdom is always perfectly helpful…those pieces are lost and chaotic and broken.

I know what to do but I can’t do anything if I can’t breathe because you’re not here. 😭💔

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