Running

I’ve always said that running saved my life.

What started as a “fun” way to exercise our new pup turned into something so much more—it became my therapy, my escape, my lifeline. I didn’t know it at the time, but each mile I logged was putting more and more distance between me and the truth I didn’t want to face.
Reading The Tell by Amy Griffin was like taking a deep breath and walking straight into a storm I thought I’d already weathered. I picked up the book expecting a compelling story. What I didn’t expect was to be gut-punched by line after line that felt like someone had crawled into my memories and written them down. When Amy started talking about running? I had to physically put the book down and walk away. I wasn’t ready. But eventually, I came back to it—because that’s what we do when we’re ready to face our truth.
“Denial is not a switch that can be turned off and on. Denial is a glass case that must be shattered before you realize you were trapped inside it in the first place.”(Amy Griffin, The Tell: A Memoir)
Wrong.
“As the years ticked forward, my body kept telling me to slow down, but I just couldn’t. I had two gears: Fast and faster.”
Running became my coping mechanism. 10Ks. Half marathons. Marathons. I kept pushing, stretching myself thinner and thinner, but never facing the one thing I needed to confront. I was so busy coaching Girls on the Run, thinking I was doing it for them—my daughters, my students, the next generation of strong, confident girls. What I didn’t realize was that I was teaching myself the lessons I needed to hear, over and over again. Lessons about worth. About boundaries. About love that doesn’t hurt.
He was a first responder—someone whose job demanded long hours, middle-of-the-night calls, lots of ‘overtime’ and stretches of time away from home. I was proud of how hard he worked. I justified every absence, every “odd” shift, every last-minute call-in. I believed in him. I believed in his mission. But slowly, painfully, I came to realize that I was the only one still believing. Everyone else knew—everyone but me.
And now? Even now, years later, I meet people in social settings who say, “Oh… you’re the one. I didn’t know you back then, but I knew what was happening. We all did. We just didn’t know how to tell you.”
Gut punch.
I was the last to know the truth about my own life. And all I ever wanted was to shield my kids from the pain, from the truth, from him. I thought if I kept the peace, if I kept him happy, there might be some stability—some version of a “normal” life for them. But peace built on silence isn’t peace at all. And in trying to protect them, I was failing to protect myself.
“You start off running from something, the point where it all began, and then, as it approaches on the horizon, you realize that you haven’t been running from it at all. You’ve been running toward it.” (Amy Griffin, The Tell: A Memoir)
When I finally shattered the glass case and got out of my marriage, I thought the hard part was over. But as anyone who’s been through trauma or abuse knows, that’s just the beginning. Years later, I’m still in therapy, still untangling the knots of shame and silence. Still trying to forgive myself for what I accepted. Still working to be the kind of parent my children need—reachable, not perfect.
“My children didn’t want me to be perfect—they wanted me to be reachable.” (Amy Griffin, The Tell: A Memoir)
Another gut punch. Because for so long, I wasn’t. I was too focused on controlling chaos, on avoiding conflict, on managing someone else’s mood instead of being emotionally available to my children. I see now that I was modeling a relationship I would never want for them. I was failing them. And I was failing myself.
They may never fully understand what I was surviving. Some of it I’ll probably never share. But maybe one day they’ll ask. And if they do, I’ll tell them—not to tarnish anyone’s memory, but to tell my truth…to share my story. To show them how cycles can be broken. To let them know they’re allowed to demand more.
And through all of this—the running, the reckoning, the remembering—I know this: I made mistakes. Deep ones. Painful ones. Choices in the throes of trauma that hurt not only me, but my kids and others around me. Some may never understand the decisions I made, and some may never be able to forgive me. But I hope that in choosing to heal myself, I can show others that I am worthy of forgiveness, of trust, of faith. That I am doing the work. That I am showing up. That even though I will never be perfect—far from it—I am trying every day to do better.
Little me needed the woman I am now—someone brave enough to face the demons, to speak the shame, to sit with the truth. Amy’s story reminded me that healing doesn’t come from hiding. It comes from telling.
So if you’re in a season of silence, please know this: you’re not alone. When you’re ready to tell your story, there are people who will sit beside you, hold space for you, and listen—really listen.
Running may have started as a way to escape, but now, every step I take is toward the life I was meant to live—a life of authenticity. A life of truth. A life of honesty and healing. A life I can be proud of.
And maybe—just maybe—my story will help someone else not make the same mistakes I did. Or at the very least, remind them that it’s never too late to stop running away and start running toward something better.
My motto has always been: forward is a pace. I’ve never been the fastest—but I have always been and will always be moving forward. Even if it’s in baby steps. Even if it’s one breath, one mile, one truth at a time. Forward is my pace forever and always.
Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace