Release
I haven’t run properly in years. Since 2018, if not before. If I am honest, I haven’t run properly, as in consistently, since Rob’s brain hemorrhage. That’s almost seven years.
Running used to be my thing. Not always though. It was only in my late twenties where I went from not being able to run for a bus, to running 10Km races. I loved the energy, the time alone with me and my heartbeat and occasionally the beats per minute to the tunes fuelling me along the way.
I ran to deal with emotions, to deal with tension, anxiety and bubbling depression. Running made me feel better. It made me look better too, I got fit and felt healthy. Running gave me something that was mine, truly mine, in amongst the clouds of a long term relationship.
Running helped me gain clarity, when the relationship was coming to an end. On some runs, tears would fall with each stride. Running saved my sanity when moving to Shanghai, not knowing a soul nor the language. I got to know the city’s back streets and communities intimately. Dawn runs along The Bund, the historic bank of the Huangpu River, stay with me to this day as the most beautiful and poignant I’ve ever made. As the river ran, I ran too.
I went from running 10km races, to running the Shanghai half marathon. I then got selected to run the Hood To Coast in Portland, USA. I was flying across the world for a race; I was officially a runner by this point.
Whilst living on Suzhou Creek, running along this tributary to the Huangpu River before then leading out to the East China Sea was beyond symbolic. With each run, I felt affinity with the flow of the water. On the move, in need of release, in need of keeping going, finding my way. Rivers flow regardless of what get’s in it’s way. The water is deft at making it’s way around a rock, winding around mountains, flowing and winding it’s way out to the open welcome arms of the sea.
The runs along these Chinese rivers saved me, allowing the whispers of my soul to be heard. To leave, to seek something more, something more me, on my terms.
When traveling for work, arriving in a new city, I would go for a run. I ran when I left Shanghai. I ran to deal with the heartache of my divorce. To move the emotion through me.
I ran as soon as I landed in to Hong Kong, joining a local group and running through my discomfort of not knowing any Cantonese, the fact I had landed in a city not knowing people once more, this time alone. I ran through loneliness, heartache and grief.
Rob and I then met through running. I mentioned I liked to run over a dinner with a group of people and the next day, there we were going for a morning run. It was how our friendship evolved. We bonded through the joy of running.
I loved to run.
I loved to run with Rob.
I fell in love with Rob.
We got together and we were that couple who ran together. Or more like I ran a little bit behind, as his pace was faster than mine. More so that I could check him out whilst running. Rob ran like he lived; with such beauty and grace. It helped too that he had the fittest body I had ever had the pleasure of knowing intimately. I would run behind him some days and in awe that I was lucky enough to spend time with this human.
And then everything changed.
Since 27th september 2014, I have run sporadically. My body has felt heavy, when ironically it’s getting heavier by not running. I lost the joy, my heart felt like led. My lungs felt like shattered glass, every time I breathed. My pace slowed, as did my mojo. I would go for runs from time to time. Yet felt empty. I found more solace and healing in yoga in the early days of Rob’s recovery. And as time went by, I fell out of love with running completely.
I stopped and then found every excuse under the sun to not run. As I knew what would happen. The emotions held in my body would shift. I would feel.
I would be faced with deep buried tension in my body, it would be moved, the heartache and tears would shift and flow through me and I wasn’t sure if I could face myself in that way just yet. I moved my body in other ways, somatically, listening to what my body needed. Gentle movement, going gently and lightly. I fell in love with swimming. Feeling held and supported by the water was just the caress I needed whilst moving.
Then, I unexpectedly fell pregnant. Such joy and wonder and swimming was most definitely the best thing for me. Having a baby, isn’t the most conducive to running even if I wanted to, which led to lockdown and shielding as a family, which most definitely isn’t an ideal opportunity for movement. I have been moving my body, but not as much. And the swims have had to go outdoors, which are stunning, but more of a mental health reset than exercise.
But this week, I ran.
My body has been holding so much, I felt compelled to run. Like a madness came over me. RUN. Remember who you are. Remember why you need to run. RUN. It’s all I could think about on the hottest damn day of the year. RUN. Get moving. Feel your heartbeat, feel alive. RUN. Just fucking do it. RUN.
So I ran. I joined a Run Talk Run group. There were six of us and I managed the 5km in the heat, whilst meeting new people. After so long, it felt ridiculously good to move. And then it flowed. The damn within broke. It was heavy, snotty crying, my whole body involved with the release. I howled. I writhed. I shed tears for the longest I have in years, tears came from the depths. I hadn’t appreciated the physicality of healing as much until now. The gentle exercise I have been doing has held me and carried me to this point. And how often do we allow ourselves to get to this state of primal screaming - not nearly enough. It’s cathartic.
Running and allowing the headspace and openness, to be connected to every inch of my being and feeling every emotion within it. This is why I run. For the emotion to come forth, be welcomed and released.
Like a snake shedding a skin, symbolic of healing, rebirth, restoration, regeneration, and renewal. It’s constant, cyclical.
I run to shed and be released anew.
By Syreeta Challinger.
If you feel you may benefit from Run Talk Run, find your nearest group here