Grief, Grace, and a 5K

I’ve never really been one for goal setting; New Year’s resolutions aren’t usually my thing. As a fitness instructor, I never even endorsed the idea. My thoughts on goal setting were always centered on changing simple habits, finding enjoyable hobbies, and seeing how life evolves from there. I still recommend this approach. But something about surviving a heart transplant—and getting older—has made me want to aim for something this coming year. Nothing wild. Just a little something to work toward.

It’s normal to come out of a traumatic experience—especially a medical trauma—feeling a little lost, or as some say, a little empty. When we think we should be feeling joy and gratitude, we might instead feel guilt, purposelessness, or our own version of grief. Many of us assume a transplant will change us, improve us, only to wake up and realize that the only things that have changed are a new organ and a regimen of life-sustaining medications.

I can attest to all of these feelings—this has been my experience. Writing helps. As do time with family, my faith, and my near-daily walks with friends. These things help me express myself, feel understood, and provide a sense of belonging that I deeply missed while waiting for my transplant and during recovery.

It was that feeling of belonging that kept me rooted in running for so many years. You see, I was never a good enough runner to be remotely competitive. Early on, I didn’t even particularly enjoy it. But over time, as it became part of my everyday routine, running evolved into an invigorating, cleansing ritual. I considered it as much a part of my hygiene regimen as brushing my teeth. A daily sweat session could purify my soul almost as effectively as repentance and prayer. In fact, whether on the treadmill or the pavement, I often found myself in an attitude of self-reflection that naturally led to prayer and repentance.

Then, at the age of 24, I registered for my first race—a spring fun run in Sugar House Park. My neighbor and I signed up together as a way to get back in shape after having our first babies just one week apart. It was at that fun run that I discovered running could offer something more: community. The shared enthusiasm, anticipation, and—dare I say—joy were contagious. It never seemed to matter that I wasn’t elite, had never run a marathon (thank goodness, as that level of training could have accelerated my ARVC progression and need for a transplant), or ran in leggings instead of speed shorts. I was one of them—a runner, part of a unique group of people who tolerated pain and endured grueling circumstances better than most.

Running became more than a daily habit; it became a part of my identity.

Unfortunately, after my ARVC (arrhythmogenic right ventricular cardiomyopathy) diagnosis, running was something I had to give up. Over time, I made peace with that prescription. Even so, there was a hole left behind—a void where running once lived. I will probably always grieve those easy days when the rhythm of my feet hitting the ground felt natural and effortless, as well as that community I no longer feel a part of.

Recently, I read an article in Bonus Days magazine about a young woman named Wendy who received a small bowel transplant during the COVID restrictions of 2022. Isolation was the norm then, especially in the hospital. Her husband couldn’t even be with her during her inpatient stay. In the article, she shared two insights that stood out to me. When asked what illness had taught her, she said, “Health is a crown only the sick can see.” And when asked what joy looks like for her now, she said, “To get to a place of joy with where I am, I had to grieve the life I thought I was going to have so I could make space for the amazing and beautiful life that I do have.”

I said in an earlier post that it is perfectly okay to see the clouds along with the silver lining. We don’t always have to maintain a shining outlook to prove our gratitude. Without recognition and reflection, the hard parts of our lives can’t teach us anything. If we don’t look back, we’ll never know how far we’ve come. Grieving is an honest and necessary part of that process.

I know I will never be the runner I once was—age alone presents enough of a barrier. But my goal for 2026—my New Year's resolution, if you will—is to train for, sign up for, and complete an organized 5K. I know I won’t be fast and won’t place anywhere near the top of my age group. But I will be proud of myself for showing up—for allowing myself the space to release old expectations and reconnect with a part of myself I thought I had mourned and buried long ago. 

This goal isn’t about reclaiming what I lost or proving that I’m “back.” It’s about honoring who I am now—someone shaped by grief, grit, and resilience. Crossing that finish line won’t symbolize victory over illness or a return to a former identity. Instead, it will mark my willingness to keep moving forward, to carry the past with tenderness and gratitude rather than regret, and to make room for joy as it exists today. I am healing, and healing takes honesty, grace, and a fair amount of courage. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do isn’t to run faster or farther, but simply to have the faith to begin again.