When someone you love dies, life doesn’t just stop; it shatters. For Kerry, losing her husband at 32 felt like being dropped into a world that no longer made sense. The bed was too big, the silence too loud, and every small thing, from the coffee mugs they once shared to the songs they danced to, felt like a cruel reminder of what was gone. Grief didn’t come politely; it crashed into her mornings, errands, and every breath.
At first, she moved through her days in a fog, just trying to exist. The grocery store became a minefield of memories. Driving to work meant holding back tears in the parking lot, gathering enough strength to walk inside, and pretending she was fine. Grief, it seemed, was running the show, dictating when she could cry, when she could smile, and when she simply had to survive.
Before her husband’s death, Kerry had found joy in running. She’d joined a local jogging group and loved its energy, the freedom of pounding her feet against the pavement and feeling her thoughts fall away. After he died, though, that joy disappeared. Even the idea of lacing up her sneakers felt impossible. She wasn’t just grieving him; she was grieving the parts of herself that had died with him. But after weeks of numbness, something inside her shifted. She grew tired of letting grief have the final say. She couldn’t bring her husband back, but could reclaim one small piece of her old life. So, she signed up for a 5K run. It felt like an act of rebellion against despair, a promise to herself that she could still move forward, even when her heart refused to believe it.
The morning of the race, Kerry hesitated at the starting line. Part of her worried people would think she had moved on, that running meant she was somehow over her loss. She wasn’t. Not even close. But she ran anyway. The first steps felt heavy, her body awkward and uncertain. And then, the tears came, unexpected, uninvited, unstoppable. She cried as she ran, each stride both painful and freeing. She couldn’t control her grief, but she could prevent this, her pace, her breath, her movement. It was a kind of control she hadn’t felt in months. Running became more than exercise; it became her therapy. Some days she ran until her legs burned and her chest ached. Other days, she barely made it out the door. But each time, she came home a little lighter. Slowly, the rhythm of her feet on the pavement began to sound like a heartbeat again, steady, alive, human.
Six months after her husband’s death, Kerry took a bigger leap and signed up for a half-marathon. It terrified her, but she needed to prove that she could finish something when so much in her life had been ripped away. The race tested her body and spirit. Around mile three, she thought of how her husband would have been there, cheering her on. By mile six, the ache in her chest grew heavier than in her legs. Her thoughts turned from memories of him to the painful reality that he was gone. At mile ten, her pace slowed to a walk. She wondered if she had pushed herself too far, if maybe this was just another way of trying to outrun the impossible. She thought about giving up, calling a cab, or going home to cry. But she kept moving. Grief had taken so much from her, yet it hadn’t taken her will.
When she finally reached mile twelve, the finish line came into view. That last stretch felt like climbing out of the darkest part of her grief. Her body was shaking, her heart pounding, but she refused to stop. She broke down completely when she crossed the finish line, tears for her husband, their life together, and the future they’d never get. But there was something else in those tears, too: pride. She had done it. She had finished. The time didn’t matter, the placement didn’t matter. What mattered was that she had taken control of something when her world had been ripped apart. Running became her reminder that healing isn’t about forgetting; it’s about finding small ways to live again, one breath, one mile at a time.
Kerry knows now that grief doesn’t end; it changes shape. Some days it still hits her like a wave; other days it sits quietly beside her. But she’s learned that it’s okay to keep moving, even when the pain doesn’t disappear. Running didn’t erase her loss; it helped her carry it differently. For her, every finish line is no longer about victory, but survival. It’s proof that even with a broken heart, she can still move forward. And that, in its own quiet way, is its own kind of love story.
