Writer Emily Halnon, after her mother died of cancer, running along the Pacific Peak Trail in Oregon is one of the best places to deal with her grief. Editor's note by Emily Halnon: The new book "To the Gorge: Running, Crest, and Resilience & 460 Miles on the Pacific Crest Trail" by Emily Halnon, a runner and writer, was released on May 7th. CNN — When my mother died, I spent a lot of time trying to forget my sadness. For example, put another pile of money into the garbage drawer so that no one can see how messy it is.
I went to a friend's house for dinner a month after her funeral. I wander on the edge of dusk. Fragments of the conversation floated around me, but my brain was blurred with sadness. I can't catch anything through the mist.
My eyes rested on a photo frame of my friend and her mother, which was taken in front of a rose bush in Eugene, Oregon. Their arms were tightly linked to each other.
The memoir "Going to the Canyon" discusses how the Great Escape gave Halnon a space to relax her vigilance when she was sad for her mother. This photo reminds me of the last time my mother visited me in Oregon. She posted Facebook updates on all three airports between Vermont and Eugene. In Salt Lake City, a photo of a book split on her leg, next to a coffee cup. "I'll meet my girl in three hours and 17 minutes." When I went to pick her up, she skipped across the terminal to find me. We ran along the Willamette River on weekends, visited the covered bridge at the foot of Cascade Mountain, and searched for the best cakes within 50 miles of Fiona Fang. She took part in the half marathon. She is 64 years old. I thought we could be together for decades. There are still 1000 miles to run.
These memories release a burst of sadness. I walked as fast as I could to my friend's bathroom, trying to hide why I needed an escape route. My throat is tight. Tears blurred my eyes.
I slipped into the bathroom, sat on the toilet lid and put a handful of toilet paper in my eyes. Pain torments my heart. I imagine my friend and her mother. I remembered the time I spent with my mother over the years. I swallowed a sob and realized that there was a thin door between me and a room full of smiling people.
This is a familiar move. Once I was at work, at the rock climbing gym, waiting in line at the brewery in the north of town. I tried to hide my sadness so that others wouldn't have to see it. I bit my lip and pinched my eyes, when I felt a burst of tears. I pretend I'm fine, but I'm not fine at all. I've learned to almost never answer the question honestly: "How are you doing?"
My sadness is disturbing.
My mother had suffered from rare uterine cancer for 13 months before her death. I've been sad for too long. I feel that it is uncomfortable for people to get too close to my most difficult emotions. Society wants me to grieve alone and speed up my journey of loss.
When someone wants to run away from me, I will face many uncomfortable silences and quick farewells. In the past 14 months, when I came back from a trip to Vermont, my friendship gradually disappeared and I watched my colleagues avoid my cubicle.
A relationship ended when my boyfriend didn't want anything to do with my emotional reality.
"I just don't think you are active enough," he said after my mother was diagnosed with malignant terminal cancer. I just learned that my mother may die within a year. Positive feelings are like being on another planet.
Sad and worried woman sitting on the floor. What are the five stages of sadness and how to spend them? When my mother died in January 2020, I really wanted to do something to celebrate her life and her brave spirit. She ran a marathon for the first time at the age of 50. She learned to swim at the age of 60, so that she could take part in the triathlon for the first time. In the same year, in order to celebrate her birthday, she jumped off the plane. She spent 13 months of cancer with extraordinary courage and joy.
My mother felt the weight of cancer, but she insisted on living wholeheartedly. When she was sick, she walked on the dirt road around her home in Vermont almost every day, even under the serious side effects of chemotherapy. She will send me short messages, tell me about her friends who have joined her, and tell me how blue the sky is on the rolling hills.
"This is my motivation," she said.
Run in the name of my mother.
I decided to run the 460-mile Pacific Peak Trail across Oregon-and try to run faster than anyone before me. My mother is a good reason for me to become a runner, because I watched her finish the first marathon and I was greatly encouraged myself. I'm addicted to exploring my limits by running, and I've been sticking to it.
Holding a grand funeral in her name seems to be an obvious way to get through the great grief of her death. But when I started training for this, I wondered if it was a terrible idea to try such a long-distance running when I was experiencing the heaviest grief.
On the first day of my training, I made some preparations. Every step is overwhelmed by sadness. I tied my shoelaces like my fingers dragging in molasses. I walked out the door, like trudging through the mud, questioning my decision.
Close-up of a woman's handwriting on a blank notebook with a pen. How can Anastasiya Bardaev/Adobe Stock's journal writing help you "move on" in the face of loss and uncertainty? I walked towards the wooded hill behind my house. When I stepped on the winding soft soil among the pine trees, I breathed a sigh of relief. My breath flows through my body like a river, and finally I escape from the deadlock that has been tightly wrapped in my body.
When I run, the soft soil gently shakes my steps. A breeze swept the pine needles and wrapped around me. I remember taking my mother to this path and feeling a hot tear rolling down my cheek and falling to the ground below. A strong desire for her accompanied my steps.
As I ran, I thought about my first marathon with my mother.
I ran so fast that I ran into a tired wall in the middle of the race. I didn't think I could continue running. When I was struggling, I saw my mother jump around 14 miles-I was surprised that her pace was so firm and confident.
I shouted to her, "Mom!" It's like I'm five years old again, crying for my mother. But the game was so crowded that she couldn't hear me.
I cried again, "mom!" "
I didn't try to hide my feelings at that time. Few people do this, when running a marathon or running a long distance on roads or trails. If you stand on both sides of the marathon track, you will see the most primitive emotions of human beings on display.
This is one of my favorite reasons for running.
Don't hide your sadness when running.
Like, in a 100-mile race, you are sure to hit a low point. Few people can reach the finish line without being treated rudely: weak self-doubt, muscle atrophy, hyperacidity and overwhelming.
When this happens, we don't run to the bathroom to hide our feelings behind the closed door. We face these lows in front of our partners, friends, volunteers and audiences.
When I ran the 40th mile in the first 100-mile race, I told my team members, "I'm having a hard time now," and they didn't flinch from my struggle. They helped me to a deck chair, brought me some tortillas and stayed with me. They left me room to get through my trough.
When we stand at the starting line of a marathon or 100-mile race, we embrace the fragility that comes with distance. We know this may be difficult. We know that we may become a mobile billboard to publicize our most difficult moments. Let's face reality directly We promise the human beings standing beside us that we will witness what they endure and will not turn our backs on them.
What lessons can we learn about sadness from trauma treatment? There is little room to invite this emotional honesty-and create space for it.
Don't feel the pressure of sadness
I have five days of funeral leave. In this culture, except for our closest friends and family, our time as sad girls has a deadline. It's stressful to get from the center of Grieveville to the streets that are completely free. Although I'm not.
On the way, I can feel my feelings freely. When I walked into the Woods, I was like a molting snake, exposing the softer part of me. I can let my guard down and let my most primitive feelings surface.
I'm afraid there will be too many trails on the Pacific Peak. But as I keep training, I find that running is one of the best places to deal with my sadness. I can go through my sadness instead of swallowing it back and being trapped in my heart. Running gave me something I desperately needed after losing my mother. Something harder to find than expected.
Running gives me a place where I don't have to hide anything, where I can make my love for my mother and my sorrow for losing my mother prematurely spread out with miles, occupying as much space under my feet as the vast sky above me.
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