The Marathon of grief

September 2024, on the Autumn Equinox, I ran a 1/4 marathon, six miles (or 10K) to be precise.

I signed up on a whim, with no particular goal or reason.

I am not a runner, in fact I hate running!, but when I saw the marathon advertised on a big sign outside my local supermarket, something in me just thought “why not”.

I didn’t do any training towards the 1/4 marathon, which I know was really quite irresponsible of me, the only preparation that I DID do was add a few more songs to my ‘running playlist’ on Spotify the night before, (a running playlist which was very rarely listened to!).

The days leading up to the 1/4 marathon had produced some of the stormiest weather I had ever witnessed in all of my 41 years, causing inevitable flooding and disruption.

Deep down I was hoping that the 1/4 marathon would be cancelled, especially as it was a cross-country run of varied terrain, which included fields and very wet country lanes.

Anxiety set in when I realised that the 1/4 marathon was still going ahead, I knew that I could just simply not turn up, but I also knew how much worse I would feel if I dropped out.

Something inside of me needed to prove to myself that I could do it, even if it took hours, and I fell in mud!.

As I stood at the starting line, trying to hide behind the hundreds of more professional looking runners, the nerves gripped me hard and panic washed over me, “you’ve been through much harder things than this Katie” I told myself, “you’ve already lived through the worst days of your life”.

…”You’ve already lived through the worst days of your life”…

This was becoming my new mantra, but it was more than a simple affirmation, it was the truth.

“Normal life” ended for me before those worst days, those days being defined as losing my beautiful twin girls and then the unbearable surreal pain of their funeral, resulting in a different life beginning.

A post-apocalyptic life.

As the starting whistle blew, and myself and 300 others began our run, I focused on the wet grass beneath my feet.

Within minutes I was already struggling to control my breathing, adrenaline making me feel shakey, my trainers already wet from unavoidable puddles which met me on the concrete.

Mentally I dug deep over that following hour and thirty minutes, it was hard, so so hard.

And for the first couple of miles, I wanted to quit, I wanted to quit so bad!, but something inside of me pushed me on.

I was strong, I had already survived the unsurvivable, I knew that there was a depth to me that I didn’t know existed until my world ended and had to begin again, a reminder that the human spirit is stronger than mountains.

I reached mile three which was the halfway point, and woodland gave way to an open field upon the river bank. I could see the rest of the runners far in front of me in the distance, their fluorescent clothes like tiny sparks of light bobbing against the bleakness in the aftermath of a late September storm.

I was lagging behind, very far behind.

It was inevitable I was going to be one of the slowest, and the very last through the finish line, but what I was to expect? I hadn’t trained beforehand and I am not sure if it was due to just sheer laziness or being in a state of denial that I would actually do the marathon at all.

I was very much alone running through this long wet field, trainers squelching in boggy grass, my breathing so heavy I could hardly hear my music.
Cold wind and drizzle hitting me in the face.

The last of the fluorescent runners finally disappeared from view, and then it was just me against the elements.

The river beside me angry and grey, a single swan sat at the edge of the bank and we looked at each other in solidarity.

But something was shifting inside of me and I realised that I felt as one with nature in this moment. Vulnerable, but strong.

I felt a sense of realness that I had not felt in such a long time.
Grief had left me so numb, that many things simply could not touch me anymore.

But this run was cracking me open and I was finally feeling something.
I found myself blinking back tears as this sense of rawness kicked in, “this isn’t a pointless run, you are doing this for Elsie and Daisy -and for you” my inner voice whispered to me.

As I finally reached the finish line and I could see the crowds, the adrenaline kicked in again and I waved as everyone clapped for THE VERY LAST RUNNER.
Relief, disbelief, I could not believe that I had actually done it!.

And again, for the first time in a long time I FELT SOMETHING, I felt alive again.

As I reflected back on the 1/4 marathon over the hours and days that followed, I found myself wondering how I actually did it, how did I get through it? how did I come out of the other side?.

And then it struck me, I have been running the equivalent of a marathon since the 3rd of November 2023, the day that I said goodbye to our beautiful sleeping daughters.

THIS metaphorical marathon was one that I also had not prepared or trained for, this was a marathon that I had not even signed up for.

This marathon stretched on much further than six, thirteen or twenty six miles.
This marathon saw the toughest terrain possible, a terrain that included the wildest waters which threatened to drown me so many times.

Great roaring waves which washed over me, more powerful than the ones before.
A terrain that saw me scrambling up steep cliffs, which crumbled beneath my feet and saw me hanging on by my fingertips.

And once I had made it to the top, I found myself alone and exposed, spending nights sleepless on desolate outcrops where the night sky was barren of moonlight, the stars hiding.

The deep abyss of heartbreak open, threatening to swallow me up, whilst great wild fires encircled me, forcing me to my knees.

Silent screams escaping my lungs, and a great primal sobbing rocking my whole body.

And where was this finish line? was I hoping that the first anniversary of loss and grief would be the finish line?, believing this was incredibly naive of me.

But I gave myself grace, as mourning my children was something that I had not done before.

I have had to learn quickly that this marathon will never end, and there is no invisible ribbon at the finish line.

There is no finish line.

And there will never be one.

But I pray that the terrain will become less violent and dawn may finally break the darkness, even if it is smallest crack of light.

I pray that this landscape will soften.

So, I will tell myself to just keep on running.

To keep breathing.

To keep living.

It’s all that I can do.