Running Through Grief: A Journey Back to Myself

 

By Dr. J. Bliss

Our bodies keep the score. When we stop listening, we suffer. When we fear what our bodies are trying to tell us, we suffer. But when we honor the messages within us—when we allow ourselves to feel, to move, to release—we find clarity, healing, and strength.

I didn’t always understand the depth of this truth.

For a long time, I avoided returning to the place where I learned my father had passed. The weight of that memory was too heavy. This was the place where my heart shattered, where time stood still, where my world changed.

But before that day, this was also the place where I found solace. Where I ran through grief, through uncertainty, through every curve and incline, discovering my own resilience. It was a place of power, and I wanted to reclaim that power.

So, I laced up my shoes. I kissed the memory of that moment. I let my feet hit the pavement.

Running With My Father

My father was my first trainer, my greatest encourager. Running wasn’t just something he did; it was something he loved. To the world, he was a football player. But to me, he was so much more.  When I first started running, I remember feeling how symbolic it was—my life was filled with uphill battles, unexpected turns, and relentless disruptions, but with every run, I proved to myself that I could endure. That I could push through. That I could grow stronger.

Music by Norman Brown ‘Better Days’

I remember the first time I ran five miles without even realizing it. I shared my time with my father, and he congratulated me. “You are the captain of your happiness,” he always told me. And after my divorce, when I told him I wanted to add I am the captain of my safety, he smiled and said, “ABSOLUTELY! Now go run, we’ll talk about the run over tea.”

Tea. That was our ritual.

Even now, I find myself reaching for my phone in the early hours, expecting to see his messages. I would wake up, as if unbothered by the hour, walk to the kitchen, and set the tea kettle. He’d ask what tea I was steeping that morning, and we’d go down a rabbit hole of words—dissecting their meanings, laughing at their origins, finding joy in the smallest of things.

Healing Through Memory

My father had a way of making me feel seen, cared for in ways that went beyond words. He paid attention. He knew I was severely anemic, so every time I visited, he had a jar of freshly pickled beets waiting for me. He remembered the small things, the essential things—like how I loved avocados. He had an avocado farm when I was younger, and when I came to visit as an adult, he always had them ready. I’d make avocado toast with sliced onions and tomatoes, pile on extra avocados (because of course), and we’d sit for hours talking, hiking, exploring whatever new trail he had been waiting to share with me.

He never just told me to take care of myself—he showed me how. Through movement. Through nourishment. Through the way he lived.

The last time I visited him, he was so excited to take me to tourist spots in Arizona, but I told him, “I came to visit you. You are the tourist attraction.” His face lit up like a kid’s. I can still see it now—the joy, the love, the moment of being enough just as he was.

Reclaiming My Path

For months, I avoided running in the place that had been so sacred to me. I let the memory of loss overshadow everything else it had given me. But my father would never want that. He would want me to move, to return to the space that awakens and unearths me, to allow myself to feel without fear.

And so, I run.

I run with my father and mother on each side of me, their spirits guiding my steps. And as I run, I don’t just honor his memory—I carry his legacy forward, step by step. I run to remind myself that healing isn’t about standing still—it’s about moving through the pain, through the memories, through every twist and turn. I run because it is where I always meet my elevated, evolved, transformed self.

And when I finish, I sit with my comfort foods—the ones that remind me of him. A bowl of fruit, dairy-free ice cream, and a black walnut latte with oat milk. Because healing doesn’t always look like what we expect. Sometimes, it’s in the smallest of rituals, the simplest of joys, the moments where we choose to honor what our bodies need.

This path is mine to reclaim. And with every step, I am reminded:

I am the captain of my happiness.
I am the captain of my safety.
And I will keep running.

                Music by Aiyana Lee ‘ Table for Three’

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Would You Like to Share?

If this post resonates with you, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Have you ever had a place that holds both grief and healing? A ritual that reminds you of someone you’ve lost? Let’s connect in the comments.

#GriefHealing #RunningThroughGrief #HonoringMyFather #RunningIsSpiritual #SelfCare #HealingJourney #MindBodyConnection