A moment I will never forget, I reached the finish line and raised the tape above my head. Finally, I had won the Leeds Half Marathon—something that, even when I turned 30, I didn’t think was possible. My journey into running relevant to the level I reached started late, with a race here or there and the odd training run a year in my mid-20s. This was followed by thousands raised in memory of my dad through a couple of marathons. Then lockdown hit, the running bug caught me, and I decided to commit to three runs a week, and now all being well, it’s more often than not that I’m in my training shoes.
But when I crossed that finish line, experiencing thousands of people cheering my name as I reached the 13.1-mile mark in first place, and when I saw my son jumping uncontrollably up and down in the Leeds Rhinos stadium, witnessing me finish first and hold the finish line tape above my head, something hit me, this was a special moment. This was a dream come true. And why, only at 34 years old, had I finally learned to sit back and take it in? Why did I not think about what was next? Why did I not ponder what lay ahead?
It was in that moment, I understood that the inconceivable and unbelievable journey—too much drink, poor diet, low focus, lack of dreams, years and years I believed wasted with destruction—had ended. The suppression of grief had hit me like a wrecking ball in my mid-20s. The anxiety had followed me around like a deep shadow, watching my every step. But in that moment, it wasn’t even a concept anymore. There was no looking back, no what-ifs, no sadness, no loss, no pain. I had reached the finish line… or so I thought, because what came next was the beauty of never reaching the finish line.
I woke up the next day to hundreds of messages of support and congratulations. Messages like, “Do you realize what you’ve just done?”, ones filled with love and kindness, and even a small few saying they didn’t realise I ran! This journey wasn’t meant for me. I wasn’t in running clubs growing up, I hadn’t had coaches, or time on my side to compete at the level I reached. I wasn’t meant to win this, but I had something more. I had experienced the pit of loss, losing my dad in my early teens. My best friend, my hero, my safety net was gone, and the journey that followed was hard. I accepted pain when it was unacceptable because I knew I could take it. And all this, after years of going through the motions, I knew could be channelled for something good.
Every step I took, every finish line I thought I finished—from my first day back at school, my first shave, my first drink, my first marathon, wedding, the birth of my son—each of these journeys was a finish line that helped me through the endurance of grief. But every time I reached that finish line, some new feeling, emotion, or experience lay ahead in rebuilding who I was and the goals I wanted to reach.
But there was something about the Leeds Half Marathon finish line that was different, something I hadn’t realized, expected, or even thought about. I was through it. I was through the anxiety, through the sadness of burying my dad and all the good memories that came with it. But what was different? I could now genuinely smile about him. I could mention the word ‘dad’ without my voice breaking. I didn’t feel the usual guilt that he was gone and could never see the man I’ve become. I could show a picture to my son and say, “That’s your grandad,” without feeling sad. I could now think of my hero and be happy, laugh at our silly jokes, and fondly dream of the times we spent together. All those times I had deeply buried for years, the times I opened those memories up and the times I was filled with sorrow every time I thought about him, had gone.
Don’t get me wrong; every now and then, a tear of sadness will come to my eye. Only recently, after watching the hundredth Disney film since becoming a parent, I felt that tear when Simba said goodbye to Mufasa, but it didn’t hurt. It felt nice. The tears of loss and regret, the anxiety of what-ifs around wishing he was here for my wedding, my son’s birth, winning races, and anniversaries—those hurt tears had gone. But like training 50 miles a week, and like the prep, panic, and pressure I’ve put on myself to rebuild physically and mentally, it was all an endurance battle to reach the finish line and come out stronger. In the end, I won. Not the race, but life – a happy family, a son I want to be the hero to like my dad was for me, and the passions and goals to drive me on and on. The endurance battle of grief has taught me to enjoy the little moments—a takeaway watching a film with my wife, seeing my son run around the house saying, “I won the race like daddy,” seeing the smiles and laughter of loved ones. That was the journey to reaching the finish line.
And I suppose that brings me to the end of this: the beauty of reaching the finish line. We only get there through falling over, through challenges, through digging deeper than we ever thought imaginable. And like grief, at the finish line, you’ve learned something about yourself, something you’ll use to better yourself, your family, the stranger in the street, the person having a hard day, the pet looking for love. You’ve learned that life is precious, kind, challenging, tough, and cruel, like endurance running. All you can ever do is appreciate the journey and aim for that finish line. But that’s the beauty of the finish line—whether battling in a race or battling through grief—there’s always another one that lies ahead. And using your experiences, growing and learning, wins and losses, you’ve learned something from that battle.
To finish this story and the loose connection between grief and running, I hope those struggling can see that there is an amazing future ahead. It may seem a long and challenging route, but if you channel that loss for good, surround yourself with people who believe and love you, and love those you believe in and cherish back, you’ll reach that finish line stronger and happier than you’ll ever imagine.
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