When the Runner is Forced to Rest

My Kidneys, My Crossroad

My current struggle with my kidneys has forced me to pause and truly reevaluate my life. It’s not easy for someone like me to be brought to a standstill. These past few months have left me weak, and I hate feeling weak.

I hate feeling vulnerable. I’ve never been comfortable with weakness. The pain is often overwhelming let’s be real, I’ve carried pain before. My life has seen plenty of it. And though it sometimes feels unbearable, it’s a language I understand. I’m tough. I know pain. And I know how to ride the wave I’ve survived worse storms.

I have endurance, and deep down, I’ve promised myself: no matter how magnificent the pain, I’ll make sure it means something. I will give it purpose. Still, it feels unfair cruel, even.

Everything in my life finally seemed aligned. I was steady. I was in control. And just like that, an unexpected ailment reminded me: I’m not always the one in charge. For the first time in my life, I’ve been forced to yield. To stop. To truly look at my health.

I told myself for years that I was health-conscious—because I was a runner. And oh, I ran. I ran a lot.

But running wasn’t a deliberate health decision. It became my weapon against stress. My way of taking back control when the world felt chaotic. I'd start a run with one rule: You’ll stop when you feel better. And most of the time, by the end I did. Funny, though. While I ran to feel in control, deep down I felt anything but. I probably looked like a mess to the people driving or walking past headphones in, music blasting, a woman on a mission to outrun something they couldn’t see.

Music was my first love. I learned to escape into sound as early as five years old. So, music and running became my therapy.

I cried while I ran. I screamed in silence. I pushed through anger, sadness, heartbreak. And I kept going. Mile after mile. Hour after hour. Some weekends, I’d run all day.

I was addicted to music, to running, to the freedom they gave me. People would ask how I did it, how I ran so far. But for me, it wasn’t about understanding the how. It was about knowing I had to.

Running got me through some of the darkest times in my life especially my divorce. It saved me.

But now? I find myself unable to even walk comfortably. I feel trapped in my own body like a prisoner in a room made of pain. Yet, even here, in this painful stillness, I’m holding on. I’m holding on to my will to understand, to heal, to fight for a healthier version of myself. Most importantly, I’m holding on to my faith. Faith that things will get better. Faith that I will be renewed. Faith that I will come out of this stronger, wiser, and more because I’m not doing it alone. I have a powerful source by my side. And that power? It reminds me every day that I am not finished yet.