Editor’s Note: Michele Neff Hernandez is the executive director and founding president of the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation. SSLF is a nonprofit organization dedicated to supporting and inspiring people who are grieving the loss of someone they love. Soaring Spirits is hosting the first ever National Conference on Widowhood at the Marriott Hotel and Marina in San Diego, CA, from July 17-19, 2009. For information about the programs SSLF offers, please visit SSLF’s website. You can reach Michele at micheleh@sslf.org.  

It was a perfect day for running. The morning was a bit cloudy, cool enough to wish for another layer, and there was a hint of fall crispness in the air — unusual weather for Texas in October. I was heading to a race start-line for the first time in more than a year. For once there were no pre-race jitters or time expectations, just a lot of memories and a different kind of determination.
 
On August 31 of 2005, my husband, Phillip, was killed when he was hit by a car while out for his evening bike ride. Phil was not only an avid cyclist; he was also a dedicated runner. He began his running career as a high-school track athlete. Later in life, he showed his enthusiasm for the sport by coaching for a community track club; he continued volunteering his time long after his own kids had outgrown the program. Running alongside the kids at practice was one of his favorite things to do. Phil was a regular at all the local races; a towering pile of race bibs held a place of honor on his dresser. At 39, he was at the top end of a competitive age group. He was eagerly awaiting his birthday, which would result in an age-group change — he couldn’t wait to run as one of the youngsters in his field. But Phil never raced in the next age group — he died three months before his 40th birthday.
 
Before we met, I was an occasional runner. Through our courtship and marriage, my husband introduced me to the joy of running. Vacations were planned around running, track season caused the cessation of all other activities and date night usually began in running shoes. My love of the sport developed as our relationship did. After Phil died, my world looked different from every angle. The lines that distinguished what he loved and what I loved became blurred by the intense pain of his absence from my life. Suddenly I wasn’t sure if I loved running or if I only loved running with him. In the darkness of loss, I could not find the drive to put on my shoes and run out the door without him. I quit running.
 
Each morning I awoke in the haze of grief, with only the thought of how to make it through the day, and each night I fell into bed exhausted by the effort required to keep from drowning in my sorrow. After months of feeling lost without my husband, it finally occurred to me that I might feel more connected to him on a run. With some trepidation, I laced up my shoes. For months I ran away; away from the shock, away from the heartache, away from the inevitable reality that he was gone. When I ran, I felt close to him in my soul and in my stride, each breathless effort a testament to all I had learned from running beside the man I loved. Out for a run on a sunny day, Phil was still my partner. At first, returning from a run always left me spent and sad, but slowly I realized that running was becoming my way of saying good-bye to the man who was my husband and my friend.
 
The act of running was freeing. It reminded me that I was capable of putting one foot in front of the other — in forward motion. The destination was not as important as the journey. As time passed, my heart unwittingly began to heal. Eventually the nature of my runs changed, and I noticed that my step was lighter. I realized that my purpose in heading out for a jog was no longer exclusively a desire to feel close to Phil. Slowly, I stopped expecting to see him at every turn of our favorite route. Running did not always reduce me to tears. With every step I took, I began to remember the joy of running. Gradually, I ran just because I wanted to.