i. She’s ten. She’s running her first 5k. It’s the local school district’s yearly fundraiser. All the elementary kids go. She hasn’t trained, other than a few laps around the neighborhood with her dad. But it’s cool. She gets to tack a number to her chest, with a timer and a Larosa’s coupon on the back. The gun goes off. She jogs slowly behind the crowd at first, but once some space clears, she blasts off and runs. 

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ii. A year later, she joins the school running club. She’s getting better, she thinks. But she always wears her sweatshirt when she runs. Even one day when the temp outside hits 90. She’s too cold. She can’t stay warm. At the hospital, the doctors say she shouldn’t have done it—run with her sweatshirt on. She stays there for 17 days. When she returns home, her family runs the 5k without her. She’s angry. Then sad. Then just tired. 

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iii. For a long time, she’s tired. 

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iv. Moving forward is a difficult and mysterious thing. She’s not sure if she’s ready. She’s not sure it’s even possible. A global pandemic comes to her city. The local 5k is canceled. 

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v. The following year, canceled again. 

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vi. It happens slowly and all at once. She knows it for sure now. Maybe it’s the way she finally laughs again. The way she cries, too. She’s no longer as cold as she used to be, no longer numb. At 8 AM on a Saturday in early spring, 2022, she lines up with her race number pinned to her shirt. The gun goes off. She jogs slowly behind the crowd at first, but once some space clears, she blasts off and runs.