Tag: loss

The Gym is not Your Village

To be honest, not much running has been happening this week. I haven’t been feeling great. And around here, when mama doesn’t feel great, nobody feels great—meaning my not feeling great tends to ripple outward, creating a low hum of anxiety for everyone else. Still, I push on with my morning walks with friends. We’re experiencing an unusually mild winter, one that has gifted us many pleasant morning miles. I’m not complaining.

The other morning, our conversation turned to a big change coming to our neighborhood—one that has left most of us feeling disappointed. Maybe worried. At the very least, unsettled. It’s something some of us anticipated, yet still something we’re not happy about: a new development that will inevitably impact our community in ways that make us feel a loss of control.

When we built our home here twenty years ago, community was one of the most important factors in our decision. We were a young, growing family, searching for a safe, family-friendly place where our children could grow up feeling connected. We wanted a village. And a village is exactly what we found.

Over the years, our neighbors have walked alongside us through our daughter’s autism diagnosis, my brother’s sudden and tragic death, my sister’s stroke at thirty-four, my ARVC diagnosis and eventual heart transplant, thyroid cancer, and the loss of our parents—along with the countless mishaps and quiet struggles of everyday life. And we’ve done the same for them. We’ve cried together in seasons of grief. We’ve shown care through meals delivered during sickness, tragedy, or the arrival of a new baby. We’ve celebrated joy-filled milestones side by side. When I need a cup of sugar, a splash of milk, or a teaspoon of baking soda, I know exactly who to text.

That is community.
That is a village.

I don’t know who needs to hear this—though I suspect quite a few people do this time of year—but the gym is not your village. Yes, you read that right: the gym is not your village. I say this as someone who is very much pro-gym. I once had a Pilates studio in my basement where I taught group fitness classes. I speak—er, write—as someone who knows.

Years ago, after a devastating miscarriage, my husband gently suggested I find a new hobby—something to distract me, something that might help me move forward. I certified in Pilates and yoga and began teaching classes in my basement to women in my community. The classes grew. I added High Fitness. Eventually, I was teaching every day of the week. I was incredibly proud of what I’d built. Proud of my participants. Proud of what I believed was a community.

But when the proverbial crap hit the fan and my health forced me to shut down the studio, I found myself unexpectedly alone. It wasn’t the studio participants who showed up with meals, took me out to lunch when I needed encouragement, or sat quietly with me as I gave voice to my grief and fear. It was my neighbors, my family, and my long-rooted friends who did that.

The gym is wonderful for building strength, lifting mood, and connecting with like-minded people. It serves an important purpose. But true community is built through service. A village grows from the steady rhythm of giving and receiving—of showing up and being seen. If you want a village, you must be willing to be a villager: doing the work, offering effort, and investing in others. By and large, people at a gym are there for their own progress, focused on personal goals. They aren’t there for you—and that distinction matters.

When I walk with my friends and neighbors in the morning, I’m stepping into a different kind of rhythm—one shaped by presence rather than progress. The sidewalks and trails bear witness to our grievances, our long-winded pondering, and our unrestrained laughter. Those miles hold our stories. They hold us.

And even as our town changes—even as new developments threaten to reshape the place we love—I’m reminded that a village isn’t made of houses or roads or plans drawn on paper. It’s made of people who stay. People who show up. People who know your garage door code and which soda you like from the gas station.

No matter how the landscape shifts around us, in sickness and in health, this sisterhood, this village, is something I will always carry with me.

Grace, Grief, and a 5K

I’ve never really been one for goal setting; New Year’s resolutions aren’t usually my thing. As a fitness instructor, I never even endorsed the idea. My thoughts on goal setting were always centered on changing simple habits, finding enjoyable hobbies, and seeing how life evolves from there. I still recommend this approach. But something about surviving a heart transplant—and getting older—has made me want to aim for something this coming year. Nothing wild. Just a little something to work toward.

It’s normal to come out of a traumatic experience—especially a medical trauma—feeling a little lost, or as some say, a little empty. When we think we should be feeling joy and gratitude, we might instead feel guilt, purposelessness, or our own version of grief. Many of us assume a transplant will change us, improve us, only to wake up and realize that the only things that have changed are a new organ and a regimen of life-sustaining medications.

I can attest to all of these feelings—this has been my experience. Writing helps. As do time with family, my faith, and my near-daily walks with friends. These things help me express myself, feel understood, and provide a sense of belonging that I deeply missed while waiting for my transplant and during recovery.

It was that feeling of belonging that kept me rooted in running for so many years. You see, I was never a good enough runner to be remotely competitive. Early on, I didn’t even particularly enjoy it. But over time, as it became part of my everyday routine, running evolved into an invigorating, cleansing ritual. I considered it as much a part of my hygiene regimen as brushing my teeth. A daily sweat session could purify my soul almost as effectively as repentance and prayer. In fact, whether on the treadmill or the pavement, I often found myself in an attitude of self-reflection that naturally led to prayer and repentance.

Then, at the age of 24, I registered for my first race—a spring fun run in Sugar House Park. My neighbor and I signed up together as a way to get back in shape after having our first babies just one week apart. It was at that fun run that I discovered running could offer something more: community. The shared enthusiasm, anticipation, and—dare I say—joy were contagious. It never seemed to matter that I wasn’t elite, had never run a marathon (thank goodness, as that level of training could have accelerated my ARVC progression and need for a transplant), or ran in leggings instead of speed shorts. I was one of them—a runner, part of a unique group of people who tolerated pain and endured grueling circumstances better than most.

Running became more than a daily habit; it became a part of my identity.

Unfortunately, after my ARVC (arrhythmogenic right ventricular cardiomyopathy) diagnosis, running was something I had to give up. Over time, I made peace with that prescription. Even so, there was a hole left behind—a void where running once lived. I will probably always grieve those easy days when the rhythm of my feet hitting the ground felt natural and effortless, as well as that community I no longer feel a part of.

Recently, I read an article in Bonus Days magazine about a young woman named Wendy who received a small bowel transplant during the COVID restrictions of 2022. Isolation was the norm then, especially in the hospital. Her husband couldn’t even be with her during her inpatient stay. In the article, she shared two insights that stood out to me. When asked what illness had taught her, she said, “Health is a crown only the sick can see.” And when asked what joy looks like for her now, she said, “To get to a place of joy with where I am, I had to grieve the life I thought I was going to have so I could make space for the amazing and beautiful life that I do have.”

I said in an earlier post that it is perfectly okay to see the clouds along with the silver lining. We don’t always have to maintain a shining outlook to prove our gratitude. Without recognition and reflection, the hard parts of our lives can’t teach us anything. If we don’t look back, we’ll never know how far we’ve come. Grieving is an honest and necessary part of that process.

I know I will never be the runner I once was—age alone presents enough of a barrier. But my goal for 2026—my New Year’s resolution, if you will—is to train for, sign up for, and complete an organized 5K. I know I won’t be fast and won’t place anywhere near the top of my age group. But I will be proud of myself for showing up—for allowing myself the space to release old expectations and reconnect with a part of myself I thought I had mourned and buried long ago. 

This goal isn’t about reclaiming what I lost or proving that I’m “back.” It’s about honoring who I am now—someone shaped by grief, grit, and resilience. Crossing that finish line won’t symbolize victory over illness or a return to a former identity. Instead, it will mark my willingness to keep moving forward, to carry the past with tenderness and gratitude rather than regret, and to make room for joy as it exists today. I am healing, and healing takes honesty, grace, and a fair amount of courage. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do isn’t to run faster or farther, but simply to have the faith to begin again.