The strength to power on
Domestic abuse survivors run for their lives to freedom
We stood around a stop sign after we finished running the 5K course for practice. And the woman who always had a story, had a story. It was 2013. Some other runners and I were preparing a group of domestic violence survivors from Unity House to run their first 5K. Three days a week for months, we trained together through rain, bad days and clouds of self-doubt.
The world comes at domestic abuse with strange judgment, as if a relationship gives someone license to assault and break down another human being. My group was about building survivors back up, about high-fives and shouting “you’ve got this” at every mile, about reminding them they hold power.
After the practice run, we stood around talking about what bad asses they were for finishing a hilly 3.1 miles, and the woman who always had a story told a story I’ll never forget.
Months before, she had shared with her case manager that she was sure her husband would kill her. He’d thrown her down stairs and terrorized her in ways you’d never want to imagine. Her life was a series of calculations, trying to anticipate and manage his reactions so as not to put her and her children in danger. If she left, he’d get angrier. If she sent him to jail for violating the protective order, he’d come out madder. He’d find her. She’d die.
Somewhere in their discussion, the case manager suggested the woman join the group I had just started. Having become a runner to manage the stress of what was happening in my own life, a small voice followed me on runs telling me I should create a couch-to-5k training program for domestic violence survivors. When I was a sports columnist for the Times
Union, I’d mentioned this thought in a single line of a column, and an Episcopal priest who ministers to survivors reached out to say she would help.
I was in no place to take this on. The assistant principal who had to listen to my emotional breakdown on the phone one day when my twins were in kindergarten could stand witness to that. But I met with the priest. She pointed me to Unity House, and just like that, I was the coach of a running program even though I was a novice. And just like that, this woman who always had a story was now part of mine, my eyes welling with tears while I was sweating by a stop sign.
The woman talked about how she’d only said yes to the running program because the caseworker promised baby-sitting. But what she found through running a minute, then three, then eight, was something she always had but never felt — her own strength. She noticed the tone developing in her muscles. She noticed the tone change in her mind.
She stopped believing he held all the power. She could run away from him now, and he wouldn’t be able to catch her.
That woman stayed in my life as the organization grew. We became a nonprofit called Strong Through Every
Mile and have taken more than 100 women to their first finish lines.
It’s easy to talk about hard things with someone when you’re running. And over the years, as I trotted alongside new runners, they’d pick up the pace, and I would pick up their pain, details of stories no one should have to live and that I will carry forever. But I carry their victories, too.
The woman who always had a story crossed many 5K finish lines. She pushed through many more hard times. But she found a career. She bought a house. She created a safe space for her children.
Her ex went on to kill his new partner.
Recently, after serving as president of Strong Through Every Mile for eight years, I’ve left the organization in the hands of new leaders, women who also believe in treating survivors with love and unconditional positive regard. Life has seasons, and it’s time to pass this precious gift from a small voice on. The right new board members will come, the runners will come, the donations will come, all because even though society doesn’t care about domestic violence the way it should, it’s no accident that Hebrews says to “let us run with endurance the race that God has set before us.”
Somewhere, someone reading this is being asked to run their race. Whatever the call is, the plan isn’t yours, but it’s simple: There’s a person who always has a story. Your job is to add to it.
It’s easy to talk about hard things with someone when you’re running. And over the years, as I trotted alongside new runners, they’d pick up the pace, and I would pick up their pain, details of stories no one should have to live and that I will carry forever. But I carry their victories, too.