Every morning begins the same way, yet now it feels wholly different. Before, I would roll out of bed to go through the motions, yet now a pull myself from one step to the next. Before I can even entertain the thought of facing the day ahead and look myself in the mirror, I drag myself to the treadmill in the corner of my garage gym. It's become more than just a piece of exercise equipment; it's a lifeline, a tether keeping me afloat and within my body.
As I step onto the treadmill, the weight of grief settles around me like a heavy blanket. Each step heavy, the weight of grief hangs heavy on my shoulders, pulling me down with each trudging step, as if I carry the weight of the world within me.
And yet, I keep moving. Because even as my heart is oddly ok some days and pangs in my chest other days, I know that I cannot let the darkness consume me. So I push myself first just to get up and go, then to go just a little bit faster, and maybe in a day, a week, a month to run, as if the physical exertion can somehow outrun the pain that lingers in the shadows.
But it's not just the treadmill that serves as a reminder of what I have lost. As I move through my workout routine to squats because it’s leg-day, what should be my favorite day, each breath that gets deeper and harder between reps brings me back to those agonizing hours spent with my child in my arms, watching helplessly as he fought to hold on.
I can hear the sound of his labored breathing, the sight of his tiny chest rising and falling with each gasp for air. I remember the feeling of my own chest tightening with fear and grief, the desperate prayers whispered in the silence of the hospital room to bring him peace.
And yet, amidst the pain and the heartache, there is also a strange sense of comfort in the familiarity of the ritual. As I struggle to catch my breath between sets, there is a strange sense of satisfaction and reassurance as I am reminded that I am still here, still fighting, still clinging to the fragments of a life that I once knew. Oddly, I’m also enamored by my strange pride in his tenacity and ability to push for as long as his little heart, probably the size of a small clementine, could.
Each drop of sweat that falls to the ground is an offering, a silent vow to honor the memory of Aiden by living my life with purpose and intention. Even on the days when the weight of grief threatens to crush me, I find solace in the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other, of breathing in and out, of moving forward, one step at a time.
