When Grief Shows Up

Grief is a funny thing. It can hit you at the strangest times.

Just today, I had finished my run and sat down to stretch when a wave of overwhelming sadness came over me. Like most people, I’ve experienced moments like this off and on for as long as I can remember. Sometimes these waves are tied to childhood, other times to more recent losses.

There was a time when I used to fight these moments. I didn’t want to feel them. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to understand that it’s important to embrace grief when it shows up.

Sometimes it’s the loss of someone I’ve loved that rises to the surface. I think of my grandmother, Mary, who I lost when I was six years old. I loved her deeply, and I know she loved me just as much. Other times, it’s dear friends—Joanna, Rachel, Catherine—whose absence I feel.

And sometimes, the grief is more abstract. It’s the loss of a relationship I never really had, like the one with my own mother, who chose to leave when I was just eight years old. Other times, it’s grief for something I thought might be part of my life, but never came to be.

Whatever form it takes, I’ve learned to let the grief come. I try to ride the wave instead of resisting it. There are usually tears. But eventually, when I’m thinking about the people I’ve lost, the memories begin to soften the edges, and sometimes even bring a smile.

Not all grief transforms that way. Some losses—like the relationship with my mother—still sit heavy.

Not all grief turns into something soft or beautiful. Some of it stays heavy. Some of it still hurts in ways that time hasn’t fixed—and maybe never will.

And I’m no longer trying to fix it.

Because grief isn’t a problem to solve. It’s a reflection of love, of longing, of what mattered—and still matters.

It’s part of me now. Not something I carry reluctantly, but something I’ve made space for.

Because every loss, every absence, every “what could have been” has shaped the way I see the world, the way I love the people who are still here, and the way I show up for myself.

Grief didn’t just break me open.

It changed me.

And at some point, I stopped resisting that—and started honoring it.

Learning to Start Again Without Motivation

The worst of perimenopause and menopause hit me right around the time the world shut down in 2020. Looking back, it was the perfect storm. Overnight, routines disappeared, uncertainty took over, and many of the habits I’d built and relied on for years slowly unraveled. Things that once felt automatic – movement, structure, self-care – suddenly felt heavy and optional.

Even now, years later, and despite feeling so much better physically, and mentally, I have struggled to fully return to those healthy habits. I kept telling myself that once the motivation came back, everything else would fall into place. But the truth is, the motivation just hasn’t shown up the way I expected it to.

What I finally realized is that for where I am right now, discipline has to come first. Motivation can’t be the prerequisite anymore – it must be the result. I’m trusting that as I show up consistently, as I begin to see progress and feel more like myself again, the motivation will follow.

There’s a reason Nikes “Just Do It” campaign has stood the test of time. It’s simple, honest, and uncomfortable in the best way. Sometimes you don’t feel ready. Sometimes you don’t feel inspired. But you do it anyway.

I’m no longer allowing myself to sit around, waiting for motivation to magically appear, because experience has taught me that it doesn’t work that way for me. Instead, I’m choosing discipline – small, intentional actions done consistently, even on the days I don’t feel like it. To help keep that commitment front and center, I’ve given myself a small physical reminder: something I wear on my wrist as a cue to follow through.

This season isn’t about perfection or pushing too hard. It’s about rebuilding trust with myself, one disciplined choice at a time, and believing that motivation will meet me along the way.

Why I Strike a Superhero Pose on My Long Runs

At some point during most of my long runs, I stop, turn toward my phone, and strike what I lovingly call my superhero pose—hands on hips, chest lifted, standing tall. Sometimes I’m sweaty. Sometimes I’m tired. Sometimes I’m questioning every life choice that led me to this exact mile.

And every single time, I take the photo anyway.

The idea for this pose didn’t come from a running book or a coach. It actually came from an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. In the scene, one of the characters talks about “power posing”—standing in a confident, expansive posture for a short amount of time to change how you feel. The claim was that holding a superhero-style stance for just two minutes could increase testosterone, lower cortisol, and boost confidence.

Naturally, I was skeptical. Two minutes of standing still doesn’t exactly sound like a magic fix.

So I did what many of us do when something catches our attention: I researched it. And while the science isn’t perfect or unanimous, there is evidence suggesting that posture can influence mindset. Standing tall, taking up space, and opening your body can signal confidence to your brain—even if you don’t feel particularly confident in the moment.

Here’s the thing: I never stand in that pose for two minutes. Sometimes it’s ten seconds. Sometimes it’s just long enough to snap a photo and laugh at myself. But somehow, it still works.

Over time, the superhero pose has become a tradition—my own quiet ritual during long runs. It’s a pause that says, Look at you. You’re doing this. It’s a reminder that showing up matters, even when the run isn’t perfect, even when my body feels different than it used to.

And in the last few years, my body has changed—dramatically. Perimenopause and menopause brought exhaustion, weight gain, brain fog, and a sense of disconnect that I wasn’t prepared for. I didn’t always recognize the runner staring back at me in the mirror. Some days, I still don’t.

There are moments—mid-run, mid-mile, mid-thought—when I ask myself why I keep pushing. Why I keep training. Why I keep lacing up when things feel harder than they used to.

The answer isn’t about pace or distance or race goals anymore.

I keep going because running helps me feel like me.

The superhero pose is my way of honoring that. It’s not about pretending I’m invincible or strong all the time. It’s about acknowledging resilience. About standing tall in a body that’s changing. About claiming pride in the effort, not just the outcome.

So yes, I’ll keep stopping on my long runs. I’ll keep striking that pose. I’ll keep reminding myself—on tired legs and uncertain days—that strength doesn’t disappear just because things change.

Sometimes, strength looks like simply showing up… and standing tall long enough to remember who you are.