Still here

I see you there, running. I see you in the sunny morning, perfect for a long, leisurely trail run. I see you in packs of like-minded people, pursuing their passion. I see you running fast, swift, strong. I feel your joy, and I relish it from my distant vantage point. I see you in my closet, overflowing with shoes both tired and worn and a few still pretty new, waiting for their turn to go out again. I see you asking me if I'll race next week...hopeful, maybe, that I haven't given up. I see you on the roads and on the trails and in my mind.

I know that you know I am watching you from afar, and I know that you are looking for me too. Looking for a sign that I'm still here. This is your sign. I'm here. But I'm not the same, running. It hurts now....my whole body hurts. I run, but not like I used to. Not like I want to. I run until my body tells me to stop, and then I stop. No desire to keep moving forward. I stop when it hurts, and sometimes I sit down. 

The pain is overwhelming, running. But I'm getting help. Help you couldn't give me, and I could not have expected to come from you. I have a whole team, actually, helping me deal with the pain of past and present. 

Like all religions, running, an element of faith is required. I am putting faith in you, running, that you will be there for me when I have worked through the pain and emerge a whole, healed person. In the meantime, I'll do what I can to help and support others, and to give as much of me as I can to you. And I expect, in the end, that you'll give back to me tenfold.