I am a runner. If you are not a runner, please don’t worry; this piece is not really about running. You are safe to keep reading. For most of my adult life, running has been my preferred form of exercise. Half marathons are definitely my favorite distance. I find them challenging but doable. Running reminds me of my strength. I love the sense of accomplishment, both mentally and physically, I feel when I finish a long run or a race. Running centers and grounds me, and brings me joy.

Over the years, I have developed a training program that has served me well. I have completed around forty-five half marathons, as well as several other races. Most of these races have gone smoothly, but a few have had a few hiccups. Now and then, the weather has thrown me a curveball, or I have made a regrettable food choice the day before a race that caused some trouble during the run, but overall, the races have been good and always fun. I have a little practice after a race of reflecting on what worked and what didn’t, which helps me fine-tune and improve my racing. In almost thirty years, nothing catastrophic has ever happened to me during a race. Famous last words!

Training and experience have reliably carried me through, even the tough patches, until they didn’t. My most recent race went spectacularly wrong at mile 5, something I was totally unprepared for and did not anticipate. The race began quickly, with stunning views and ideal weather. And then, for reasons I’m still trying to sort, everything fell apart all at once. I hit a mental brick wall of  “I can’ts” that seemed impossible to move past. I tried everything and was nearly in tears and ready to quit, which rarely happens to me, even outside of running. I am a strong person and definitely not a quitter, and I was emotionally collapsing. It was at this moment that I heard a quiet voice next to me ask, “Do you mind if I run with you? I’m struggling.” My first thought was decidedly unfriendly, another hint at my terrible mental state at that moment. Are you kidding me, I thought?! I was literally hanging on by a thin thread. The last thing I wanted to do was run with someone else. I signaled “fine” with a curt nod, figuring I’d just let her pass, start walking, and ditch her. I know, I know, very unkind of me, but I just wanted to stop running, cry, and go home. Then she said, “You are motivating me to keep going. You look strong.” I am sure I looked at her like she had lost her mind. Strong was literally the last thing I felt. It then occurred to me that maybe she saw something in me that, in those moments, I was unable to see in myself. Perhaps I was too focused on my collapse to see clearly. I looked more closely at her. To me, she did not appear to be struggling at all. Okay, so maybe both of us were hiding our inner struggles. And perhaps we could keep each other going if we ran together. At the very least, we could distract each other from our own suffering long enough to finish the race. And that is precisely what we did. We talked about anything and everything except running and the race. The conversation was light and positive. Together, we ran, together we found our strength again, and together we crossed the finish line. We thanked each other and said goodbye. No pressure to become friends, okay with simply being supportive in the moments that both of us had so desperately needed.

Colleen, as I came to learn her name, had admitted something to me, a total stranger at mile 5, that is so hard for many of us, myself included. She simply shared that she was struggling. When I reflect on that moment now, she really only asked if she could run with me, nothing more. Colleen did not ask me to fix her struggle or even to support her run; she just wanted company in her own struggle. In being vulnerable, she also created a space for me to acknowledge my own struggles. Not once did either of us try to cheer each other on with “you got this” platitudes. It was deeper than that. Sometimes, just not being alone during a time of struggle is enough to ease the flow of suffering long enough so that you can see beyond it, find yourself and your strength again. Neither of us needed “fixing”; we just needed a little mutual support.

Often, people see strength in us that we do not see or feel in ourselves, especially when we are consumed by our own suffering. When we are suffering, we can’t see the forest through the trees, and we forget our power, our strength, our gifts. We often feel ashamed of asking for help. Being vulnerable is really hard. To need others, even for a moment, can seem like a tall order.  We worry about seeming weak, incompetent, or being rejected. And yet, more often than not, we are happy to support others in their times of struggle. It’s a complicated paradox for sure. In admitting her struggle, Colleen gave me a safe place to admit my struggle. Owning my own suffering made it somehow less awful and uncomfortable. I felt less alone, less overwhelmed. How might the world look if we tried to do this for others, strangers, and people we know, and even for ourselves in small and big ways?  What if we just held quiet space for other people’s suffering, for our own, without trying to solve it? Perhaps this is the kind of cheerleader we all need from time to time. Just another beautifully imperfect human, like us, bravely sharing with us that they also struggle from time to time. Showing us that we are not alone. Reminding us that we are strong, even when we don’t feel like we are.