The Quiet Strength of Continuing
Choosing not to run this 11K wasn’t just about a race—it was about letting go of a vision I’d held close throughout a long, challenging recovery. My journey began twenty months ago when a herniated disc reshaped my life, changing my relationship with my body, my goals, and even my future. In those early days, I could only walk eleven steps. I remember the frustration of those first attempts, each step feeling like a reminder of everything I once took for granted. I was disappointed and, if I’m honest, even angry with myself, as though years of work hadn’t mattered. It felt unfair, but I realised that life doesn’t owe us anything, and no one is exempt from difficulty.
Support came through my family and friends, each bringing their unique gifts to help me find the strength to keep going. My daughter, an ICU nurse, carefully managed my medications in those difficult early days, a simple yet profound gesture of love. My daughter-in-law, a Health Psychologist, helped me navigate exercise expectations, teaching me to pace myself and adapt with patience. My other daughter-in-law offered the grace to be okay with my disappointment, helping me accept what was beyond my control. My son, a doctor, patiently guided me through my diagnosis and medications, giving me knowledge and grounding. And this Sunday, my two sons and husband ran the half-marathon while my daughter and daughter-in-law took on the 11K, all of us celebrating our shared love of running, with my other daughter-in-law waiting at the finish line to cheer us on.
Despite the challenges, I wanted to honour my training and honour myself for completing it. Preparing for this race was about more than recovering from my back injury; it was about relearning how to run, retraining my movement patterns, working around my bunions, and adjusting to the musculoskeletal changes that come with age and post-menopause. I’m also much older than when I ran my first half-marathon. So, although I couldn’t run the entire race due to a recent hip injury, I attempted to walk it instead. I’ve always told myself, “It’s better to try than sit on the couch; it’s better to not get to the finish line than to not get to the start.” Walking was my way of honouring the journey, my body, and the commitment I’ve made.
Reflections from Race Day
Ultimately, I jog-walked the first 5K, counting the distance between each lamppost, and even made it up the Harbour Bridge. But by the time I reached the other side, my hip was excruciating, and I found myself punch-drunk in pain. Humour kicked in—perhaps it’s a natural response, a coping method. I couldn’t help but laugh at its absurdity, thinking it’s genuinely better to laugh than cry. Thankfully, my daughter was there in those final 4 kilometres, literally shouldering me forward as I leaned into her support.
This journey reminds me of Donald Miller’s A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, a book that came into my life through a unique recommendation. A friend’s sixteen-year-old daughter, who had read it herself, said, “You need to get Sharon to read this; this writer talks like her.” Intrigued, I read the book, discovering a message that spoke to the heart of how I try to live. Miller writes about “living a better story” by treating life as a meaningful narrative that we actively shape. He challenges us to set purposeful goals, take risks, and embrace life’s unexpected turns rather than allowing it to unfold passively. He emphasises that a well-lived life is intentional and filled with moments of connection, growth, and resilience.
This idea resonated deeply with me, especially now as I think about the story I’m living and the choices I’m making. “Living a better story” doesn’t always look like triumph or perfection; sometimes, it means finding the grace to adapt, creating meaning from what is possible, not what we originally envisioned. I’m grateful for my family, who showed their own kind of heroism: my husband, who ran just 10 seconds off his personal best; my two sons, who crossed the finish line together; and my daughters-in-law, who not only completed their races but also cheered us on with such enthusiasm. As I prepare to walk this race with my family by my side, I am grateful—not for the plan I once had, but for the strength and support that have carried me here.
This journey has redefined what “full recovery” means. It’s not always about getting back to where we were; sometimes, it’s about discovering a new normal and a lifelong commitment to care. Recovery has required me to put my own health first, which has taught me compassion for others facing their own hidden battles. Each act of resilience—each step, each exercise, each choice to honour our needs—is heroic. We often don’t see the silent struggles others carry, and that realisation has given me a new sense of empathy.
Maybe that’s the redemptive perspective: that a life well-lived isn’t measured solely by achievements but by how we embrace life’s journey and grow through it. Miller’s book talks about living intentionally, creating connections, and nurturing dreams that shape us and those around us. In sharing this story, I hope to encourage others to view life as a narrative they can actively shape. Our stories, rich with change and challenge, are unique and meaningful not because they follow a perfect script but because they reflect who we are at each turn.
If you’re on a journey of your own, know that the courage to adapt and the grace to accept a new path are part of a beautiful story that doesn’t require perfection but only the willingness to live fully in each moment. As you go forward, remember that resilience and love in action shape the best stories. Here’s to living a better story, wherever it may lead.
