In his words
I only meant to go out that once.
- My mission
- Not letting anyone feel as alone as I felt.
- My dream
- A foundation in my son's memory.
- Days run
- 361
- Days missed
- 0
Rafaël died eight years ago. He was two — seven days past his second birthday when he left, so suddenly.
People assume the worst part is the first year, and the first year you are carried: everybody phones, everybody comes round. It's the years after that nobody sees, when the world has moved on and you haven't.
I started running before any of this, when I was in a really low spot. I was trying to stop smoking cigarettes, cannabis, alcohol, and the pain medication I was on for a back injury — trying to get sober from all of it, at a point where I felt like I'd lost everything. My mental health, my physical health, my emotional health, my family, and the woman of my life.
All I wanted was for him to be proud of me. I got it wrong plenty of times. But wanting to see him again meant finding my way to heaven, and that left me with a lot of work to do. To be worthy.
Almost eight years ago, I said I would walk for him one day.
So last September I started running in his memory. I wanted something of my own that was hard and yet simple, and I wanted to stop waiting for the missing him to get smaller. Running for him, for my family, for my health — and away from the thoughts and the habits I'd been fighting.
I went out at the beginning of September. Then I went again the next day, and again after the whole month was over, and I haven't stopped since. Every day, no matter what, no matter how I felt, no matter what it was doing outside. Twice a day, three times a day, some days at eleven at night. In the rain, in the snowstorm, on the days I didn't want to be here at all.
That's all it is, really. One run, and then getting up and doing it again and again. Eight years on, it's the closest thing I've found to carrying him with me.
