Coming Home

Coming Home

Nine months ago, my psychologist recommended I go on antidepressants.

I was numb. Detached. Passively watching the world fade in and out of focus. I lived in the spaces between panic attacks, and my disordered behaviors around food and training intensified. I was claustrophobic, trapped inside a version of myself I no longer recognized.

Since that appointment, I’ve made some major life changes. I quit my job and co-founded a nonprofit. I admitted to myself, and the world, that I have an eating disorder. I prioritized my health and wellbeing above my professional endeavors. I stopped asking for permission. I allowed myself to dream again.

I also booked a month-long trip to Colorado.

Impulsive? Maybe. Unnecessary? Perhaps. But nine months ago, I wanted to run away. I wanted an escape. Now, sitting at 10,000 feet with the Sawatch Range lining the horizon, I know that even surrounded by mountains, I can’t escape myself. And I no longer want to.


Over the last few years, I lost my sense of self. I grew a layer of skin that was not my own. It scratched and chafed, leaving me raw and insecure. It was a mask, affixed to my being in an attempt to please others’ expectations – and my own. I tried desperately to shed this skin, to reveal the raw flesh – my flesh – lying underneath, waiting to breathe the cool, fresh air. But my fear and anxiety forced me to cling to this tattered skin, to the sense of safety and familiarity, to what I felt was expected of me. To the woman I no longer recognize.

Over the course of this trip, I’ve shed that layer of skin. I am uncomfortable and anxious. Challenged and in awe. I am vulnerable and dependent on others’ kindness and generosity. I am asking for help and grappling with my ego. I depend on others’ advice and know-how. I am trusting others, and, in that process, learning to trust myself. I am struggling, growing, and achieving. And yet, I am finally sitting still, at peace with my current self.

Prior to this trip, I was anxious. Taking this time felt selfish and unnecessary. Unproductive and lackluster. I should be climbing a corporate ladder, or at least working on my grad school applications. Instead, I’m climbing mountains. And I’m okay with that.

After weeks of running trails, reading and writing, and eating Puffins Cereal in trailhead parking lots, I feel an unfamiliar sense of ease. A strange sense of calm and acceptance. I’ve stopped tugging at my shirt, attempting to hide parts of my appearance. I’ve lost my mascara and worn the same dirty running skirt three times. I am not mentally cluttered or emotionally burdened. I am tired, yet rested. Humbled, yet empowered. I am here – within the mountains, but also within myself.


This trip reframed my perspective. It exposed my limitations and strengths. It led me to a mountain ridge, gasping for air. It allowed me to camp miles from civilization, free from obligations and expectations. It created new relationships and strengthened old ones. It forced me to trust and depend on others – and to trust and depend on myself. It taught me that home is not a location, it is the people you chose to surround yourself with, including yourself.

The mountains have a time and place, and I am grateful that time is now and place is here. And while I am ready and excited to return home from this adventure, the mountains’ rugged and unassuming beauty will always compel me. The mountains will always bring me home.

Lighting the Flame

Lighting the Flame

My first-ever run was on a hot summer afternoon at sixth grade cross-country practice. I hated it. Every afternoon I purposely ran on roots, sticks, and uneven ground hoping I would trip, fall, break an ankle, and never have to run again. I quit the team within two weeks.

Three months later, I was watching a video my science teacher had created about his mini-marathon training program. His classroom was adorned with race bibs and finisher medals, and he had an infectious endorphin-fueled outlook on life. In the dimly lit halls of my middle school, this teacher was a ray of light. Every year he coordinated a program for students to train and race the Indianapolis Mini Marathon together. It was a daunting challenge, especially considering I had declared my hatred for the sport, but with encouragement from my teacher and pressure from my peers, I signed up. My parents doubted me, and for good reason, I couldn’t finish a three-kilometer race — but I was determined.

Training began in February. We ran laps inside the middle school, and by “ran,” I mean we sprinted down hallways, giggled at boys, and walked until we had to run and hide from our pre-pubescent emotions again. It was fun.

As we shifted our training to the outdoors in the spring, my dad decided to join me. Twice a week we ran, together. Slowly, deliberately, gleefully. While it wasn’t quite as “cool” to be running with my dad, I cherished these miles. My father taught me the mantra, “slow and steady wins the race,” which became the soundtrack of my journey as a runner. Miles ticked by as I vented to him about the tribulations of being a twelve-year-old girl. He listened as I lamented about cliques, classes, and life’s lack of fairness. He provided insight and wisdom, laughter and inspiration. He taught me confidence, self-belief, and humility. He believed in me when I didn’t know how. He could see a soft flame flickering within me, waiting to be ignited.

Middle school Samantha racing the Indianapolis Mini Marathon

We ran my first half-marathon together, stride for stride, without walking a single step. It took three hours, and most of my peers beat me. But I finished my first race, with my best friend and greatest training partner, and it was exhilarating.

I kept running.

Over the next three years I ran multiple half marathons, each faster than the last. There was no more chasing boys, just miles. My dad continued to be my trusted training partner, and I started to run with my mom as well. She became my sounding board for life’s conflicts, failures, frustrations, and victories. We shared laughter, tears, wisdom, and love on the pavement. My parents were so much more than training partners; they became trusted confidants and mentors. They taught me to run, and eventually, like a child riding without training wheels for the first time, they let me run without them.

It was in this solitude that I found myself.

Every footfall, mile, and race was an opportunity to discover another layer within myself, to dig deep into my adolescent mind and find so much more than a mess of hormones. I unraveled every layer, finding my relentless drive, deep anxiety, and enduring tenacity; I found my need for acceptance, longing for validation, and hunger for a challenge. I continue to peel away these layers today. The solitude of a quiet run pulls back each layer revealing my vulnerable, raw, and unearthed remains, building this intricate account of myself I aspire to know.

Running is my sanctuary. It is where the push and pull of my muscles brings stillness and calm to my mind. It is where the comforting rhythm of my breathing reminds me that I’m alive. It is where I find myself — broken, grateful, whole, and yet never complete. One footfall after another, running is where my story begins.

This story was originally published with the Lane 9 Project here.