I chose not to flee from my pain.

I chose not to flee from sorrow.

I went to my friend's place for dinner after a month since her funeral. I felt detached from the conversations happening around me; my brain was clouded by sadness. I couldn't summon the will to engage with anyone.

My gaze fell on a lovely photo frame displaying my friend and her mother in front of a rose bush in Eugene, Oregon, embracing one another tightly.

This photograph sparked memories of the last time my mother visited me in Oregon. She shared pictures on Facebook from all the airports between Vermont and Eugene – a book open on her lap in Salt Lake City, a coffee cup next to her. "Three hours and 17 minutes until I see my girl."

When I arrived to pick her up at the airport, she rushed to greet me, exuding boundless excitement. We spent the weekend running by the Willamette River and touring covered bridges in the foothills of the Cascades, scouring for the most delectable pastries in a 50-mile area. She participated in a half-marathon. She was 64. I felt we had plenty more miles to cover together. A thousand more adventures to share.

The memories stirred up a torrent of grief, my thighs trembling, eyes watering. Afraid of drawing attention, I made for the bathroom at my friend's home. I sat on the closed toilet and stuffed toilet paper in my eyes to try and halt the deluge. The ache in my heart intensified. I inwardly lamented the years, visits and moments that vanished with my mother.

This was nothing new. Previously, I'd utilised these instances to disguise my grief. At work, the gym, or in line at the brewery on the north side of town, I'd hide my anguish. I'd endure and let out my tears in private. Pretense is what I was attuned to. Pretending to be okay even when I was far from it.

Her funeral saw me grappling with the discomfort people seemed to feel around my emotions. As if grief made them edgy. I grew accustomed to a certain degree of emotional solitude and the societal expectation to swiftly process my loss.

I'd seen friendships wane and colleagues avoid my workspace after every visit to Vermont. I'd even endured a relationship's demise due to its incompatibility with my grief journey.

"You're not positive enough," my then-boyfriend stated, a couple of months after my mother's diagnosis with a rare uterine cancer. Aware of the inevitability of her demise. Feeling positive seemed absolutely unattainable.

My mother faced her cancer boldly, her spirit untamed. She walked the dirt roads near her home every day, even as the chemotherapy side effects weakened her. She'd text me about her friends joining her and how lovely the sky above the undulating hills appeared.

"That's what keeps me going," she said.

Running in honor of my mother

To find solace amidst my mother's death, I resolved to tackle the 460-mile section of the Pacific Crest Trail spanning across Oregon. I aimed to outpace any other human that tried this feat. My mother had kindled my passion for running, her first marathon fuelling my own interest - it was a natural choice to run in her memory.

Then, when I began training, I couldn't help but question if it was wise to attempt such a challenging run while being enveloped in grief.

On one of my initial training sessions, I struggled through the usual preparations. Stretching my fingers felt like manoeuvring through tar. I trudged towards the wooded hills behind my house, reluctant and doubtful. My legs heavy as clay, I pondered the perplexing choice I made.

As soon as I touched the cushioned earth with the soles of my running shoes, I inhaled deeply. My breath filled me up like a mountain stream, finally overflowing from the dam created by my sorrow. This was what I was used to: absorbing sorrow, then shedding it. Tears approaching, I dashed to the bathroom in my friend's house, unwilling to reveal my emotional state in front of an audience.

So, I decided to carry my grief inside me. Pretending to be okay when I was anything but became a habit, a way of life. When people enquired how I was feeling, I responded with the same empty platitude as everyone else: 'fine'. I learned to conceal and inwardly suffer, wrestling with the guilt of holding back my sorrow. Now, it was part of my identity.

But the Pacific Crest Trail run would be different. I couldn't wear a mask while running 460 miles since someone might be there to watch me trip over one. Grief was the truth, and I was going to run through it, allowing my heart to break open. After all, she did.

The gentle earth supported my footsteps as I hurried along. The wind stirred the needles of nearby pines and encircled me. I was reminded of leading my mom down this trail and felt a burning tear streak down my cheek and plummet to the ground beneath. The fierce longing for her accompanied me on my path.

During the first marathon I participated in with my mom, I had gone out at a brisk pace and become weary halfway through, feeling like I could no longer continue. I spotted her powering past me around the 14-mile marker — and I was stunned that her step was so steady and strong.

I cried out to her, "Mom!" like I was a five-year-old child hollering for my mother. However, the crowd of runners was too thick for her to hear me.

I cried again, "Mom!"

I didn't attempt to conceal my feelings at that moment. Few individuals do while running a marathon, or any extended road or path. If you stand on the sidelines of a marathon event, you'll witness raw human emotions on display.

One of the things I most love about running is this phenomenon.

Revealing grief during running

In a 100-mile race, it's nearly a given that you'll encounter a low point. Just about no one arrives at the finish line without encountering a harsh reality: agonizing self-doubt, devastated muscles, a grumpy digestive system, humbling uncertainty.

At these times, we don't take shelter in a bathroom to conceal our feelings. Instead, we face these challenges in the company of our fellow runners, our friends, the volunteers, the spectators.

When my energy cratered at mile 40 of my debut 100-mile race, I informed members of my team, "I'm having a challenging time now," and they didn't shy away from my predicament. They helped me fit into a camping chair, brought me quesadillas, and waited by my side. They provided me with a safe space to work through my low.

When we stand at the starting line of a marathon or a 100-mile race, we acknowledge the vulnerability inherent in the event. We know we might experience a rough patch. We know we might become a living signboard of our most challenging moments. And we march unhesitatingly toward that scenario. We pledge to the humans beside us that we'll support them as they endure their own lows and not avoid them.

There are few places that welcome such emotional honesty — and provide a safe place for it to unfold.

Societal pressure to not grieve

I was granted five workdays of bereavement leave. In this society, there's a limit on the amount of time I'm allowed to be a Sad Girl, in the presence of others beyond my closest family members and friends. There's pressure to go from the depths of Grief Town to the street of Just Fine. Despite my attempts to do so, I'm not there yet.

On the trail, I was free to experience my emotions. When I ventured into the forest, I was like a snake discarding its former shell, revealing a sensitive part of myself. I could lower my defenses and allow my rawest emotions to surface.

I had initially feared the Pacific Crest Trail Race would be too strenuous. However, as my training progressed, I realized that running was the ideal venue for me to process my grief. I found refuge in the miles, allowing my adoration for my mom and my sorrow over her untimely passing to emerge. Running offered me something that is regrettably hard to find: a place where I didn't have to conceal anything, where I could openly express the expansiveness of the terrain beneath my feet and the expansive blue sky above.