Author: Daniel Roe
The first time I ran after the accident, it felt like drowning. My lungs had forgotten how to stretch, my ribs creaked with every inhale, and the scar across my chest pulsed like an echo.
My doctor said running was optional. “You’ll live fine without it,” she’d told me. But I didn’t want to live fine. I wanted to live again.
The first mile was agony. By the second, I stopped counting pain and started counting steps. Somewhere around the sixth, the rhythm took over. Breath, foot, breath, foot, and I realized I wasn’t chasing strength. I was chasing peace.
Recovery isn’t about getting back what you lost. It’s about meeting the person who survived the loss. Every mile, I met him again — the man who could fall, break, and still run toward sunrise.
Now, whenever I run, I listen for my breath. It’s not perfect, but it’s proof. Proof that I’m still here.
