I signed up for the May run streak through Still I Run, a group dedicated to promoting running for mental health. It felt like the right alignment—both symbolically and practically. I’ve long believed in the therapeutic power of running, and I’ve seen it firsthand in my own life. Running has helped me manage grief, stress, and the weight of days I didn’t think I could get through.

But this streak? I haven’t kept it.

The requirement is just one mile a day. That’s it. And still, I haven’t been able to do it. The irony’s not lost on me—that I’m part of a running-for-mental-health challenge and yet I can’t seem to run consistently, alone, even for ten or fifteen minutes.

It’s not that I’ve stopped running completely. Far from it. Since the start of the year, I’ve logged over 250 miles. But almost all of those have been with groups—scheduled pub runs, team relay practices, communal miles that come with accountability. When I know someone might notice I’m missing, I show up. At least I tell myself they might miss me. Two different pub groups, a lot of overlap. Most of the runners are younger, but we mesh well. There’s a rhythm to it—show up, run, drink, laugh. I’ve come to rely on that rhythm. It’s kept me afloat more than once.

But I’ve barely run solo in weeks. I’ve felt apathetic, heavy. It’s not physical exhaustion—it’s something duller, something that creeps in slowly and stays. I’ve wasted hours in front of screens, telling myself I’m resting when I’m really just avoiding. I know the cycle well. I’ve been dealing with depression in waves since January 2022, when my daughter was killed. Some days I run with the grief. Some days I run to outrun it. And some days, like lately, I just sit with it, motionless.

Let me be clear: I’m not suicidal. I’m not in danger. I’m not asking for help. I have a good life—a great life by many standards. I’m surrounded by people who care. I have meaningful friendships and goals. I’m not lacking in support or structure. But depression doesn’t always respond to reality. It can coexist with gratitude. It can thrive in full rooms. It’s not always loud. Sometimes, it’s just a quiet erosion of momentum.

And I feel that erosion now. I’ve got a team relay coming up this week, and I’m running three legs of it. I should’ve trained more. I know I’ll finish—because that’s what I do—but I also know I won’t feel ready. Then, later in the year, I’ve got another team relay before two fall marathons. I should be building mileage right now. I want to be more consistent. Not for the streak. Not for the medals. For myself.

Mid-summer, my group run commitments will increase to four days a week, and I know that will help. I’ll move more. I’ll show up because it’s expected. But that doesn’t address what’s really eating at me—the inability to run alone. That used to be where I did my best thinking. Where I healed. And now I avoid it, as if silence is something dangerous.

Still, I keep showing up where I can. Sometimes that means group runs. Sometimes it means writing this down. It doesn’t look like a perfect streak. It doesn’t meet the daily mile requirement. But it’s still a kind of motion. Still a kind of endurance.

Still I run—even if it’s mostly metaphor for now.