October is a month that stalks me.

I swear the calendar flips from September 30 to October 1, and something in the air shifts. The leaves start to fall, and so does my patience, my guard, the lies I tell myself that “I’m okay.” The world around me gets colder, darker, emptier. And I’m dragged right back into the moment when everything in my life changed.

Nineteen years later, and October still feels like a punch I keep walking into.

Yesterday, October 26th, was the day. Not the day she died. Not the day the world found out. Not even the day they found her. The date isn’t neat like that. It never lined up cleanly on a calendar. It was a messy stretch of days where the world collapsed in slow motion and then still expected me to be a functioning human being.

But October 26 is the day the truth hit me.

It’s the day my future erased its foundation. It’s the day I learned that from here on out, there would be no voice saying my name with unconditional love. No one telling me I’m doing okay when I feel like the floor is falling out. No warm hug where you don’t need to speak a single word because the comfort speaks for itself.

Nineteen years ago, I got a phone call that told me none of that was ever coming back.

And that kind of loss changes the chemistry of your brain.

I didn’t want to run yesterday. Not even close. I didn’t want to move. My bed felt like the only place I could survive the day. My body was heavy. My mind was heavier. I kept bargaining with myself: “Maybe tomorrow. Maybe later. Maybe never.”

But something inside me refused to let October win.

And that’s the thing about me. There’s a fire. Controlled, but burning. I’ve spent years trying to tame it, trying to dull it, but grief is fuel whether you like it or not. If I don’t burn it off, it burns me from the inside out.

So I got up. I stepped outside. I stared down a cold, gray half marathon I didn’t want to run.

I didn’t warm up. Didn’t stretch. Didn’t hype myself up. I just pressed start on my watch and went.

At first, every step was a negotiation.
My brain whispering, “You don’t have to do this.”
My heart answering, “The hell I don’t.”

And then the miles started to stack.
1 mile. 2 miles. 3 miles.
Each one peeling back a layer of bullshit until it was just me and my pain.

The thing about running alone?
You’re in first place.
You’re in last place.
You’re the winner and the loser.
There’s no medal. No crowd. No post-race banana.
Just the voice inside you that says keep going or give up.

Yesterday, I kept going.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t heroic.
But it was necessary.

Nineteen years. You would think that’s enough time to figure out how to live again.

Spoiler alert: It’s not.

People assume grief fades. You bury it. You move on. You become normal again. But grief isn’t a moment. It’s a season. And some years, winter just never ends.

October is the worst of it. It’s like all the stress, all the disappointment, all the stuff I didn’t deal with for eleven months bubbles up like a volcano that refuses to stay dormant. Everything I’ve shoved down all year claws back to the surface, screaming, remember me?

October forces me to relive the beginning of the end.

The missing week.
The disbelief.
The waiting.
The fear that everyone tried to deny.
The quiet conversations when the kids weren’t listening.
The moments I tried to pretend everything was fine when I already knew it wasn’t.

And then: the answer no one wanted.

The world doesn’t pause when your life stops.
And that’s the cruel part.

My birthday followed like a joke with no punchline.
Twenty-five years old.
Nothing to celebrate.
No one ready to celebrate anyway.

Christmas didn’t even bother showing up that year.
The tree came down early.
The lights turned off.
The holidays packed into boxes like we were burying joy along with her.

Every tradition became a reminder.
Every happy moment felt like betrayal.

And every October since, the darkness returns like clockwork.

I’ve tried to move forward.
I really have.

I’ve built a life.
A family.
A future.

But I still catch myself reaching for my phone sometimes, thinking I can call her.
Tell her something stupid but important.
Hear her say my name in that way only moms can say it.

I still crave the person who would’ve understood me when I didn’t understand myself.

The world keeps spinning.
I keep running.
But some pieces never catch up.

Running has become the only space where I feel like I’m in control of the chaos inside me.

It’s not therapy.
It’s not salvation.
It’s survival.

When I run, I’m not the man who lost his mother.
I’m not the guy pretending October doesn’t hurt.
I’m not the one with a brain looping the same worries, the same imaginary conversations, the same self-criticism at full volume.

When I run, I’m the guy moving forward. One direction. No detours.

Yesterday, that direction was 21.1 kilometers of stubbornness.

A half marathon with no finish line tape.
No cheering crowd.
No one waiting with a medal at the end.

Just me.
Soaking wet with cold sweat.
Heart pounding like a war drum.
Breathing like I was fighting for my life.

And maybe I was.

People talk about “moving on.”
Let me translate that.

Moving on means learning to live with invisible weights strapped to your chest.

Moving on means laughing at a joke and then feeling guilty for laughing.

Moving on means building a life that someone you love will never see.

Moving on means waking up every day and choosing to keep going when a part of you wants to freeze time and go back.

Moving on means pain is permanent, but quitting isn’t an option.

I don’t know how to live without her voice.
But I’m learning how to run with the silence.

Which brings me to today.
October 27.

Nineteen years ago, I woke up still in disbelief.

I didn’t want to face the truth.
Didn’t want to be the man everyone suddenly expected me to be.
Didn’t want to accept that the world doesn’t always give you a choice.

And today?
Different year.
Same questions.

How do I go on?
How do I continue?
How do I be a man when the person who raised me into one is gone?

I don’t have clean answers.
I don’t have neat quotes to wrap this up like a gift.
I don’t have the satisfaction of healing.

But I do have something:

Forward motion.

Yesterday wasn’t a race.
It was a rebellion.

A middle finger to the part of my brain that wanted to stay in bed and let grief choke out the day.

A dare to myself to keep climbing even when October tries to knock me flat.

A reminder that I can still fight.

Even when it hurts.
Especially when it hurts.

I named it The Get-Up-Anyway Half Marathon.

Because that’s the mantra.
That’s the survival plan.
That’s how you outrun the darkness, even if only by inches.

Now, I look ahead.

Marathon training starts November 1st.
A date that feels like a line in the sand.
A promise I’m making out loud so I can’t back out.

This month has been rest.
Next month is war.

Not a war against grief.
Not a war against my past.
A war against the part of me that still wants to give up.

I run because I have to.
Because energy has to go somewhere.
Because if I stop, everything catches up.

I run because I want to be better.
For myself.
For the people who look up to me now.
For the woman who never got to see who I’ve become.

I run because she can’t.

This is not a redemption arc.
Not yet.
This is not a triumphant comeback story.
Not yet.

This is the part where I keep grinding through the miles with a fire under my ribs and pain clawing at my mind.

This is the part where I get up anyway.

Because I owe that to myself.
Because I owe that to the people who are still here.
Because I owe that to her.

Nineteen years later, I’m still running toward the light.
Some days it feels close.
Some days it looks like a distant star.

But I’m not stopping.

Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Not November 1st.
Not ever.

Controlled fire.
Forward motion.
Get. Up. Anyway.