Running Through Grief: How Loss Changed My Life Forever
I have always been eager to try new things. From dancing, chess, and hockey to pottery, law school, culinary, and writing, I have spent much of my life chasing different passions, often impulsively and without much warning. But among all the things I have dabbled in, becoming a runner was never one of them. At least, not until life unravelled in ways I never expected, and what began as a simple attempt to move my body became something far more profound.
The original version of this article was published on Medium on 22 December 2022. It is thus important to note the time-difference of dates mentioned in the writing.
A lot has changed since then, and while I still love running, my priorities have gone in a different direction. In addition, the Medium platform has drastically changed over the last few years, so in an effort to preserve my original writings, I thought I’d share a glimpse into my personal life here…
I have vivid memories of my childhood.
When I reflect on or share some of them with friends and family, one thing that always comes up is my eagerness to try new things.
Though I’m sure we’ve all tried several things until we finally find something we’re genuinely passionate about, I’d like to believe that my experience is different simply because I’m incredibly impulsive.
That was just a little introduction line, but to cut to the chase — I’ve dabbled in many passions — from being an aspiring dancer to playing chess and hockey, taking pottery classes, studying law, quitting studying law in favor of culinary, to blogging and writing this post on Medium.
But among my endless list of tried-and-tested things, I’ve never thought of becoming a runner. (It might’ve crossed my mind once or twice, but not really).
Until now, or about a year ago, to be precise.
Well, what happened? You may ask.
As much as I would like to tell you that it was just another impulsive moment in my life, it’s much more than that.
An old family photo somewhere in South Africa — Around 1996.
The Weight of Before
Losing my Father
About two years ago, my then-fiancee, now-husband, and I decided to emigrate from beautiful, sunny South Africa to equally beautiful but sunnier Cyprus.
But before we moved, my life changed unexpectedly and rapidly when first my dad passed away from a heart attack following a 6-year-long struggle with septicemia a few years earlier.
In 2012, at the beginning of my dad’s illness and on holiday with family, my dad complained about a stiff arm one morning while driving around citrus farms in Marble Hall.
Shortly after, what appeared to be a tiny little bump (the size of a marble) on his neck, quickly turned into a coma and health complications that, to a degree, are still a mystery.
Many struggles ensued in my personal life and my family’s.
Unable to work for months, by 2013, my parents had lost the home I grew up and lived in for 24 years, made all my memories, and kissed my first boyfriend.
To make matters worse, my parents had no medical aid in a country where healthcare is either of the highest quality — if you’re lucky enough to afford it — or extremely poor.
Fortunately, my aunt and dad’s sister, an advanced nurse practitioner, managed to step in and provide private healthcare support. Still, after many years of consultations with doctors and physicians, moving from one hospital to another, that medical coverage was also depleted.
During these troubling times, my dad had double-knee replacements in both legs by two orthopedic surgeons.
After his body decided to reject both implants (twice) and suffered severe inflammation, my dad naturally gave up and finally lost the battle on 4 August 2017.
I was traumatized. And so was my mother.
Losing my Mother
My mom truly deserved a medal in all of this.
Wholly absorbed in my dad’s recovery, very few people took notice of my mom.
Not only did she lose her financial freedom when my dad first got ill (my dad lost his long-time position as an aircraft mechanical engineer, and the bills soon piled on her), but she also lost her husband, the house she had built, and known to be her home for years, and her job too.
To say the stress took a toll on her is an understatement. She lost her appetite. And her weight.
When my dad couldn’t walk anymore or get himself out of the bathtub, my mom had to push him in a wheelchair or lift him in her less than 110lb (49kg) tiny frame. Seeing both my parents so fragile killed me, but my mom stayed tough for a while.
At night, when no one was watching though (or thought no one was watching), she would either cry herself to sleep while listening to Prince or drink or both.
A phenomenal wife, mother, grandmother, and my best friend — that she most certainly was.
But seven months after my dad’s passing and having endured further trauma in her personal life; so severe that I’ll probably never share her whole story, my mom decided that this life was too much for her.
On Monday, 5 March 2018, blissfully unaware of the life around me and too focused on healing my own sadness, my mom was lying on a couch and closed her eyes for the last time.
I was traumatized. Again.
What Was Left of Me
If you’re still reading, thank you.
I know that people’s attention spans are only 3 seconds nowadays and that the first paragraph of a story is the most important to keep the reader engaged.
But I needed to give context and wanted to share my story on paper for the first time after nearly five years.
So where was I? My mom. My mom also passed away.
No, Nadia. Be Honest. She chose to kill herself. In the most brutal way imaginable. That was my reality. And it still is. It will forever be.
Looking back and reflecting on that day, I can still vividly recall seeing her hand through the glass sliding door, slightly hanging off the couch where she was lying. Of course, it was dark, so I couldn’t see very well or anything else, but I knew then that my life had forever changed in the most horrific way.
Without going into too much detail about everything that happened after this event and how I recovered mentally, I can only say that my life (really) was never the same again.
Fast forward to today, I realize that had it not been for my husband and solid support from friends and family who didn’t run for the hills every time I went on a drinking lark (which happened a lot, quite frankly), I probably never would’ve found running.
An Unexpected Beginning
While I gradually moved on and processed everything that had happened in the past few years, parts of me got lost along the way.
I didn’t fully grasp this until we packed our bags, moved to Cyprus, and found ourselves completely alone, almost deserted from everything and everyone we thought we knew.
Trust me, if multiple loss doesn’t teach you how alone humans are, then changing your life for an entirely new one certainly will. It forces you to sit with your feelings, no matter what.
At the beginning of 2022, after wallowing in my thoughts alone and having no close connections to share them with for nearly five months since moving, it dawned on me how badly these events affected me and how desperately I needed a fresh start.
Like most, I had new year’s resolutions, one of which waseating less and moving more, obviously. (Aka, getting ‘killer abs.’)
Ps. Can we call it New Years Resolutions if that’s not included?
With my natural impulsive behavior and having bought high-quality running shoes a year or two earlier — which mostly gathered dust in a cupboard somewhere in Johannesburg but managed to make their way to a wardrobe in Cyprus — I decided that that’s how I’ll get into shape.
Through RUNNING. (And maybe a push-up every once in a while).
Learning to Run Again
Let’s wrap this up, shall we?
It’s almost a year later, and we’re again reaching the time for new New Year’s resolutions.
Looking back, what I thought I wanted then, is entirely different from what I received and more invaluable than I ever could’ve imagined. Instead of getting that perfect body that I was striving for at the time, over the year, I rediscovered something entirely different — my mental health.
Being the introvert I am, running has given me the tools and environment to express haunted emotions and feelings in a way that no therapy, friends, antidepressants, or copious amounts of wine ever could.
It’s still early in my running journey, but I have learned so far that, for the first time in my life I’m not pursuing something new just for interest’s sake…
I’m RUNNING.
Running for my dad — who didn’t have the physical ability.
Running for my mom — who didn’t have a voice and whose cup was empty.
And I am running for me — so that I can be free.
A little hello from Tuscany
For many years, Italy lived in my head like an unattainable pipe dream, until the one day my pipe dream came true. This time — my third time traveling Italy — between Florence, Chianti, art, wine, and stillness, I discovered parts of myself again I never even knew was missing.
A dream realised
If you had to ask me when or where my infatuation with Italy (more specifically, Florence) began, I would not be able to answer. But whether through hearsay, history books, envy, fine wine, or otherwise, Italy is, without a doubt in my mind, through its people, culture, food, and geography, the most exquisite place on earth.
Throughout my younger adulthood, I could only dream of ever experiencing Italy with my very own eyes. Life was difficult back then, money was scarce, and life happened rather to me than for me. The pictures, videos, and movies I’d see of my favourite city, Florence, lived like one big pipe dream in my head that I knew, or thought I knew, would never come true.
Yet fast-forward a few years to this very moment, and I am fortunate enough to say that, as I write this, I am blissfully sitting with a glass of blush wine in my hand, overlooking a wine farm in the Tuscany region, Chianti.
The last couple of years have been challenging, to say the least. For everyone, I suppose. If it wasn’t COVID driving the world mad, politics, the war in the Middle East, global warming, whether agreeable or not, socialism, liberalism, or the fear of AI taking over our jobs and the planet as we know it, it is simply the daily struggles of what we like to call life that make everyday hardships seem intolerable.
Needless to say, it’s been a minute. But, let’s backtrack a little to 2021; the year in which curfews were a thing, Baz (my then fiancé and now husband) and I just bought a house, planned a wedding, got married, went on honeymoon and came back making a decision that would change our lives forever.
26 May ‘26. A view from the boutique wine farm, Il Bacio, Tavarnelle
As it turned out, we immigrated to Cyprus during COVID, a little over two months after we got married.
We packed our bags in a heartbeat, sold everything that no longer served us or had meaning to us, including our house, cars, and the majority of our clothes, and left South Africa and everyone we knew behind to start fresh on a small Mediterranean island, in a town, more like a village, called Paphos.
For the most part, it truly is a fairytale. It’s been five years since, and it’s a beautifully honest and simple life. It did not come without hardships though. Job scarcity, loneliness, learning new systems, cultures, and languages, and the fear of the unknown, only to name a few, are constant reminders that maybe we should have just stuck with what we know. And we are still working at it.
With immigration comes living day by day. From fork to mouth, so to speak. Hoping that one day will be better than the next. Hobbies, dreams, and novelty go out the window as quickly as you can think the words, let alone voice them. That said, my passion for writing, cooking, dancing, and pretty much anything artistic or meaningful has been non-existent.
It goes without saying then, that I am so deeply grateful the past few months have been rather kind to us, and that I can sit here and relish in this breathtaking, otherworldly, exquisite place. I can finally say that my passion for the finer things in life is back. A space and place that has become, unapologetically, mine.
26 May ‘26. Our 3-night apartment stay, Pergola at Il Bacio.
Returning to myself
It’s my third time in Italy. The first was two years ago with Baz. We visited Florence then too, exploring the Galleria dell'Accademia, where the Statue of David lives, taking casual evening strolls across the Ponte Vecchio, eating more gelato than my stomach could handle, and reminiscing over the exquisite Florentine views from the Duomo of the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore.
Honestly, it was my biggest dream come true.
But this time, this time hit differently, even though we had already seen Florence before (Apart from the Uffizi Museum, which was an entirely new experience, and of course, the wine farm). Perhaps it was the stillness and tranquility of the vineyard that made me look at Italy through a different lens. Perhaps it was seeing Baz get teary-eyed when he unexpectedly stumbled upon The Birth of Venus by Botticelli, or me literally bawling my eyes out while cruising along the Arno River, overlooking the Ponte Vecchio, listening to a violinist play the theme from Gladiator, that shifted something in me.
Whatever the reason, this trip helped me return to myself in a way I didn’t know was possible.
The theme song of Gladiator — Now We Are Free, by Brazilian violinist Ana Aline Valentim
Have you been to Italy? Have you been to the Chianti region of Tuscany and tasted the organic wine made from grapes still grown in the traditional, non-commercial way? If you have, did you have a life-changing experience the same way I did?
If you haven’t been to Italy, more specifically Florence and Tuscany, and long for some inspiration, self-discovery, or a deep appreciation for the finer things in life, I highly encourage you to do so.