Learning to Run with Jenn by my Side

Jenn and I had been best friends since the first grade—instantly buddies, we were bonded together by life in a small town. We knew her as “Jiffy.”

High school in the small town of Calistoga was a blessing for our parents and a curse to our high school selves. Our class was so small that Friday nights meant double duty: first playing in the high school band at football games, then dropping our instruments and running on the field to be cheerleaders. Then, racing off the field to rejoin the band. Bikes scattered across front lawns informed parents of our whereabouts long before the invention of cell phones.

Many of us stayed close through college, jobs, marriages, and relocations. Jenn and I never went more than a week without calling or texting each other. Even when we were at different colleges, we were only separated by class schedules and the causeway. We still managed to sneak into bars together with terrible fake IDs, take road trips to Lake Tahoe on a whim, and spend weekends eating ramen and watching Father of the Bride on repeat. But it didn’t matter what we did: life was just more fun with her.

Jenn ran her first 5K in 2015 at age 39. She was late to the sport, she didn’t compete in track and field growing up. It wasn’t easy for her. But once she got her first taste of it, she went all in. I loved this about her.

In hindsight, I see now that Jenn ran because she wanted to prove to herself that she could. But while running, she also had an hour all to herself. Running was a gift that she gave herself. As a wife, mother, therapist, and constant caregiver, the gift of daily endorphins was priceless to her.

On February 24, 2018, Jenn wrote on her Instagram:

“Best race ever. Felt great, paced fast and PR’d. Placed 4th in my age group. As Ice Cube said, ‘It was a good day’….”

Thirteen days later, on March 9, 2018, my best friend died.

Jenn was a therapist for vets experiencing post-traumatic stress disorder at the Yountville Veteran’s Home. Before that, she had changed countless lives as Clinical Director at a residential treatment program for adolescent boys with substance abuse and mental health issues.

I was at home in Houston, Texas, and it was the last day of school before spring break started for my young daughters. I remember that it was a beautiful sunny day. I was folding clothes when my cell phone rang and I saw the phone number of one of my closest friends from back home. She was calling to tell me that something was unfolding at the Yountville Veteran’s Home—a possible hostage situation. Word was coming in by the minute on the scanner used by her husband who was a volunteer firefighter.

We both immediately called Jenn and left messages when she didn’t answer. Then we started calling Jenn’s family to see if she had gone to work that morning, as she traveled frequently giving talks around the country on the subject of substance abuse.

I reminded myself that the Veteran’s Home was a sprawling campus— surely Jenn would not have been in harm’s way. She was probably on lockdown with her patients, assuring them that everything was going to be ok.

The minutes and hours ticked by, and I didn’t hear back from Jenn. Three friends and I stood by, all on frantic calls to each other, while the situation unfolded. Then word came that Jenn, along with two of her colleagues, were being held hostage by a gunman. For eight hours I texted her and called her— leaving her hysterical messages, desperate for any kind of sign that she was ok.

My daughters, home from school and ready to start spring break, watched helplessly as I stayed on the phone all day— waiting for any kind of update on what was happening. But at 6 pm the news confirmed that police and SWAT teams had finally entered the building and found only bodies. The gunman had murdered the three women and turned the gun on himself.

Life became surreal— defined by merely getting through each slow hour. I stayed in bed, in a darkened room, for the first few days after Jenn’s murder. It was spring break, and my young kids were confused and deeply saddened by seeing their mom in so much pain.

My husband and I went through the motions. We drove to a local hotel so the girls could swim, while I laid on a lawn chair going through the ugly stages of grief. I cried and kept in constant contact with my friends back home and with Jenn’s husband. I mourned for her daughter, who was only 8 and longed to be back in Calistoga feeling the comforts of a town that once felt suffocating.

On March 20, I flew home to help plan Jenn’s memorial service.

Our small class of 26 reunited and clung to each other. We went through old photos and yearbooks. We cried a lot. We didn’t want to be alone, and we didn’t want to be without each other.

In the aftermath of Jenn’s death, I didn’t know how to cope. I was anxious all the time. I couldn’t stop crying and sounds that had never bothered me before became triggers—like the sound of a sunglasses case snapping shut. I immediately sought therapy, but I knew I needed a physical challenge too. I needed something that would let my mind work out what it needed to, and would exhaust me enough that I could sleep soundly each night. My therapist urged me to exercise. This was when I turned to running.

I had always despised running, but those 45 minutes of alone time became invaluable. It was like Jenn and I were together, every single song that I played to push me on my run was from her playlist. I started slow and steady, running without thinking. The morning runs put me on auto-pilot. I would often finish and not even remember running because my mind was so busy trying to put Jenn’s death into a neat little package—with a beginning, a middle, a conflict, a solution, and an end. It was so painful, but it was all I thought about— morning, noon, and night. While talk therapy was beneficial, running therapy became my survival.

I consider myself a messy runner. I probably have terrible form. I cried all the time while running. Some days I’d walk. But consistency was key: I showed up. And on the days when I really didn’t want to run: I forced myself.

I realized that running was exactly what my heart and soul needed. It was the perfect chance for my head to work out what it needed to. I cried, I got angry, I cried some more. I pounded the pavement. Three miles became five, and then five became seven. I ran my first 10k two weeks after Jenn’s memorial. Then I ran another. Then I ran my first half marathon, all with her right beside me— in my heart and in my headphones. I felt her love and her presence, and I could hear her in my head saying, “Come on… you’ve got this.” And each time I crossed the finish line I would cry because it all felt so overwhelming—the pain, the sadness, but also the accomplishment.

I also took up power yoga—three times a week. I learned to quiet my thoughts for one hour at a time and just be still. It was the feeling of safety and peace that I very much craved. I was terrible at yoga, but I didn’t give up. I would often look around the room and wonder if anyone else had taken it up because of trauma. Regardless of why they were there, I felt a sense of community with these people of all ages. Chasing calm became my mantra.

It’s been two years, and the pain of that day feels as raw as it did when the events were unfolding. I see how far I’ve come, though. It’s almost like shedding an old skin and being reborn. Before Jenn’s death, I didn’t know how great we had it. We had each other— we had our families and we talked on the phone daily— but we also thought that we had time. Immediately after her death, I felt so fragile. I worried that I would die, or that someone close to me would die. I was fearful of everything. But now I’m living life as it was intended. I take more chances. I look at my kids in a different way. We travel more as a family. We experience life more fully.

In losing my best friend I’ve learned a lot about gratitude. I’m thankful that she brought our little class of 26 back together. I’m thankful that I can text her daughter a silly meme or tell her that I’m thinking of her. I’m thankful that Jenn showed me how to appreciate life— by trying new things that are hard and messy. She was the “go big or go home” kind of girl. The story of the way that Jenn lived her life is the ultimate gift that she left for us all. I am better because I knew her.