It was New Year’s Day and most of the people I knew were either sleeping off a bad hangover or getting off to a fresh start on their New Year’s resolutions. Not me. I sat alone, curled into a ball in the corner of my room, staring at the screen of my phone. For several months, I had tried to deal with a growing problem and now, I finally had to admit that the situation was out of control. I needed help.
I had a stalker. Those are words I never thought I would say. Conditioned to be polite, not rock the boat, deflect any behavior that made me uncomfortable with a smile and a laugh, I ignored my intuition and slammed full speed through every single red flag that had gotten me to this point. His campaign of harassment included sending me messages pretending to be someone else, texting and calling from numerous spoof numbers and more. But finally, on January 1, he slipped up. He texted me from his real number with a direct threat.
I spent a good chunk of that morning on New Year’s Day at the police station. It was humiliating and so incredibly painful to relive the gory details from my stalker in front of two men I had just met. I remember crying harder than ever before, eyes so swollen I could barely see. I remember the desperation I felt as I begged them to help me. I remember feeling grateful, then confused, with the cycle repeating throughout what, in hindsight, I realized was a “good cop/bad cop” interrogation. I understand now that some of the questions they asked were an attempt to try and catch me in a lie because their job is to be impartial. But in the moment, with my emotions heightened, I was baring my soul to these men who I had hoped would save me. I couldn’t understand why they would ask me questions I didn’t know the answer to, or thought the answer would be obvious given the information I had already provided. I left that interview in a downward spiral, blaming myself for still not feeling safe when I should have been told it was not my fault.
After everything I had endured, I think that realization was one of the things that hurt me the most.
One of my main coping mechanisms at the time was to set a big goal. Sometimes it was an ultra, other times a self-supported adventure. Training for and running ultramarathons taught me that I had the ability to achieve things I once thought were impossible. They taught me to pace myself, adjust my expectations and problem-solve on the fly. They taught me that pain is tough, but I am tougher, and being alone in the forest taught me where I feel most at peace.
Shinrin-yoku is a Japanese term for “forest bathing” or “healing in nature.” Somewhat antithetical to running ultras, shinrin-yoku involves being present in nature rather than partaking in strenuous activity in beautiful surroundings. Scientific studies have demonstrated the benefits of this practice, which include reduced stress, lower cortisol levels and inflammation, boosts in mood and immune system functions and lower blood pressure.
It wasn’t my intention to engage in this practice, at least not at first. But I needed to find peace somewhere, so I went for a walk in the woods. Trail running taught me to be present in the moment – eyes constantly scanning the trail ahead for tripping hazards, the varied cadence of my footfalls describing the uneven terrain. During my walk, I was present in a way that I hadn’t been since I was a young girl wandering in the woods surrounding my home. To prevent myself from getting lost in my thoughts, I started paying attention to my surroundings. I noticed the way the sunlight filtered through the trees, casting harsh yet intricate shadows from the entwined branches above. I listened to the way the wind rustled the few remaining leaves clinging to the trees and the crunching of my boots as I left footprints in the snow. A sudden gust of wind stung my cheeks in contrast to my hands thrust deep into my pockets, fingers curled around hand warmers. I didn’t hear birds chirping that day, but even without the presence of wildlife or any signs of life around me, I felt a sense of peace that had eluded me for the past several months.
Photo: Jenny Thorsen
I resolved then that while I could not change the past, I could take back control over my future. I would not spend the rest of my life hiding from my memories—I would forge new memories by starting a tradition of hiking a segment of the Ice Age Trail on that day every year going forward.
The Ice Age Trail is a 1,200-mile-long route in Wisconsin that stretches from Interstate State Park in the northwestern corner of the state and ends on the other side of the state in Potawatomi State Park in Sturgeon Bay. The trail itself is not yet complete as it is comprised of approximately 700 miles of blazed segments and 500 miles of unmarked connecting routes on roads. Lovingly built and maintained mainly by volunteers, the signature yellow blazes that mark the trail can lead you through the most rugged terrain or down city streets, while connecting people and communities along the way.
I was no stranger to the Ice Age Trail as I had already been checking off segments through races and trail running adventures. One such adventure involved helping edit the Ice Age Trail guidebook where volunteers were tasked with researching and hiking their segment, checking the accuracy of the information in the previous edition of the guidebook and making notes of any needed changes. I had asked for the longest segment, not realizing it was 15.5 miles. With having to complete the entire segment and then get back to my car, I ended up running my own unofficial 50k that day.
However, my New Year’s tradition wasn’t about getting a segment done for the sake of checking it off a list. It was about finding healing in a place that brings my soul peace. Every step I’ve taken in the years since that day in the police station is one step farther from that time in my life. When the world threatens to consume me, existing in nature somewhere along a 1,200-mile-long footpath reminds me just how little space my worries and I take up in the grand scheme of things. It’s in that smallness where I find a limitless freedom, one step at a time.