Trauma is not uncommon in the ultrarunning world. In fact, it often seems to be the quiet undercurrent beneath many runners’ feet—something we’re not running from, but through. My story isn’t just about trauma, though. It’s about becoming. It’s about how unimaginable loss led me into the long miles—and how those miles gave me back pieces of myself I thought were gone forever.
On March 27, 2021, my world split wide open.
It was supposed to be our last ski trip of the season. My husband, Tyler, was on ski patrol. Our three kids loved the mountain, and I loved being with them—watching them thrive, feeling the joy of a day outside together. En route that morning, Tyler and I got a call for search and rescue. A suicide recovery mission. Normally, we wouldn’t have responded, but something in us knew we needed to.
We arranged for a friend, also headed to the mountain, to take our kids up ahead of us. We turned back toward town. We passed our friend heading the other way, and Tyler pulled out to turn around—to meet up. In that instant, a semi struck our vehicle. It was in his blind spot—he never saw it coming.
I don’t remember the crash. I only remember waking up four days later in the ICU.
That’s when they told me: my husband and our nine-year-old son, Wyatt, were gone. Killed on impact. My body was broken—two collapsed lungs, 16 rib fractures, a torn aorta and a traumatic brain injury. My heart was scattered into a million pieces. Every inch of me was broken—except for something deep in my soul that, somehow, wasn’t.
Because even in those first moments of knowing the truth, I felt a peace I’d never known before. Not numbness. Not denial. A sacred, unshakable peace. I knew—somehow—we were going to be okay.
Ten days in the ICU, then rehab, to ensure I could safely walk again. And finally, I left for Seattle—where my surviving son and daughter had been life-flighted. Weston, eight years old, was in a coma, on life support. The doctors told me there was no hope. That I needed to make a decision.
But the moment I saw him, I knew: he’s still here. And he was going to stay. And he did.
They said Wakely, my six-year-old daughter, had also sustained serious injuries. That she would have life-long deficits. But even then, I saw her strength. Her soul was shining through the wreckage. And little by little, she returned to herself—resilient and radiant. After a month, she was released to go home.
Meanwhile, Weston and I stayed in Seattle. He remained hospitalized until July. I lived between hospital rooms and my grief, between hospital hills and healing. I walked those hills outside Seattle Children’s because I didn’t know what else to do. For my lungs, yes. But mostly for my heart. I needed to move, to cry, to scream, to talk to God and sometimes yell. I needed to process. I needed to grieve.
That’s when the running began.
I wasn’t supposed to run again. Not really. I had a stent in my aorta—a rare thing for an active woman in her 30s. The doctors never sent me to cardiac rehab, so I had to figure it out myself. I started with walking. Then walking became jogging. Then, slowly, running.
In June of that year, I ran the Glacier Half Marathon—a race my husband and I had registered for together before the accident. I’d missed the dropout window, so I decided to run it. I wore Tyler’s bib on my backside—so he could ride my ass the whole way. I had to stop often when my heart rate got too high. But I finished it, right at the 3-hour mark. I ran with a friend. I cried. I laughed. And I knew, somewhere around mile 10: this is how I’ll heal.
That fall, I ran an 11k in Big Sky, Montana. I was supposed to do the 28k, but my heart wasn’t ready yet—literally. I wore Tyler’s bib again, and finished again.
And on May 22, 2022—the anniversary of their funeral—I ran my first marathon. As I neared the finish, I realized the date. I told the friend I was running with, and he looked at me and said, “Then we finish strong for them.” The last mile was the fastest mile.
That man later became my second great love and running partner. In 2023, we welcomed twin baby boys—Jack and Jim—a blessing I didn’t expect, but one I needed more than I could’ve known.
In June of 2024, I ran my first ultramarathon: a 50k in Idaho. It kicked my ass, but I finished. Four months later, I ran another 50k in Moab—this time, stronger. This year, we’re hosting a memorial ruck in honor of Tyler and Wyatt—a 3 and 6-hour event that feels beautifully ultra-esque.
And in August, I’ll run another 50k. In October, my first 50-miler.
So, I guess this is what I have to say to anyone who’s hurting or anyone who’s walking through a storm they never asked for:
Running saved me.
Not just physically.
Running saved my spirit.
It gave me space to grieve, space to rage, space to pray, space to breathe.
It gave me the stillness to hear God.
It gave me the strength to show up every day—for my daughter, for my son and for the two new lives I never expected.
It gave me the endurance not just to survive—but to live again and maybe even to rise.
I used to hate running. Tyler always tried to get me to run, but we were mismatched—he was 6’4″ and I’m 5’5″. He always ran slow for me, though and always waited.
He still runs with me. He still waits for me. Just differently.