It has been over a year since I’ve written anything beyond simple text messages and greeting cards. The previous year, my writing revolved around my role as a witness to a fatal car accident involving a young mother and her daughter. A notable person’s vehicle had been involved, turning the accident into a nationwide spectacle.

For weeks on end, I’d wake feeling grief for the family. Running was my savior. Although I had been a lifelong, fair-weather athlete up to that point, my runs became a much-needed morning ritual. Rain, cold, or heat didn’t stop me. After the first ten minutes into my route, I’d fall into a comfortable tempo. That was when my memories would become vivid as I recalled each tragic detail. I thought my eyewitness account would be crucial if the case ever went to trial. I didn’t want to forget any of it.

Following the runs, my creative spirit would be at its peak. I’d pen down numerous variations of my experience but didn’t publish any. I only shared them with a member of the victims’ family, an aunt who I knew from childhood. She understood that I suffered from trauma as a witness, and that we needed each other.

Fourteen weeks later, the authorities released the final investigation report to the public. I was shocked to discover my memory recall wasn’t accurate. Through the next weeks, I learned that trauma, combined with previous traumas, plus sight lines and emotional response, can impact how the human brain processes an event. My memory of the accident stored three crashes, but there were only two. As it turned out, my brain had recorded a fragmented account of the facts, then filled in the gaps with illusory information pulled from other memories. It gave my memory a starting and ending point for that horrific event.

I felt mortified to think I had offered, when asked, all those diluted details to the grieving family. With my account as a witness no longer meaningful, I drafted an essay about my experience as an unreliable witness because of the horrific conditions of the event. I hoped to help others who may be suffering like I was. The essay became available to the public a few days before Christmas.

For the first time in my writing career, I received a message from a disgruntled reader that said it was tacky how I had taken advantage of the highly publicized story in order to gather admirers. This person also pointed out that I spelled the deceased child’s name wrong and told me not to publish the family’s names, for my gain again.

I felt ashamed for the grievous error, especially since I had shared an inaccurate account of the accident with the family. I was also both embarrassed and angry with myself for how I had plunked myself in the middle of someone else’s tragedy. It was frightening to think that someone thought my essay was self-serving, which to me would be deplorable.

I quit writing.

Six months later, at 62 years old, I consulted a specialist for a gastrointestinal system issue. The specialist scheduled a simple surgery that corrected my problem. At my first follow-up appointment, it came to my attention that the pre-surgery EKG revealed I might have had a heart attack at some point in the past. Additionally, I found it odd that my blood pressure was low because I had been receiving treatment for high blood pressure for the last 20 years. Immediately, fear overwhelmed me that my life expectancy would be cut short.

The specialist’s nurse called my family doctor to get the referral to a cardiologist. My doctor told the nurse that before she scheduled anything, she’d want to see me first.

I called the clinic the next morning. With my doctor’s next opening a week away, I panicked and made several calls hoping to get in sooner. My doctor of 25 years returned my call and said, “An EKG report can’t read a heart attack.”

I was too scared to believe her, though.

In my worried state, I began sending messages through the clinic portal. In one, I described a tightness in my chest. In another message, I asked questions about my sudden drop in blood pressure. I sent a message detailing that my blood pressure had reached an all-time high one morning. I even went so far as to ask the nurse to ensure me I wouldn’t have a heart attack while I waited for my appointment.

Fearing I would drop dead from an injured heart, I quit running.

The day of the appointment, even though my doctor explained that although arrhythmias, like we both knew I had, will graph an EKG report showing certain spikes, this did not mean I’d had a heart attack. Knowing my heart wasn’t perfect, I requested she order every test available, just to be sure I wasn’t going to die any time soon. I spent the next two months testing and waiting for results, which eventually confirmed my doctor’s initial assessment. I was fine. My doctor said, “Keep running; it’s the best exercise for your heart!”

With my anxiety relieved, my doctor suggested an age-related bone density scan. After all those heart tests, this one seemed easy. However, I was stunned when the results showed osteopenia of the hip and back. This bone density deterioration was one step away from becoming osteoporosis, a disease that makes bones so brittle that even a mild cough could cause a fracture.

Osteopenia was my warning sign. Although it couldn’t be reversed, I could slow down its progression with exercise. The best exercise? Running. Thirty minutes a day, at least five days a week.

The first hurdle I faced in executing this goal was finding the time. During the week, my day started at 5:00 a.m., so I didn’t consider waking up earlier. After coffee and news, it was time for my routine writing and running. That slot got filled with home fix-it shows. My family daycare was open 7:30 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., and at 6:00 p.m., I’d visit my 95-year-old mother at the nursing home. At 8:00 p.m., I’d have a snack and fall asleep in front of the TV.

I realized I had time for a run. I still wasn’t writing, anyway.

It was October, and with the daylight savings time change, it was dark in the morning. Although I wasn’t lacking in enthusiasm, my fear of predators was stronger than ever. Attacks on women runners were happening in communities just like mine: quiet, safe, with well-lit streets.

I thought I should consider a treadmill. Despite its reputation, I wanted to see how this equipment would perform for me. After researching prices of new ones, I looked for a used one. The perfect match popped up on Facebook Marketplace, and within days it was setup in my heated garage. The inside temperature would never drop below 50 degrees. I had no excuses to skip a run. And I’d be safe.

Initial weeks of running were dull. I avoided thinking about the accident, as that had become my default thought when running. I realized it had become an unhealthy obsession that served no purpose to anyone. But I didn’t know what else to think about except how much longer I had left to run. I did some research and found an exercise app that paired with my watch. That’s when things got fun.

My iFIT running trainer, Tommy Rivs Puzey, made my treadmill workouts interesting. His runs took me to various parts of the world, showing the sights and teaching the local language. He taught about proper form, explained the body mechanics of running, and gave insights on the necessity and timing of post-run nutrition. I loved his program.

In December, I started using the elevation function on my treadmill to mimic hill runs. I ignored the heel pain that followed, until one morning, I couldn’t walk on my left foot. I had developed plantar fasciitis, an injury I was told would take anywhere from two weeks to six months to heal. It devastated me because it meant I had to stop running until it healed.

After doing some research, I learned elliptical workouts would be the next best thing for my condition. Fortunately, I had an elliptical in the basement. The thought of using that foot-pedaling contraption was disheartening. I loved to run, but my desire for a healthy future took precedence. It was a viable choice because it eliminated the pounding that running produces, and I was relieved to feel no pain. I found an elliptical program on my iFIT app that looked like it would be useful. I started looking forward to that workout, too.

I started thinking about the importance of injury prevention. To ensure that my body would be ready to run when my foot healed, I searched for a yoga program and found one on my app called Les Mills Body Balance. To my astonishment, I found out that I couldn’t hold the poses. I knew that balance was important to maintain as we age, so I added that exercise, three days a week, to my morning routine.

I also added two days of core training. My iFIT core trainer, John Peel said, “Strong core, strong lower back.” It was what I needed.

For five days a week, I’d work out for an hour each morning, all the while being thankful for being able to do so. I’d have fleeting thoughts about writing again, but with my new routine, there was no time for that.

By January, my foot had healed, and I was back on my treadmill. I bought a heart monitor to wear during workouts, which made running much more relaxing. Between non-elevated runs and keeping my heart rate at a low intensity most of the time, I remained injury-free. Thanks to my yoga workout, I learned to hold both the flower and warrior III pose.

My exercise plan was working, and I started wanting to write about my physical road to recovery. I thought my words might encourage others to exercise. I began to formulate story ideas during my treadmill runs, something I hadn’t done in over a year. Then one afternoon, I forced myself to open my laptop and start typing. There was always time to write; I just had to want to.

The first few words of this essay were difficult to find. I didn’t want to write about the accident. But for me, to feel some absolution, I needed to start my story where it last ended, the message from the disgruntled reader.

I had responded immediately to that message I received years ago. I remember my fingers shook as I fumbled through my apology.

As I re-read the message, I felt my heart sink once again when the reader spoke of the hurt it caused the mother of the deceased every time a new article was published. They also made it clear that they didn’t want me to stop writing. Their only suggestion to me was to write about something meaningful to the family as a tribute to the deceased.

I knew all along my reason for publishing the story was pure. I wanted to help other witnesses who suffered trauma. I can now understand why that family member didn’t see the message within my story. In the first paragraph, they would have seen their loved ones’ name misspelled. Of course, it could have appeared to them that through their tragedy, I was self-seeking attention for my writing skills.

This is not the image I want anyone to have of me.

The miles I pounded on the treadmill gave me time to reflect, helping me to accept I was only human. As an author, I had to make peace with my mistake. And for me to move forward, I had to write about it. In the end, the exercise that healed my body was also what I needed to heal my soul.