This First Person column is written by Maggie Scott, a student and runner in Toronto who grew up in Renfrew, Ont. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
Running has always been my way to just breathe. Down the laneway from the school bus in my home outside Renfrew, Ont., racing the trails with my high school cross-country team, or more recently, jogging home from my university lectures.
It used to be that when I ran, my body sped forward, but my mind found a rare stillness, making me feel strong, grounded, clear-headed and free.
That changed during the third year of my undergraduate degree when I was sexually assaulted by someone I trusted — someone I considered a friend.
I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know who to talk to. I didn’t know how to process the trauma, self-blame and confusion that came afterward.
Almost overnight, I retreated from the social person I once was, withdrawing from intramurals, cafe study sessions, happy hour with girlfriends and get-togethers with my family. I returned to my hometown in the Ottawa Valley for the summer and avoided everyone and everything.
People noticed the change immediately. I opened up to a few close friends and family who listened and were understanding, but couldn’t help me find the words to confront the enormity of what had happened. I felt I needed to find a way to cope with it on my own.
Running in the dark
Running late nights and early mornings became my refuge from the memories of that night.
I would lace up my shoes when the streets were silent, and when no one else was around. As a woman, I used to fear running in the dark. But what I once thought was safe — a friend — had distorted my understanding of that concept. Running in the dark no longer scared me.
I began to run more frequently, sometimes twice daily. I pushed distances and limits I had never tried before.
That fall, I returned to Toronto for school and signed up for a full marathon to keep the routine that helped anchor me.
An antidote in the burn of my lungs
At first, as I trained, each step felt like a rebellion against a world that took something from me — something it had no right to steal.
But the memory of that night lingered and the more I tried to outrun it, the more I wasn’t running for clarity, but just to feel something, anything.
I was searching for an antidote in the ache of my muscles and the burn of my lungs. But my mind, racing with thoughts, would not relent.
In those early months, running didn’t feel like healing. It was suffering and punishment that distracted me from the silent torment. There was a self-inflicted purity to it — something I could control when so much felt out of my grasp.
I sought hills that would tear my muscles and wind that would lash against my face. Beyond my close circle, I still didn’t speak about what happened to anyone.
The words were stuck in my throat. The grief, the shame, the self-blame — it all twisted inside me. I ran faster and harder, thinking that maybe if I punished this body enough, the pain would go away.
A breaking point
I remember the moment my right knee gave out 4 months into my training. A sharp, searing pain mid-stride.
I stopped. I collapsed. And I cried, releasing tears I had held back for months, letting myself feel those suppressed emotions. Finally letting in the compassion my body begged for.
I could no longer put pressure on my right knee. So I opened up entirely to friends, family and support networks about what happened and how I was abusing my body by running to cope with the unhealed wounds.
I feared the stillness, worried my thoughts and emotions would catch up to me. To my surprise, this moment of refuge gave me a window of compassion to confront them.
Quieter steps
Gradually, after the injury, I started running again.
Four weeks before the race, I felt it — a shift, subtle at first. My runs, once fuelled by anguish, became quieter. The road didn’t demand as much from me.
One late night run — a small, barely audible voice inside me said, “Enough.”
I no longer needed to run for the hurt or felt the need to do it alone. I had learned to live with it. To carry the darkness and pain without letting it consume or define me.
Community on the roads
I switched to running a half marathon to allow my body to recover and began running alongside friends and joining women’s running groups around the city. I even started my own club.
I found myself exchanging smiles with others and sometimes sharing my story, too.
I learned along the way that each person is carrying their own trauma, heartbreak, recovery and layers of resilience.
When I crossed the finish line, it wasn’t a release but rather a recognition of the strength I had always carried.
The love, support and community of the half marathon left me feeling full of hope and light. Unstoppable. I felt like myself again.
For me, the running community, with its mix of endurance, shared stories, and silent understanding offered comfort, camaraderie and healing on the open road.
It taught me to pause, to ask myself what I run for, and to learn to be kind to the body that carries me every step of the way.
I learned that when I was ready for it, there’s a community of runners fuelled by their own reasons for running to match my pace.
Do you have a compelling personal story that can bring understanding or help others? We want to hear from you. Write to us at ottawafirstperson@cbc.ca.
