Nowhere else I’d rather be

A whisper, not a yell

When I left my house, I felt like throwing my arms to the sky and stretching them into a V that could get a flock of geese to Mexico. But, I kept my elbows tucked down, wary of where that V would lead me.

Concrete sprawled beneath my feet, but it would soon turn to dirt. Every stride was reaching toward the closest trailhead.

A trailhead. Where real, live trails snake into the woods, twisting and unfurling through seas of ferns and pines reaching their own limbs to the sky.

In my ears, Dua Lipa was dancing, two-stepping her way into my “Nowhere else I’d rather be” playlist.

“Nowhere else I’d rather be” was a rally cry born during Hardrock training last year. It was the hymn we sang on summits. The cheer we’d volley back-and-forth on a grinding climb. The answer to muscles begging for relief after hours in the foothills.

I hummed “nowhere else I’d rather be” on bluebird days, shoulders snatching freckles from the summer sun. And, groaned it into wet gloves, when storms spit hail from merciless clouds.

Rain, or shine, or squall, “nowhere else I’d rather be” was gratitude for getting to be out there. I was opting-in to every mile, from ankle-deep mud to throat-scratching dust to heart-swelling ridgelines.

On peak days and ones that sucked a little, I was choosing to be on a trail.

I haven’t been where I’ve wanted to be for months now.

The knee issue that seemed like a small niggle spiraled into the most serious injury I’ve had in years. The severity of it blindsided me. I went to my PT before I felt any pain! I never felt pain when running! I was more conservative with my response to it than any past version of Emily.

I kept asking myself: How did this deteriorate into a months-long ordeal? Why hasn’t this responded to extensive rest and the twelve million treatments it’s gone through?

Back in February, I felt like I’d be on the fast track back to good health. Surely, it was nothing a little rest and some quick PT couldn’t fix.

“I just need an elbow in my glute to loosen things up,” I told friends when my knee felt tight after a run.

When I took my first break from running, I was certain I’d be back at it the next week.That’s usually how it goes. Even when I’ve cranked ankles into a limping joint, or angered a tendon into a howl, my body has just needed a few days of downtime or an hour or two of physical therapy to fully recover.

When I had to take more than a week off, I softened the blow by making promises to myself:

“Rest through a couple of weeks of winter rain so you can run when it gets nice out.”

“Get some extra work done now so you have more time to play on trails in April.”

But I was writing checks for a bank account that wasn’t mine to withdraw from.

I couldn’t guarantee myself any miles the next week or the next month or the next season. And despite my best wishes, I wasn’t back to running when the spring sun started beckoning the tulips and trillium to life.

While flowers poked through earth, and nestlings cracked eggshells, and grass got greener by the day, I stayed dormant. Still stuck nursing an injury. My mental health seemed to be the only thing capable of significant movement, as it rapidly spiraled from stable to “likely to punch a wall at any given moment.”

I’d pictured April weekends full of singletrack trails and hydration packs fat with snacks. I was certain that I’d spend every spring Saturday sandwiched between friends and trail dogs. Instead, I was doing hours of PT exercises and gazing longingly at the butte I hadn’t climbed in months. Every weekend that ticked by without a trail pushed me deeper into my pit of disappointment.

“If I’m not back to normal running by June, I’ll –,” I stopped to stuff a wad of Kleenex in my eyes. I’d gone straight to therapy from an especially discouraging PT appointment and was spending all 60 of my minutes wailing about how much I missed running and everything it gives me.

“You’ll what?” my therapist asked me, with the questioning lift of an eyebrow.

I knew she was right. There was no way to finish that sentence. I had no collateral I could exchange for a healthy knee. And to count on running in June was thrusting myself into an emotional danger zone.

The truth of my injury has felt infinitely harder to swallow because I kept setting concrete expectations for how my recovery would go. And when reality took a hard left turn from those expectations, I crashed.

The asphalt gave way to dirt. Trees replaced the city streets. My footsteps softened with the earth.

Hitting the first breath of trail was the exhale I’d needed for months.

I’d been easing back into running for weeks, but I’d stuck to my flat, neighborhood route, which never feels like an exciting and promising step, even if I know it’s necessary. It feels like the sentence I’m serving after the court of injury did not rule in my favor. Every step is stressful and timid and reeks of setback.

Recently, my body finally suggested it might be ready to try hilly trails. I’d done a test run on ridgeline that went well, so I was back for a proper loop. A short run I’d do on any given training day when I’m healthy. Still nothing wild or long or steep, but a trail. (A trail!)

As I padded uphill, forget-me-knots and geranium burst across the ground like confetti. My steps were as springy as the wild iris flashing violet petals at a soft sun.

It felt like someone had finally returned the keys to my happy place. I wanted to throw myself a “welcome home” party and invite every slug and shrub in the forest. I was ready to sharpie in a recurring rager for every weekend for the next million months.

But, I thought about how much harder this injury has been because I’ve hitched every ounce of my happiness to the horse of expectations. Hope would’ve been a better co-pilot for this injury.

I’m excited to be running on trails again, but I’m holding that excitement lightly. It’s not a bonfire with feral flames licking the sky, it’s the quiet glow of a firefly on a summer night.

As I kept running, every bend in the trail was like unwrapping another gift. I wanted them to keep going and going and going until I’m back to regular trail runs, long climbs, and endless hours in the mountains.

There was nowhere else I’d rather be. I felt like screaming it from the forest canopy.

But for now, it’s the prayer I whisper, voice flickering with hope.