Forget the finish line

I’m learning to re-embrace the journey.

My late husband, Jamie, cared deeply about improving as a person. He loved mastering new skills and was always working toward a major goal—or three. It was one of the things that made us work as a couple. I, too, enjoyed making big plans, and we loved to cheer each other on as we chased our respective dreams.

In the 13 years I knew Jamie, I watched him excel at cooking, learn the craft of latte art, and perfect countless cocktail recipes. He explored the ins and outs of comedy, from how to master the art of improv to what made certain jokes so hilarious. He organized his DVD collection by director, then studied those movies to understand what made each filmmaker tick. He always kept a small notebook with him, filled with ideas he had, goals he made, and problems he was trying to solve. He never stopped learning or striving to be better.

It is horribly fitting, then, that Jamie died while aiming to reach another goal. He was running a half marathon, determined to complete the race in under two hours. Instead, he collapsed less than a mile from the finish line—the place where I was waiting, eager to embrace him in a sweaty, giddy, triumphant hug.

The circumstances around Jamie’s death used to haunt me. Some days, they still do. For the longest time, I viewed Jamie’s all-too-short life as a series of finish lines he never reached. I’d look around our house and fixate on his unfinished scripts, half-completed projects, and books that hadn’t yet been cracked open. They all felt like cruel reminders of how abruptly everything ended.

Photo by Diego Jimenez on Unsplash.

My current partner, Billy, also cares deeply about improving himself. He is constantly listening to new music, taking notes on how to be a better musician, and making plans for other creative projects to pursue. He performs three times a week and challenges himself to release one short, sample-based song each Wednesday. He reads books and listens to podcasts about relationships and communication, and is full of ideas about how we could improve as a couple.

I love this about Billy. But, sadly, I’m not as good at encouraging him as I was with Jamie. Every time Billy shares a new idea or dream, my trauma-informed brain freaks out. Striving for things is dangerous! It warns me to keep myself and my loved ones far, far away from any finish lines, metaphorical or not.

I’ve only recently realized this about myself. Somewhere along the way, I became afraid of setting ambitious goals. I’ve shied away from encouraging Billy’s dreams and stopped telling myself that I should strive for big things. I’ve even subconsciously passed along that message to you, dear readers. Just a few weeks ago, for example, I offered some gentle encouragement to abandon resolutions this year.

It makes sense why I would want to avoid goals at all costs. Without going into too many details, the experience of being whisked from that half marathon finish line to the sight of an ambulance and my husband on the pavement was horrendous. It’s something that, five years later, I am still processing through therapy sessions. It’s an image that will forever be burned into my mind.

But the correlation I’ve made—that striving for a goal is what killed my husband—is misguided. Jamie died of an undiagnosed heart condition. It’s a condition that, left untreated, is fatal. It would eventually have killed him, whether he was working toward another goal or not.

Photo by Sebastien Gabriel on Unsplash.

Last Friday marked five years since that fateful half marathon. Like every other anniversary of Jamie’s death, I struggled mightily in the week leading up to it, found a bit of peace on the actual day, and suffered an emotional hangover the day after. Now, I’m at the place I often find myself at this point of the grief anniversary cycle: trying to make sense of everything I’ve learned from another year on earth as a widow.

Lately, I’ve been trying to untangle the stories that no longer serve me. In particular, I am tired of telling myself that striving for goals is bad. I am tired of not being the encouraging, supportive partner that I once was. I’m tired of viewing life as a series of finish lines to avoid at all costs.

One of Nike’s earliest ads bore the slogan, “There is no finish line.” The poster copy described the elusive runner’s high, “a kind of mystical experience that propels you into an elevated state of consciousness.” Once you reach that point, Nike said, “there is no finish line. You run for your life. You begin to be addicted to what running gives you.”

As far as I can remember, Jamie never experienced that mystical runner’s high. But I witnessed him reach that state of euphoria in countless other endeavors. He would pore over video edits for hours, tweak a recipe to near-perfection, and hit a point of elevated improv performance that kept him smiling long afterward. It’s why he continued striving for goals—because the act itself felt great.

I’m comforted by the idea that finish lines don’t exist. Yes, there was a literal finish line that Jamie didn’t reach the day that he died, but if he had crossed it, it would only be a matter of time before he’d set his sights on another achievement. In the end, it wasn’t the goal itself that was important. The joy that he gained from the experience was what mattered.

People sometimes ask if Jamie died doing what he loved. He did. Jamie didn’t love running, but he did love aiming for a goal. And I loved that about him. 

Photo by Ryan Hefner on Unsplash.

Healing from trauma isn’t easy. Sometimes I get embarrassed about the fact that, five years later—five whole years!—I’m still working through fresh grief realizations, like my fear of setting goals. But I am trying to be gentle with myself. I, too, am learning and growing. Whether I realize it or not, I’m on my own path to improvement.

Each anniversary of Jamie’s death feels like a new opportunity for me. It’s a chance to reflect on how much I’ve grown, to give thanks for how much I’ve gotten to do, and to remember what lessons from Jamie’s life I can apply to my own.

This year, I’m ready to re-embrace the pleasure of chasing after goals and cheering on the people I love as they strive for their own. In the end, there is no finish—only the joy of the journey.

xoxo
KHG