The shards of shattered shells crunched as I walked over them. The cool sting of saltwater nursed the cuts and scrapes on the bottom of my feet. It was a clear day, but my vision was obscured with an overpowering sense of loneliness. It had been six months from the day my grandfather died, and since then all I could see was the empty space he left behind.

I went on these long walks to try and clear my head, clear my vision, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t wipe away the fog. I wanted to collapse, I didn’t want to carry this grief with me anymore. This feeling was destroying me from the inside out; it consumed my thoughts and controlled my actions.

Simple things like running or reading that used to help me find inner peace suddenly seemed like a chore. I wasn’t racing to my best ability in cross country; my times were worsening by the minute. I never read for pleasure anymore, and if I did, I just looked at the words; they didn’t mean anything to me. Going out with my friends didn’t appeal to me, because I knew while everyone was having fun and laughing, I would just be smiling along on the outside while walls were tumbling down inside me.

Under the dunes in front of me, a familiar looking beach towel caught my eye, and realizing it belonged to the hotel I was staying at, I dragged the sand-ridden towel to the ocean to rinse it off. I attempted to wring it out, but it was too heavy for me to do alone. Reluctantly I knelt down, dirtying my legs, and wrung it out in portions until I could hoist it into my arms. It then became apparent to me that there was no one else to carry it back. I had to bring this dripping wet piece of fabric back with me, all by myself, even though it was too heavy for me to handle.

My muscles ached; my biceps felt as if they were being stretched, just an inch away from snapping. My back hurt, and my neck was strained from trying to keep my head up. It sat uncomfortably in my arms and the sandy water dripped down my legs. My whole body was telling me to drop this towel where I was and leave it behind.
But I couldn’t.

I had to carry the towel two miles back to the beach club. I walked the distance with the weight in my arms. During that walk back I didn’t think about anything, except the towel that was dragging me down. It felt like I had walked fifty miles with it, when in reality I hadn’t even walked one. It wasn’t getting any easier to carry. It was in that moment that I realized the pain caused by the void my grandfather left behind was never going to fade. Just as it felt my time carrying the towel would never come to a close, there was no end in sight for the pain grief inflicted on me.

When I finally reached home, I set down the towel, and my arms ached. The next morning, my whole upper body ached. And the day after that, I was still sore. But when I went to bed the following night, I felt just a little bit stronger.

Just over a half a year later and a few months into school and the cross country season, the gun was about to go off, signalling the start of the State Sectionals race. It was 35 degrees, there were 40 mile an hour winds, and it was downpouring. Standing at the starting line stripping down to my barely there uniform, I knew the race was going to be rough. But rough didn’t even begin to cover the next 3.1 miles of my life.

“Drop your shoulders! Move your arms!” The sound of my coach’s voice echoed in my ears and I repeated this mantra until the words had no meaning anymore. I ran past countless opponents, watching them stop, or slow down, some even curling up on the ground, clinging to whatever warmth was left in their body. I watched them, tears generated from the wind streaming down my face, unable to feel any of my limbs. My entire body was shutting down, rejecting the idea of running a step further. But stopping wasn’t an option. I knew I was strong enough to finish this race. I felt something inside myself that silently urged me on, and I wondered where I had mustered up so much strength.. For the rest of the race I listened to my pounding heartbeats and footsteps become one steady rhythm. It became clear as I crossed the finish line and warm clothes rained down on me that I had reached a new high. I was strong.

It wasn’t for another couple of hours did I regain feeling in my fingers and toes. It wasn’t for another couple of days when the results came back that I learned I had beaten my personal record by sixteen seconds. But it was immediately after that I realized just how much my grandfather’s death had affected me. The months following his passing were some of the hardest in my life, but I had survived, and I had come out of it stronger than before. I realized that I had unknowingly carried this strength with me during my race.

At the time, the grief seemed like it was the worst feeling in the world; like it was going to stay with me forever and drag me down. It was as if because another’s life had ended, that mine had too. But what I didn’t realize was the process of carrying the grief with me had made me stronger, and this strength is what will stay with me for the rest of my life, not the pain and the sadness. Yes, it’ll still be there, but it will always be making me stronger and stronger, strong enough to handle the weight.