running alone.

I was just talking about how there’s always one more lump. How life is full of lumps/obstacles/challenges. Life deals them out, but then also Evan and I give them to ourselves. Like signing up for a marathon relay* this past weekend.

My mom called the day before we left for Port Angeles and said, “You’re not still doing that marathon, right?” Uhh, no yeah, we are. Then she called the morning we had to leave and asked if I had a minute to talk. I didn’t, but I always have “a minute” to talk with my mom. And if she’s asking for a minute, you know something’s wrong.

My younger sister is an addict. Evan and I have housed my sister and one of her daughters before… when we lived in Montana.

She has three daughters—two of which she has custody of. My sister is currently off the rails in a bad way. My mom was telling me about it and processing it all out loud. Talking about what she’s going to do for those girls and how. We talked about how much we love my sister, but how upsetting this all is. It’s hard. We talked about custody and Summer plans and once we talked ourselves in circles, but also felt a little better about it all, I told Mom I really had to go.

We (Evan) drove to Port Angeles. I slept. We got to town and picked up our registration and ate a delicious (early) dinner and then went to our absolutely perfect AirBNB and I read about two pages of my book before taking another depression nap. My sister stuff just hits me in my core. I never feel lonelier and sadder than when she’s struggling.

Evan encouraged us all to take a little walk around the neighborhood for sunset and just be together—walking, throwing Roary around, exploring.

The next morning, we drove to the start of the race on a beautiful Sunday. Evan started us off. Our team name was “Pass the Baby.” Marcelline was our coach. There were five legs of the relay. I ran two. Evan ran three. I took my two legs in succession. For 11 miles, I listened to music, but I also just couldn’t stop thinking about my sister. And—selfishly—I kept thinking about how I don’t have anyone to talk about this. I have Evan, but it’s not the same. I’m so so glad he knows my sister, but he doesn’t have a sibling he constantly worries about.

I ran and wondered which of my friends I could talk to about this. I ran and wondered if I am being dramatic. If I am dramatic. I ran and I thought about how about a year ago, a coworker told me that another coworker called me dramatic and it crushed me. (it crushed me, but also it is a lot like the gossip I participate in, so maybe I deserved the crushing and maybe I learned not to judge people in snarky ways anymore.)

I ran and I thought about my sister’s addiction, my mom’s cancer, my daughter’s seizures. I ran and thought about how sometimes I feel like people think I’m making things up. Could things keep going the wrong way for Rachel? I ran and I got to a dark place. I ran and I felt alone… out there, running with hundreds of other people who I know must be going through their own struggles. I mean, many of them were running a whole-ass marathon.

And though there is something beautifully healing about running and the weather was absolutely gorgeous, I still felt a little distant and alone by the time I got to Evan and Marcelline at the exchange.

Evan finished the last leg and I handed him Marcelline to cross the finish line with her. We did it! We did it together.

And throughout the rest of the day, I still felt a little despondent—trying to will myself into feeling proud or feeling happy or feel anything.

For dinner, we decided to walk to the grocery store and get some stuff to make at our AirBNB and enjoy the FM radio that was playing a French station. I got a Beecher’s frozen lasagna and Evan asked if that was for both of us or just me. “Just me.” He said he would eat leftovers he had. We got a bottle of pre-made Old Fashioneds. And we got Marcelline pizza rolls and broccoli, because we are balance parents.

Evan walked back to the AirBNB and I took Marcelline to a neighborhood playground we found. When we arrived, a group of rowdy boys around nine-years-old were leaving. We had the place to ourselves. Marcie took off and I sat at the sole picnic table and wondered how I would distract my mind whilst Marcelline climbed and slid and jumped. About two minutes later, a woman and her daughter showed up to the playground. I heard her daughter say, “Mom! A friend!” And then she ran off to play with Marcie. The mom sat down across from me at the picnic table.

We talked. In the first few minutes of our conversation, I asked if she lived near the playground and she said, “Well, yeah. Not to get too personal, but I’m going through a divorce and so we’re staying by the Rite-Aid.” I hadn’t yet told her that I was Overshare Stevens and almost nothing was too personal.

I found out she moved to Port Angeles in 2020.

– Why did you move here?

– A lot of my family is here and my sister was pregnant in 2020 and I thought I would help her with it all… but she is a vulnerable community member.

– I feel that. My sister is an addict. She has three kids. It’s so hard.

– Yeah, my sister is an addict, too. She was just at my daughter’s birthday party last week going through active withdrawals.

Everything she said resonated deeply with me. Everything I said about my sister, she looked at me and said, “I know exactly what you mean.” I honestly feel like this woman—Chelsea—was sent to me at this time by the universe. She told me that when her sister (who is younger than her) got pregnant, her whole family expected Chelsea to raise the baby. I felt this so deeply. Chelsea prefaced how horrible of a thought she was going to say out loud, but then shyly said, “Helping out with her daughter would be so much easier if she wasn’t around.” And I told her I know exactly what she means. I know how she feels. And Chelsea knows how I feel. We aren’t alone. I am not alone.

Both Chelsea and I couldn’t believe how needed this conversation was and that it was happening at a random park table. The time came for Chelsea and her daughter to go home. She got up and said, “It was SO good to talk to you.”

“Same. Seriously. Take care.”

Marcelline and I walked back to our place and found Evan putting dinner on the table. He pointed to my lasagna and said, “You gonna eat all that?”

And I said, “Yes. I will give you a bite or two if you want.”

“I do want.”

I told Evan about Chelsea and he stopped what he was doing and said, “Whoa. That feels like the universe looking out for you.” It was. I poured Evan and myself an Old Fashioned and we sat down, all toasted, and started eating. I was face-down in my lasagna, Evan was taking a drink of his cocktail, when he said…

– I wonder how many servings are in that.

– Evan! I am eating this whole lasagna, okay! And you know what? You don’t get a bite of it anymore for fat-shaming me about it.

– Rachel, no… I was talking about the Old Fashioneds! They’re so strong. How many drinks are in that bottle?

And we just both started laughing. I had finally felt something. It was so funny to me. I stopped being numb and I started feeling grateful for the universe, for Chelsea, for a husband who would never ever fat-shame me, for a daughter who goes along with any flow, for a marathon relay that pushed me, for my family who knows me and loves me, for the long path full of bumps and bruises.

We went into the night laughing some more, drinking some more cocktails, watching Shrek 2 (Marcie’s favorite movie… she’s obsessed… not with Shrek… with Shrek 2), eating ice cream sandwiches after Marcie went to sleep. Thank you, Port Angeles. Thank you for the restorative trip.

obsessed with this mug.

unmade bed, unbothered cuties.

our little team.

*okay, I signed up for a marathon and then a couple months ago was like, “there’s no fucking way I can run a marathon” so I wrangled Evan into doing the marathon relay with me and he ended up doing 15 miles and I did 11 miles. if this isn’t a metaphor for our relationship, I don’t know what is.

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