Birthday

On a chilly day in March of 2007, the Macomb County Sheriff’s office announced that they had found a torso that they believed to be the remains of Tara Grant, a woman who had been murdered and dismembered by her husband, Stephen Grant. I had been following the case for months, hoping that if I were missing, people would be looking for me.

Obsessed with missing persons cases, I followed the updates religiously. It was pathetic and sick, but I couldn’t keep myself from following them. It was a tribute to the sisterhood of the abused. I saw myself as a missing person waiting to happen – a future series of headlines that would eventually fade from the front page.

I knew it wasn’t a matter of if he would kill me, but when. I knew that if I stayed with him, my fate would be the same as the hundreds of women who were involved with this type of person. On a long enough timeline, living in domestic violence, the survival rate drops to zero.

As Steven Grant feined agony and worry of his “missing wife”, knowing full well that he chopped her into a million pieces and shoved her in a Rubbermade tub, it was in that moment that I resolved that I would end my relationship with this man. Standing in the lobby of Lifetime Fitness, surrounded by people who thought I had the perfect life, the perfect job, the perfect fiancé, the perfect future, I started thinking about reclaiming my life, even if it meant that I would lose it.

I was just longer afraid to die. I had nothing else to lose. I decided I would rather die than to live one more day under his control. I would rather be dead, and finally at rest than to walk around, tormented and exhausted, acting as if everything was ok.

Don’t rock the boat. Keep the peace. I was certain that this was going to be my situation for the rest of my life, so I resigned myself to making things as “easy” as I could for myself because I had no reason to believe that there was a way out.

I stopped running when I was engaged to him because I was exhausted. It was strange because I thought that running would be the only thing I would want to do, since the abuse was never-ending, and escalating all the time.

No more visits or phone calls from my friends, no more time for the things I used to enjoy. No more yoga. No more running. No more me.

During the lonely and frightful times, I was hurt and very afraid. Exhaustion had become a way of life because he would disrupt me at every turn. Phone calls in the middle of the night, late night visits, constant calls at work. There was never a moment that I could get away from him.

In September 2007, 5 months after my resolution, I walked away with the help of a small handful of people I trusted with my secret and I started my life over again. It seemed like I would never stop being angry. It seemed like I would never stop hating him. I was certain that I couldn’t let go. The physical scars were gone, but the emotional scares were still there.

this person ran through my life like a train off the tracks, leaving total devastation in his midst. For a solid year and half I managed to hold it together, convinced that there was no way out. I purposed to placate him as best I could so that the blow-ups would be “manageable”. And then I realized that “manageable” really meant, “fatal”.


After it was over, I would go for the occasional run when I could summon enough energy to lace up the shoes. I felt frustrated at first, starting all over again, thinking about how I used to be so much better at this… faster, stronger, more graceful. The judgment became too much and I stopped again. I had been comparing myself to the person I was before I met him, and that person has been gone now for a very long time.

I always thought about how I must have looked, awkward and slow(er), carrying 15 pounds that hadn’t been there before. How must I have looked to people walking by…. And, then, I realized, “who cares?”

Who cares that I’m not the same person I was in 2004, or earlier? Who cares that I gained 15 pounds? Who cares that I’m slower? Who cares that I’m not as graceful? Why did I want so badly to be that person again? What was “wrong” with the person I actually became?

The person I became as a result of that experience is stronger, more confident, and resilient. The person I became is fearless, proud and smart. Sometimes silently apprehensive, but always outwardly certain. One foot in front of the other, running towards the rest of my life. And, with this realization, two years in the making, I started running again, and, with a vengeance.

It’s on my run that I can think about whatever may be bothering me, or whatever swirls around me, with the relative distance that I still may keep from others. On my run, I can reflect on where I’ve been and where I’m going, and the people I meet along the way. On my run, I can appreciate that I finally have the gift of time and personal space, something I never thought I could ever have. Something I took for granted prior to meeting him.

August 31 is my birthday, but September 16 is the day that I got to start my life all over again, but it almost feels like every day is September 16. I get to start all over again every time I wake up, and as I wait to turn 29, I can’t think of a greater, more precious gift than that.