Running Through Grief: My Emotional Breakdown at the DITO Sugbo Half Marathon

March 23, 2025—Race Day.

Also, the day I had a full-blown existential crisis in the middle of a 6K run. 🫠

You see, today was also my 13th wedding anniversary with Lee – my husband who died in 2022. 

I thought I had it together. Lately, I have not had strong bouts of grief. When it used to be so difficult to get up in the morning, in the past months, I was able to mostly do my morning prayer without crying. In my heart, I had more gratitude for still being alive…being able to have time with my three sons…and being blessed with a job as a virtual assistant. My flexible schedule allowed me to do one thing that I have come to love lately — running. 

In the past months, I’ve registered for races and finished each one, proudly with a medal in tow. 

This time, I trained for this 6K. My legs were ready. 

My lungs? Sort of ready. 

But my heart? Not even close to ready. It was the exact opposite.

Because grief doesn’t give a damn about your training plan. It doesn’t care how many kilometers you’ve logged. It doesn’t care if you wake up feeling strong. It just shows up—uninvited, unannounced, and ready to wreck you.

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Started Strong, Then Completely Fell Apart

So I showed up at the starting line for the 3:45 AM gunstart. My spirits were high and the air was filled with energy bouncing off other runners. I always loved what it felt like to be at the starting line and chanting with hundreds of other runners the 10-second count down.

Three…two…one! Bang!

The 6k race began and I was off to a good start.

For the first 2KM, I felt great. My pace was steady. My breathing was controlled. I actually believed, for a brief, blissful moment, that I was going to own this race.

Then out of nowhere—grief tackled me to the ground. 

My chest locked up. My throat closed. I couldn’t breathe.

Imagine gasping for air in the middle of the road, other runners passing by you and outpacing you. Just when I thought it could not get worse, it did.

My brain then decided to have the most unhinged self-conversation of my life:

💭 Why did my husband have to die? Did he really have to leave?

💭 Was I not worth staying alive for?

💭 Why am I left here—solo parenting three kids, drowning in the loans we BOTH signed?

💭 I need to be skinnier, prettier, a better mom —so I can be worthy of love and happiness.

💭 If I died first, he would have found another wife by now…

💭 And let’s be real, she’d probably be stunning. Because my husband? Gwapo. Talented. Witty. He could have replaced me easily.

WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. HELL. 🤦‍♀️

So this is what goes on in your mind during a panic attack. It makes no sense. My hands went numb. My lips started shaking. My feet felt like bricks strapped to my legs. I still had just enough self-awareness to know I wasn’t totally lost—imagine an excavator dangling off a cliff, held up by a single thread. That was me.

I’m normally a confident person. Sometimes even overconfident. Ask my close friends, and they’ll tell you that I can breathe positivity into any negative situation.

But not this time.

This time, I was the human embodiment of self-sabotage. And the only thing keeping that thread from snapping?

Not discipline. Not resilience.

It was the fact that I paid for this race, and I couldn’t get a refund.

Pathetic? Maybe. But when my emotions were a boulder crushing my chest, my wallet whispered, "Sayanga sa registration fee." 

So, with numb hands, shaky lips, and a heavy heart, I pushed on in the most pitiful ways imaginable — and it showed in my running stats.

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My VO₂ Max Was Embarrassingly Low

Speaking of stats… let’s talk about VO₂ max.

VO₂ max measures how efficiently your body uses oxygen during exercise. The higher your VO₂ max, the better your endurance.

🔹 Elite athletes? 70-85 (some even hit 90 😳). 

🔹 Regular, non-professional runners? 40-50 for women, 45-55 for men. 

🔹 For a 39-year-old woman like me? 35-45 would have been decent.

Mine? 30.

THIRTY.

No wonder I was wheezing like an asthmatic fish. My body wasn’t delivering enough oxygen to keep up with the run. And my brain—already spiraling—decided to make things worse by drowning me in self-doubt.

This should have been an easy 6K. Instead, it turned into an endurance event of suffering.

Because when your mind collapses, your body follows.

Ang Sayang Nga Race Photos. My Humiliation is Now Captured Forever.

If my own mother saw these photos, she’d probably say I was adopted.

Kinsa ning himi nga bayhana nagdagan ug 6K mura’g gikaon sa problema?

To any regular spectator, my race photos might make them go, “Hala, okay ra ka te?” But to anyone who has ever had a panic attack before? They’d know. They’d recognize the blank stare, the shaky breathing, the tightness in the chest that makes you feel like you’re being strangled from the inside.

But still—sayang ang race pics. A total waste.

I even had a Team Sabala race shirt designed for me to wear and to honor my husband during this run, but NOOOO—my panic attack just had to hog the spotlight. Instead of looking strong, confident, and badass, I looked like I was questioning all my life choices.

This is what all my race photos looked like…There were more photos actually but only these two passed the publicity test.

The Loneliest Finish Line

You know what’s worse than crying in the middle of a race?

Crying at the finish line. Alone.

By the time I crossed, I felt sick. I was dizzy. I wanted to puke. But I held it together because fainting at the finish line would have been the cherry on top of this disaster sundae.

Oh, and let’s not forget—I went to this race alone. So if I fell down, the medics would have asked, "Ma'am, are you with anyone?"

I would have sobbed all over again. Because that is a loaded question—even if it's just a standard one they ask in emergencies when looking for a next of kin, “Who are you with?”

“Wala koy kuyog! Ako ra usa!” 😢

Backstory…

My husband, Lee, died on August 1, 2022. Over two years have passed since I last heard his voice, but today, I missed him more than ever.

I remember one of our late-night talks when he was showing me NBA stats. 

The conversation drifted into trash talk—was it ethical or just bad sportsmanship? 

He was firmly pro-trash talk.

"You think being an athlete is just about training and diet? But what happens when life gets in the way? Your dog dies, your girlfriend cheats on you—will you still play the same?"

He believed that athletes needed emotional endurance, not just physical strength. If your mind collapses under pressure, all your training goes down the drain.

And I get it now.

If Lee were here and saw me running while crying, he wouldn’t have coddled me. He’d say…

"Pauli nalang, oi. Di man diay nimo kaya."

That wasn’t him being cruel—it was him knowing me. He knew that if he triggered me just right, I’d snap out of my self-pity bubble. I’d get pissed off, prove him wrong, and run stronger just to spite him.

I’d give anything to hear him say that again. To hear him talk sh*t just so I’d fight harder. Because he knew I could take it. And that’s the kind of love I miss the most.

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What I Should Have Done Instead

#1 - Stop Coddling My Grief

I needed to stop treating my grief like a fragile thing. I needed to use it as fuel, not let it paralyze me.

#2 - Train My Breathing, Not Just My Legs

✅ Diaphragmatic breathing – Deep belly breaths instead of shallow chest breathing.

✅ Box breathing – Inhale for 4 counts, hold for 4, exhale for 4, hold for 4.

✅ Cadence breathing – Sync breath with steps (e.g., inhale for 3 steps, exhale for 2).

Instead of hyperventilating like a fish out of water, I should have trained my body to stay calm under stress.

#3 - Pick ONE Battle for the Day

March 23 was already a landmine of emotions.

I tried to do two impossible things:

1. Grieve my husband.

2. Run a race.

And I failed at both.

Next time? Choose. Either commit to racing, or allow myself to grieve.

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This Race Had to Suck for Me to Learn

This race had to be awful. It had to be humbling. It had to break me so I could finally, permanently understand what I needed to fix.

I learned that training is not just physical. It is mental. It is emotional.

And next time, if I have the honor of running another race, I hope I will be ready.

Because I refuse to let grief win.

Until the next race. 🏃‍♀️💙