The duvet was held snug across her shoulders like the shell of a tortoise; there for comfort as well as protection. She stuck her neck out into the day and peered around her bedroom – white walls, black-out blinds. It often took a few moments to know if the wind had changed and she would be heading for the sun or if the black clouds still lingered, their weight heavy overhead.
     She stretched up to a sitting position and reached for her glasses. It didn’t matter anyway. Life needed living. It wouldn’t wait for her to be ready.
     Smile pulled on. Curtains opened. Children woken. One bare foot in front of the other and pressed onto the carpet, feeling for each bristle. The cold shock of the kitchen tiles. Bread in the toaster. Lunches already booked on the app… thank goodness. She moved about mechanically, grateful for muscle memory as the realisation sunk deep. It was still there, lurking, slowing her forward motion like wearing moon boots when she longed for slippers.
     Time ticked faster. Nags grew louder. Doors slammed. Traffic crawled. Kind words were chosen with effort and sprinkled like confetti to be found at unexpected moments throughout the day. A parking space, gold dust usually reserved for those whose minds were less cluttered and disorderly. A kiss goodbye and a hopeful face.
     At home she leant her back against the door, closed her eyes and breathed in the sweet scent of the cherry blossom plug-in. A symphony of familiarity comforted her; the hum of the fridge, the scratching of the rabbit in his cage, the trickle of the downstairs toilet cistern – she needed to call the plumber about that. She glanced at the stairs. Her cocoon was up there, waiting to envelop her with its warmth until she felt different. She looked back towards the kitchen where breakfast detritus littered the worktops, dirty washing cascaded from the basket and unhelpful thoughts muddled her mind. She chose the stairs, set an alarm for two-thirty, climbed inside and let the day go by without her.
     “Good day?” she said as she wiped the sleep from her eyes and rifled through a cupboard for the biscuits.
     “Yeah, it was decent,” her daughter replied. “It’s that running club tonight – the one Becca goes to.”
     “Is it?”
     “You said you’d take me…”
     “What about your sister?” She wrestled with the biscuit wrapper to distract her from her daughters pleading gaze. “It’s tricky…”
     “It’s a family thing. We all go… you too Mum. It’ll be fun.”
     Her body protested and her mind joined forces to deliver the required excuses: outside was too cold, too grey, too unfamiliar. They weren’t runners. But then she looked again in her daughter’s eyes and conjured the strength from her hope.
Autumn. Winter. Snowdrops beneath the apple tree, the occasional crocus, but not quite yet spring. Another day with the duvet held tight, the morning ritual passed through in automation. She took a sip of tea and her phone vibrated on the counter top.
     ‘See you at 9.15… going for the ten?’
     She shoved it deep into the pocket of her tracksuit.
     No parking space today – they were edging on late. A hug and a kiss. A wave goodbye and retreat to safety. Cherry blossom. Fridge. Rabbit. Toilet cistern… still needs fixing.
     She glanced up the stairs, she could just crawl back in. She shook her head and walked into the kitchen. Not today. Water bottle filled, she sat on the bottom step and tugged on her trainers as the doorbell rang.
     “Let’s do this,” said her champion – one of many from the club.
     “It’s not a good day today.”
     The friend nodded and their feet fell into a comfortable rhythm on the pavement. Regular. Steady. Known. Understood. They pounded without thought. The space in her mind consumed with the effort, and then, with achievement.
     Buzzing. She didn’t care if it was an overused word – a cliché. If she had those little transparent wings they would be moving too fast to see each individual beat. She would flit through the clouds from the late summer rose to the hot pink salvia and she wouldn’t stop. She won’t stop now.
     She had been so sure she couldn’t do it. That people like her didn’t have what it takes, but like those insects who carry their wounded to safety, they wouldn’t let her give up on herself. They wouldn’t let her forget how far she had come, or how far she still could go.
     She rounds the bend to find the finish line in sight and clapping hands line the road at their arrival. Her head twists from behind to ahead; the same navy kit punctuates the trail like a murmuration. Months of showing up, black cloud or sunshine. Her team.
     A hand reaches out to touch her shoulder, she has no breath for words, no need for them either.
There is no cheque to present in this virtual world, but she goes to the day centre anyway.
     “Thank you,” he says. “You’re an inspiration.”
     She shakes her head. Surely not. How strange it seems that each decision to take another step has led to transformation. Donations became resources.
     ​But she doesn’t visit to remember why she kept on running. She goes because she is ready to help lift someone else up.