Running Took me Far -but Poetry Took me Back to Myself

In September 2024, I was approaching Creswell Crags on foot. I was 45 miles into my first 100-mile ultramarathon, and I felt defeated, alone, and scared. I just wanted to go home.

Up until that point, the longest distance I had run was 42 miles. I felt strong until I passed that threshold. But the heat was relentless, and it began to slow me down. With the physical effort came a deeper challenge: self-doubt. I had meticulously planned for this race. From mile 52, pacers were allowed, and I had scheduled to meet mine — Mike — just before nightfall. But I was falling behind pace and I knew, with a pit in my stomach, that I wouldn’t make it to him before darkness fell.

And that was my biggest fear. Not just the absence of light, but the presence of my own inner gremlins, whispering that I couldn’t do this. That I wasn’t enough. I felt fine physically, but my mind had given up. I called my husband and told him I wanted to quit. The comfort of home, of clean sheets and safety, called louder than the race. ‘I’ll run Robin Hood another time’, I said through tears. ‘Just not today.’

My husband — my biggest supporter — simply said: ‘Dig deep. Get to the next aid station, speak to Mike, and then decide.’

So I did. I walked and I cried. Running felt too difficult at that moment, but I moved forward. I chatted with some fellow runners — their words just enough of a distraction to keep me going. Then, just before the Creswell Crags aid station, I saw Matt, whose silly Hokey Pokey joke was exactly what I needed. I approached Creswell Crags running — not walking anymore. And then, I saw Mike and Emma. Familiar faces. Hope. The shift I needed. I thought I was done just a few miles earlier, but somehow, I kept going.

Running became a part of my life in 2020 during the Covid-19 lockdown. Before that, I wasn’t a runner. But running was exactly that something I needed. And running offered something solid when the world felt shaky. It gave me structure: Tuesday and Thursday evenings, and Sunday mornings, my trainers hit the pavement no matter what.

I don’t run for fast times. I ran to feel alive. To manage my mental health. To process the noise in my head. Running gave me an identity when everything else felt uncertain. That experience eventually became the foundation for my first book, Just Run — a memoir about discovering running and how the impossible becomes possible.

That journey eventually led me to the 100-miler. And finishing it, despite the lows, was the most significant physical achievement of my life. But what no one tells you is how lost you can feel after you cross the finish line.

After the race I ran far less. Not because I had fallen out of love with running — but because I needed space. Space to recover, to reflect, to ask: what now?

That’s when poetry found me.

I didn’t sit down with the intention of writing a book. The words just started showing up. Quietly, gently. At first, it was scribbles in a notebook. Lines written just before I fell asleep. Half-thoughts captured on dog walks.

Those words became something I could hold onto. They helped me feel, really feel. They helped me slow down and listen to what was underneath. They helped shape the chaos into something still. Something meaningful.

Poetry helped me name the sadness, the overwhelm, the exhaustion I didn’t know how to talk about out loud. It became a way to connect with the parts of myself that running helped me outrun.

Eventually, those fragments became Whispers and Footsteps, my first poetry collection. A book for the overthinkers, the feelers, the quietly overwhelmed. For anyone holding it all together while slowly falling apart.

Running gave me freedom. Poetry gave me stillness. Running helped me move forward. Poetry helped me come home.

I still run. Not with the same intensity, not chasing distances. But I run because it’s a part of me. And now, I write too. Not because I planned to be a poet, but because the words kept arriving, and I chose to listen.

This has taught me that we all have our ways of coping. Some of us run. Some of us write. Some of us do both. But what matters most is not how far we go — it’s how willing we are to return to ourselves.

And sometimes, the most courageous thing we can do is stop running, and sit still long enough to hear what our heart has been trying to say all along.

—

Author’s bio

Merili Freear is a writer, plant-based ultrarunner, and the author of two books: Just Run and Whispers and Footsteps. Her writing explores healing, identity, and self-acceptance with quiet honesty. Originally from Estonia, she now lives in the UK with her husband, son, and dog— chasing sunrises, words, and the quiet magic of becoming.

Socials:
📸 Instagram → https://www.instagram.com/whispersandfootsteps and https://www.instagram.com/meriliruns
🎵 TikTok → https://www.tiktok.com/@whispersandfootsteps and https://www.tiktok.com/@meriliruns

Website: https://meriliruns.co.uk/

Whispers and Footsteps: Poems from Doubt to Becoming

Whispers and Footsteps is a collection of poetry about the quiet journey back to yourself. From doubt to darkness, through strength, acceptance, and finally love and becoming—these poems are a companion for anyone who’s ever questioned their worth, carried invisible weight, or longed to feel whole.

With gentle honesty and fierce heart, Merili Freear invites you to walk beside her, through the whispers of doubt and the footsteps of healing. This is not a straight line—it’s a rhythm. A breath. A return.

Whether you’re healing, growing, or simply surviving, this collection will remind you:

You are not alone.
You are already enough.
You are becoming.

BUY HERE

Just Run: Discovering my love for running and how the impossible becomes possible

‘If you’re looking for inspiration, not just about running, but about overcoming life’s challenges, Just Run is for you.’ Nita Sweeney, author of Depression Hates a Moving Target

Shortlisted for the 2025 Selfies Book Awards (general non-fiction).

‘It doesn’t matter if you’re running for the first time, stepping out after a long break, or trying to rekindle your motivation, it’s a new day and a new start. You don’t have to run a certain number of days a week or a set mileage. All of this is irrelevant. You do you. You can do it. Just run.’

This book isn’t about achieving sub-3-hour marathons or maintaining a running streak for a decade. Instead, it’s the narrative of an ordinary runner who laces up their shoes, steps out of the door, and finds solace in each stride, despite facing setbacks along the way. It’s about overcoming obstacles and having faith in yourself.

Merili Freear had no idea how much she needed that first run during the Covid-19 lockdown. With each footstep, she uncovered the transformative magic in the simple act of running. Whether you’re aiming for marathons, ultras, or you stick to 5ks, join Merili in this honest and encouraging memoir as she shares the highs, the lows, and the incredible joy that comes from deciding to just run.

BUY HERE

Tags: featured, women writers

Category: On Writing