Running with Grief: On loss, Identity, and the Healing Found Through Movement

Running with Grief: On Loss, Identity, and the Healing Found Through Movement.

by Leander Rodríguez

Photography by Ricardo Guadarrama & Leander Rodríguez

I signed up for Aire Libre thinking I was booking a running experience. Looking back, running was probably the least important part of it.

I grew up playing soccer competitively. Training twice a week with my club team, games on the weekends, tournaments, state cups, get-on-the-line sprints, the lot. I really loved the game, and I wouldn’t recognize myself without it.

Despite all those hours, I never developed a positive relationship with the running part of the sport. It always felt like a chore. It’s a lot less fun when you don’t have the ball.

Honestly, I was more attached to the beautiful side of the game: the skills, the playmakers, the number 10s.

After 20-some years of playing, though, a pause introduced itself.

One Sunday morning, I found myself arguing with the referee in a coed league game, holding onto a “winning” mentality that just wasn’t fun anymore. It was only competitive, and I didn’t like who I was in that moment.

That realization pushed me to seek a new form of movement. Something non-competitive. Something more personal.

Running crossed my mind again, but I still categorized it as a chore.

I was trying to figure out who I was without soccer.

I had, however, just moved from Miami to Portland to pursue a new degree. What better time to try?

So, as one does, I went to YouTube.

It suggested cycling.

Since student loans aren’t real money, I bought a road bike.

I loved it. Portland’s bike paths, Oregon air, even taking my bike to Thailand for a couple of months. But Oregon winters eventually got the best of me.

I still needed an outlet for movement.

A few years later, school and work had pushed me into a more sedentary life. A healthy balance was still missing.

I finally decided to face my avoidance, so a Garmin Forerunner 935 entered the chat as my new accountability partner. I figured the guilt of the expense would keep me committed.

Walk, jog, walk, jog. Zone 2.

Consistency became the new sport.

I still wasn’t a runner, though. Don’t call me one.

I got through one winter, then another, eventually developing an appreciation for the perfect texture for running (iykyk). Time passed, some weight dropped, and I found my flow.

Then came October 2019.

My morning run had already been uploaded to Strava when I got a call from my parents. I stepped away from my desk and into a private room to return it.

My dad had gotten his test results back.

Pancreatic cancer.

The doctor told us it could mean he had one to five years left with us.

That hit hard.

How do you even process something like that?

I was in Oregon. They were in Texas.

I spent the holidays with my family before returning to work.

We checked in constantly. Doctor appointments on speakerphone. FaceTime calls. Learning as much as we could.

Chemotherapy began, eventually colliding with the chaos and uncertainty of COVID.

I hesitated to travel, afraid of introducing any risk to my dad’s increasingly vulnerable state.

Weeks passed.

More doctor visits.

More phone calls.

Less dad.

Less time.

He made it until September, until he decided he wanted to be home rather than continuously tested and treated at the hospital.

With a week to go, I broke my lease, moved everything into storage, and flew to Texas. I spent his remaining days with him, alongside my mom, my sister, and her family, including two of his favorite people: his grandkids.

I ended up staying in Texas for two and a half years, helping my family pick up the pieces.

My parents had been together for 50 years, and my dad had been the foundation for all of us.

One of the last things he said to me was:

“Cuida a tu mamita.”

(Take care of your mom.)

In trying to keep that promise, I unknowingly suppressed my own experience. I made space for everyone else and tried to be the anchor that was needed.

It was heavy.

My priorities became simple.

Health.

Family.

Work.

That was it.

Ironically, the thing that helped me navigate all of it was my morning runs. No longer a chore, but a daily check-in.

A necessary place to breathe.

No headphones.

No music.

No audiobooks.

No podcasts.

Just mental space.

“Ironically, the thing that helped me navigate all of it was my morning runs.
No longer a chore, but a daily check-in. A necessary place to breathe.”

After those two and a half years, I returned to Portland feeling confident that my family had found a stronger footing.

I was finally able to step back into myself.

My health-family-work routine had become so automatic that I hadn’t stopped to think about what I wanted, let alone define it.

Oh, how I needed a break.

So what did I want?

What did a break even look like?

By then, I’d been running for six years, long enough to become interested in the culture around it.

One day, I found myself reading an article about unsanctioned running races in Mexico City.

That seemed cool.

Hmm.

One Google search led to another until they eventually led me to Aire Libre.

An eco-cultural experience through mindful movement.
“Discover the world through running.
Connect spiritually to nature and yourself.”

I knew what I wanted almost immediately.

Googling intensifies.

A month later, I’m standing in the lobby of a hotel in Mexico City, surrounded by my guides and adventure peers for the weekend.

I had never run with a group before, unless you count warm-up laps before soccer practice.

“My name is Leander. I live in Portland, but I’m originally from Miami…”
Something along those lines.

We took off into the city.

The next day brought another adventure, cultural immersion, yoga, moments of gratitude shared over dinner, laughs, smiles.

The final day, though, I wasn’t prepared for.
It started with a drive out to Mount Tlaloc.

We began the trail run partway up the mountain, covering a half marathon distance before reaching its summit at 13,642 feet.

The drive back into the city was quiet.

Or so I thought.

We kept going.

A little farther.

To a place I wasn’t prepared for.

We stepped out of the van and changed out of our running gear.

A shaman introduced us to the healing ritual he would soon guide us through: a Temazcal.

“What a journey we’d gone on that day, from the mountaintop sky to the depths of our spirit.”

We began with ceremonial cacao to open the heart and set our intentions.

One by one, we crawled into the dome-shaped structure, sitting cross-legged with knees touching. Volcanic stones, the abuelitas, were placed in the center.

The temperature rose until it was pitch black.
All we could hear was his voice and the rhythm of the drum, meant to echo the first sound we’d ever heard: our mother’s heartbeat.

My intentions were still blank.

He spoke of a mother’s love.

That we were warriors.

About the serpent.

About the jaguar.

He softened the drum and asked us to speak.

To share what hadn’t been said.

No one said a word.

But I almost did.

The drum intensified again.

My heart was ready.

He softened it once more and asked for our words.

“Te extraño, papá.”

(I miss you, Dad).

That’s all I could get out.

I gave myself permission to release the emotional suppression I’d carried for the previous two and a half years.

One of our running guides responded with an “Uff.”

He felt my release. The ice was broken.

Another person yelled out a name.

Another burst into tears.

The healing was now sharing the space with us.

Everything I’d experienced through the loss of my father came through me. I realized I hadn’t grieved him at all until that moment.

I cried.

I yelled.

I hyped up my friends when they did the same.

“Yes! Let’s go! Guerreros!”

The voices softened as the ceremony went on and people found their peace, while the shaman gently guided those who needed more time.

Eventually, only the drum remained.

We settled into our rebirth.

Into our new selves.

What a journey we’d gone on that day, from the mountaintop sky to the depths of our spirit.

We settled into dinner afterward, sharing what had come up for us and what we were grateful for.

We’d grown close that weekend without really knowing what everyone had been carrying.

Others spoke about the loss of family members, fractured relationships with parents, recent divorces, struggles with cultural identity.
We were all carrying something.

I left restored.

But I wasn’t done yet.

The final piece came two months later.

I wanted to transform my father’s passing into a celebration of life.

I reunited with my Mexico City running guides, now friends, in Oaxaca for their Día de Muertos Running Experience

Day one sealed it for me as we ended our run at Panteón Mictlancíhuatl, surrounded by music, marigolds, candles, smiles, memories, and love.

Gracias, Aire Libre

About Leander Rodríguez

Leander is an endurance athlete who lives to move, with a soft spot for the gear and gadgets that come with it. Born to a Colombian family and raised in Miami, Leander grew up with warmth, culture, and energy woven into everyday life.

Now based in Portland, Oregon, he’s found a home among the city’s trails, bike routes, and soccer pitches, where an endurance habit runs through everything he does. Whether he’s logging miles on a long run or geeking out over training data, Leander brings a minimalist’s focus and an athlete’s curiosity to it all — happiest outdoors, plant-fueled, and chasing the next flow.