storytelling

She touched the bruise tentatively. It was bulging slightly from the vein in her foot and she grimaced as she placed the ice across her skin. Yesterday she passed the 14 mile marker with no problem and felt triumphant as she felt the gravel crunch beneath her muddy trail runners. She always hated perfectly clean shoes. It felt like sacrilege; a travesty to the sweat that dripped down her forehead, the blood that oozed from the scratches on her arms and the constriction in her lungs as she pushed up the mountain.

Two hours and 46 minutes later she was rewarded with a view that stretched 360 degrees above the pine trees and cloud cover. It was hard to believe that just over six months ago they told her she wouldn't live past March.

This is what success looks like, she thought to herself.