In the aftermath of Dad’s death, running was not a logical decision; it was triage. He’d been my kindred spirit, a National Geographic photographer who taught me to find inspiration and solace in nature. Now that Dad was gone, I understood for the first time that I would die too. Consumed by grief and almost immobilizing anxiety, half-delirious from sleep deprivation with a toddler and a newborn at home, I needed to prove to myself that I was still alive, to find my way back to the fearless girl I’d once been. Running long distances alone through the mountains scared me, but dying scared me more.