Taylor Swift was doing her morning run around the Jacqueline Kennedy Onases Reservoir in Central Park. The 1.58 mi loop was her favorite running route in the city. The water reflecting the sky, the Manhattan skyline visible across the water. The rhythmic sound of feet hitting the gravel path creating a meditative experience. It was 6:30 a.m.

on a Tuesday. Early enough that the path wasn’t crowded yet. a few other dedicated runners, some speed walkers, the occasional cyclist. Taylor had already completed two laps and was starting her third when she noticed him. A man, maybe early 50s, running in the opposite direction. Nothing unusual about that. The path was a loop.

People ran both ways, but something about him caught her attention. His form was wrong. Not the easy stride of someone enjoying a morning run, but the desperate mechanical movement of someone running from something, and he was crying. Even as he ran past her, going the opposite direction, she could see tears streaming down his face.

Taylor continued her lap, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the crying runner. When she came around the loop again, she saw him still running, still crying, his face red with exertion and grief. By her fourth lap, she’d been running for nearly an hour, and he was still there, still running, still crying.

He looked like he’d been running much longer than an hour. His shirt was soaked with sweat, his breathing ragged, his stride starting to falter. Taylor made a decision. She slowed down, timing her pace so she’d intersect with him. When they met, she gently touched his arm. “Hey, I’m sorry to bother you, but are you okay?” The man jerked away from her touch, startled, almost stumbling.

He stopped running and bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for air. “How long have you been running?” Taylor asked, concerned. “I don’t know.” His voice was raw. “3 hours? Four? I can’t stop.” “Why can’t you stop?” He looked up at her and Taylor saw his face fully for the first time.

late 40s, maybe early 50s, with gray in his hair and deep lines around his eyes. But what struck her most was the look in those eyes. Absolute devastation. The kind of pain that made it hard to breathe. Because if I stop running, I have to go to my son’s funeral, and I can’t. I can’t do it. Taylor felt her chest constrict. When is the funeral? The man checked his watch, a reflexive gesture.

in 47 minutes at a church 10 blocks from here. I’m supposed to be there. I’m supposed to give the eulogy. But I keep running instead because if I’m running, the funeral isn’t happening yet. Time is moving, but I’m not arriving. I’m just stuck in motion. What’s your name? Marcus. Marcus Patterson. I’m Taylor. He nodded vaguely, not really caring.

Too lost in his own pain to register who she was. How old was your son? 19. Damian. He was 19 years old. Marcus started crying harder. Overdose. Fentanyl. He thought he was taking something else, something safer. But it was laced and he died. My son is dead and I have to go to his funeral in 47 minutes and stand in front of everyone and talk about him.

And I can’t I can’t do it. So you’re running. So, I’m running. I told Damen I’d keep running. Last thing I said to him before I dropped him at the rehab facility 3 months ago. Keep fighting, son. I’ll keep running. When you get out, we’ll run together. He loved to run. We used to run this reservoir together every Sunday morning.

Marcus gestured at the path around them. This was our place. Father and son running, talking about everything and nothing. And then he got into drugs and everything fell apart. And I thought I thought if I could just get him to rehab, if I could just get him clean, we’d run here again, we’d get back to this. But he relapsed.

He got out of rehab 2 weeks ago. Doing great, his counselor said, strong, determined, ready to stay clean. And then last Tuesday, he went to a party, took something he thought was safe, and he died just like that. 19 years old. and dead because someone laced their drugs with poison. Marcus started running again slowly, his exhaustion evident.

I can’t stop. If I stop, I have to face it. If I stop, the funeral happens. If I stop, Damian is really dead. Taylor started running beside him, matching his pace. Marcus, Damen is already dead. Running doesn’t change that. I know. But it delays the acceptance. It delays the moment when I have to stand up in front of everyone and admit my son is gone. It delays reality.

They ran in silence for half a lap. Marcus was struggling now, his breathing labored, his legs barely responding, but he kept moving. “You can’t run forever,” Taylor said gently. I know, but I can run for 43 more minutes. I can miss the funeral. I can be the father who was too cowardly to show up for his own son’s burial.

Is that what you want? No. But I don’t want any of this. I don’t want Damian to be dead. I don’t want to have to bury my child. I don’t want to live in a world where my son isn’t in it. Damian Patterson was 19 years old when his parents finally convinced him to go to rehab. He’d been using drugs since he was 16.

Started with marijuana, progressed to pills, eventually found himself addicted to opioids. His parents, Marcus and Jennifer, had tried everything. Interventions, therapy, tough love, enabling. Nothing worked. Damian would get clean for a few weeks, sometimes a few months, then relapse. The day they drove him to the rehab facility, Marcus was terrified.

Terrified this wouldn’t work. Terrified it would work. But Damen would relapse again, terrified of losing his son, either to drugs or to the distance that addiction created. “I’m scared, Dad,” Damen said in the car. “Me, too, son. But you’re doing the right thing. You’re fighting, and I’m so proud of you for that.

What if I can’t do it? What if I fail again?” Then we try again. But Damian, you have to want this. You have to want to be clean more than you want the drugs, do you? I think so. I’m tired, Dad. I’m so tired of this. When they arrived at the facility, Marcus hugged his son for a long time. I love you. Keep fighting. And when you get out, we’ll run the reservoir together like we used to.

Remember when we used to do that every Sunday? Damian smiled. The first real smile Marcus had seen in months. I remember. I miss that. Me, too. So, let’s get you clean and we’ll do it again. I’ll keep running while you’re here. Every Sunday, I’ll run the reservoir and think about you, and when you get out, we’ll run it together.

Promise? Promise? Rehab lasted 90 days. Damian did well. His counselor said he was committed, engaged, making real progress. Jennifer and Marcus visited every week, watching their son slowly come back to himself. The fog of addiction lifted. The Damian they remembered, funny, thoughtful, ambitious, began to reemerge.

When he was released on October 12th, Marcus took him straight to the reservoir. Ready to run? Marcus asked. I don’t know if I remember how, Damian joked. 90 days of sitting in group therapy isn’t great cardio. They ran slowly, talking and laughing. And for the first time in years, Marcus felt hope. Real hope. His son was back.

The nightmare was over. 6 days later, Damian went to a party. A friend offered him what he said was Xanax. Damian, still struggling with anxiety, took it. But it wasn’t Xanax. It was a counterfeit pill laced with fentinyl. Damian died within minutes. His friend found him unconscious, called 911, but it was too late.

By the time the ambulance arrived, Damen Patterson was dead. He was 19 years old. He’d been out of rehab for 6 days. Marcus and Taylor had completed another lap. Marcus was barely running anymore, more like stumbling forward, his body giving out, but his mind still refusing to stop. Marcus, you have to stop. You’re going to collapse. Good. Maybe I’ll die.

Then I won’t have to go to the funeral. You don’t mean that, don’t I? My son is dead. My 19-year-old son is dead, and it’s my fault. Taylor grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop. How is it your fault? I should have known. Should have warned him better. Should have made sure he understood that even one time, even one pill could kill him.

I told him to stay strong. I told him we’d run together. I kept running every Sunday while he was in rehab, thinking about the day we’d run together again. And now he’s dead, and I’m still running, and he never will again. Marcus collapsed onto a bench beside the path, his body finally giving out. Taylor sat beside him.

“The funeral starts in 32 minutes,” Marcus said, staring at his watch. I’m supposed to be there in 17 minutes to meet with the funeral director, but I’m here. I’m sitting on a bench where Damian and I used to rest during our runs, and I can’t move. What would Damen want you to do? He’d want me to be there. He’d want me to say goodbye properly.

But I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to stand up in front of everyone and talk about my son in past tense. I don’t know how to look at his coffin and accept that he’s inside it. I don’t know how to survive this. You survive it one moment at a time, one breath at a time, one step at a time.

That’s what I told Damian about staying clean. One day at a time. And it didn’t work. He died anyway. He stayed clean for 90 days. That’s 90 victories. 90 days when he chose life. Yes, he relapsed. Yes, it killed him. But those 90 days mattered. They counted. Marcus looked at Taylor. Who are you? Why are you sitting here with a stranger who’s falling apart? Because you needed someone to sit with you.

Because I saw you running and crying and I knew you couldn’t do this alone. Because sometimes strangers are exactly who we need. I can’t go to the funeral. Yes, you can. I can’t give the eulogy. You don’t have to give a eulogy. You just have to show up. You just have to be there for Damian, for your wife, for yourself.

What do I say to everyone? You don’t have to say anything. But if you do, you tell the truth that Damian was struggling, that addiction killed him, that he was trying, that he mattered, that he was more than his worst moments. Marcus put his head in his hands. I kept running because I thought if I kept moving, time would stop. The funeral wouldn’t happen.

Damian wouldn’t really be dead. But he is dead and the funeral is happening. And you running around this reservoir 400 times won’t change that. All it will do is make you miss the chance to say goodbye. I don’t want to say goodbye. I know, but you have to because he’s your son and he deserves to have his father there.

They sat in silence for 5 minutes. Marcus crying. Taylor just being present. Finally, Marcus stood up. His legs were shaking. his body exhausted from hours of running, but he stood. “Will you come with me?” he asked Taylor. “To the funeral? I know that’s insane. You don’t know me or Damian. But I don’t think I can walk into that church alone.

What about your wife?” Jennifer is already there setting everything up, being strong because I’m falling apart. I’ve been falling apart for 6 days and she’s had to hold everything together. Then you should go to her. She needs you there, too. Will you come just just for the walk there? I don’t think I can make myself go without someone making me.

Taylor made a decision. Yes, I’ll walk you there, and I’ll stay if you want me to. Sometimes strangers can witness grief in ways friends and family can’t. They walked from the reservoir to the church. 10 blocks that took 20 minutes because Marcus kept stopping, paralyzed by fear and grief. I can’t do this. You can. One step, then another.

I should have been a better father. You were there. You tried. You loved him. That’s all any parent can do. It wasn’t enough. He still died. He didn’t die because you failed. He died because addiction is a disease and because some evil person laced drugs with poison. You didn’t kill him. They arrived at the church with 8 minutes before the service started.

Jennifer was standing outside looking frantic when she saw Marcus. Relief flooded her face. Thank God. I thought I didn’t know if you were coming. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was running and I couldn’t stop. And Jennifer pulled him into a hug. You’re here now. That’s what matters. She looked at Taylor. Thank you.

I don’t know who you are, but thank you for bringing him here. I’m just someone who was at the reservoir. Taylor said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Taylor sat in the back of the church, not wanting to intrude, but staying because Marcus had asked her to. The church was full. Damen had been loved by many people despite his struggles. The service was devastating.

Friends spoke about Damian before addiction. His mother spoke about watching her son fight a disease that ultimately killed him. And finally, Marcus stood to give the eulogy he thought he couldn’t give. He walked to the podium slowly, his running exhaustion evident. He stood in silence for nearly a minute, staring at the coffin where his son lay.

Then he spoke. This morning, I ran around the Jaclyn Kennedy Onassis reservoir for 4 hours. I ran because I thought if I kept running, I wouldn’t have to come here. I thought if I kept moving, time would stop and this wouldn’t be real. His voice broke. But a stranger stopped me. She ran with me. She sat with me. She walked me here.

And she reminded me that my son deserves to have his father show up. even when showing up is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Damian and I used to run that reservoir every Sunday, father and son, talking about life. When he went to rehab, I promised him I’d keep running, that when he got out, we’d run together again.

And we did one time 6 days before he died. Marcus was crying, but kept speaking. Damian was more than his addiction. He was funny and smart and kind. He loved music and running and his family. He fought so hard to get clean. 90 days, 90 victories, and then one terrible decision, one poisoned pill and he was gone.

I’m angry at the dealers who laced drugs with fentanyl. At the disease of addiction, at God for taking my son. At myself for not protecting him better. And I’m heartbroken. Because 19 years wasn’t enough. I needed more time. I needed to run the reservoir with him every Sunday for the rest of my life. But I didn’t get that. None of us got that.

So all I can do now is promise I’ll keep running every Sunday at the reservoir for Damian. And I’ll remember the son who ran beside me, who laughed with me, who fought harder than most people will ever have to fight, who mattered, who will always matter. Marcus looked at the coffin. I love you, Damian. I’m sorry I almost didn’t show up today.

I’m sorry for so many things. But I’m here now and I’m not running anymore. I’m staying. I’m saying goodbye. And I’m promising to carry you with me in every step forward. The church was silent except for crying. Taylor in the back row wept for this family, for this father who’d almost run away from grief but found the courage to face it.

At the reception, Marcus found Taylor. Thank you. I wouldn’t have made it here without you. Yes, you would have. You just needed someone to remind you that you could. Every Sunday I run the reservoir. That was Damian’s and my thing. And I’m going to keep doing it for him. Would you would you run with me sometimes? Not every week, but sometimes.

So, I’m not always alone with the grief. I’d be honored. Over the next year, Taylor ran with Marcus many Sundays. Sometimes they talked about Damian. Sometimes they ran in silence. Sometimes Marcus cried the entire loop. But he showed up. Every week he kept running for Damian. On the anniversary of Damian’s death, Marcus organized a memorial run at the reservoir.

Over 200 people came, friends of Damian, other parents who’d lost children to addiction. People in recovery who wanted to honor someone who hadn’t made it. Before the run, Marcus spoke. A year ago, I ran around this reservoir for 4 hours trying to avoid my son’s funeral. A stranger stopped me, ran with me, walked me to the church, and changed my life.

He looked at Taylor, who stood in the crowd. That stranger taught me that we can’t run from grief, but we can run with it. We can keep moving forward while carrying our losses. We can honor the people we’ve lost by continuing to live. Damian loved to run. He loved this reservoir. He loved the feeling of movement, of progress, of pushing through difficulty.

Addiction stopped him from running, from living, from continuing. But we’re still here. We’re still running. And every step we take is a step Damian can’t take. So we run for him. For everyone we’ve lost. For everyone still fighting addiction. We run because stopping means giving up. And we don’t give up.

We keep moving forward. The memorial run began. 200 people running the reservoir loop. Some in honor of Damian. Some in honor of their own losses. All of them choosing to keep moving forward despite devastating grief. Taylor ran beside Marcus. And beside them in spirit ran a 19-year-old boy who’d loved this path, who’d fought harder than anyone should have to fight, who’d been loved more than he’d ever known.

Taylor wrote in her journal on the anniversary, “A year ago, I was running the reservoir and saw a man who couldn’t stop. He’d been running for hours, crying, unable to face his son’s funeral. I could have run past him, minded my own business, let him figure it out on his own. But something made me stop, made me run with him, made me sit with him, made me walk him to a church where he had to face the worst thing a parent can face.

Marcus taught me something that morning. Sometimes we have to physically keep moving even when we’re emotionally paralyzed. He couldn’t stop running because stopping meant facing reality. Meant accepting his son was dead. Meant going to a funeral and saying goodbye. So he ran for 4 hours until his body gave out and a stranger made him stop.

What I’ve learned from Marcus over this year, grief doesn’t end. It doesn’t get easier. It just becomes something you carry while you keep moving. Marcus still runs the reservoir every Sunday. Damian still runs with him, not physically, but in memory. Every step Marcus takes is a step for both of them. The memorial run has become an annual event.

Hundreds of people running for those they’ve lost, to addiction, to overdose, to the poison that dealers put in drugs without caring who dies. Damen Patterson was 19 years old. He fought addiction for 3 years. He got clean. He relapsed. He died. That’s not a failure. That’s the reality of addiction.

A disease that kills even when people are trying their hardest to survive it. Marcus almost didn’t go to the funeral. Almost ran away from the hardest moment of his life. But he didn’t. He showed up. He gave the eulogy. He said goodbye. And now he keeps running. Not away from grief, but with it. not to avoid reality, but to honor his son’s memory. That’s courage.

That’s love. That’s what it looks like to keep living after losing someone who made life worth living. I think about that morning sometimes about finding Marcus running and crying, unable to stop, terrified of what stopping would mean. And I think about how sometimes the kindest thing we can do is stop someone who’s running from something they need to face.

Not cruy, not forcefully, but gently, with compassion, with the understanding that facing painful truths requires support. Marcus needed someone to tell him, “You can stop running. You can face this. You can survive this.” And now, a year later, he’s proving it. He’s surviving. Not thriving. Grief doesn’t allow for thriving, but surviving, living, continuing.

That’s all any of us can do when we lose someone. Keep moving forward one step at a time, carrying them with us. Damian runs the reservoir every Sunday through his father’s legs through his father’s grief. Through a memorial run that honors his life and acknowledges his death. The running didn’t stop when Damian died.

It just changed form from running together to running in memory. From running for joy to running for honor. From running to avoid pain to running to honor someone who can’t. Marcus almost missed his son’s funeral. But he didn’t. He stopped running from grief and started running with it. That’s the lesson. We can’t outrun loss. But we can keep moving forward while carrying it.

One step, then another, then another. For as long as we live, for everyone we’ve lost. For everyone still fighting, we keep running. This story reminds us that sometimes we run from what we need to face. Marcus spent 4 hours running around a reservoir, trying to delay his son’s funeral, trying to avoid the moment when he’d have to accept Damian was really gone.

That’s not cowardice. That’s human. When reality is unbearable, we find ways to delay it. We keep moving so we don’t have to stop and feel the full weight of what we’ve lost. But running from grief doesn’t work. Reality catches up. The funeral happens whether you attend or not. The loss is real whether you acknowledge it or not.

Marcus needed someone to stop him, to run with him, to sit with him, to remind him that he could face what seemed unbearable. That’s what Taylor did. She didn’t judge him for running. She didn’t tell him to toughen up or get over it. She just ran beside him until he was ready to stop. And then she walked him to the place he was terrified to go.

The lesson isn’t that we should face everything immediately. Sometimes we need time. Sometimes we need to run for a while before we’re ready to stop and face reality. But we can’t run forever. Eventually, we have to stop. We have to face it. We have to say goodbye. The other lesson is about what happens after.

Marcus didn’t stop running permanently. He kept running the reservoir. But now he was running with grief instead of from it. Running to honor Damian instead of running to avoid accepting his death. That’s survival. That’s continuing. That’s carrying loss while still living. If you’re running from something right now, grief, reality, a painful truth you’re not ready to accept, that’s okay.

Run for a while if you need to, but know that eventually you’ll need to stop. You’ll need to face it. And when that time comes, having someone run beside you makes all the difference. Marcus almost missed his son’s funeral because he was too terrified to stop running. But he did stop. He did show up. He did face the unbearable.

And now he keeps running. Not away from Damian’s memory, but toward it. every Sunday, every lap, every step. For the son who can’t run anymore. For the boy who loved this path. For everyone who’s been lost to addiction. Marcus runs. Not to escape grief, but to honor it one step at a time. For as long as he lives, because that’s what love looks like after loss.

You keep moving. You keep showing up. You keep running. Not away, but forward. carrying them with you forever.