I’m in Rose Canyon in San Diego, crying my eyes out. I do this every day. It’s a cool October morning. Dawn is about an hour away, but I know this place so well that moonlight and the company of stars are all I need. I’m running on dirt roads where nothing but tall weeds and bunny rabbits exist.
This is my safe place. I’m alone and free to let all the emotions work themselves out without shame. No holding back. Why her? My thoughts turn from sorrow and anguish to anger and become absolutely homicidal. I let the anger run full force through me. It drives my legs faster. I know I will forever have the energy of this anger to push me.
By the time I head back to the house, the eastern sky has started to gray. The tears have dried. I know that my legs and lungs have done their work and that my tensions are calmed. I can now think better and plan. I will now be able to focus my concentration and direct my energy toward her problems and toward those of my courageous cancer patients—problems that, in the grand scheme, are far more important than mine. As I cool down, take a shower, and put on my uniform, I reach a peaceful equilibrium that will last until tomorrow morning.