From Domestic Violence to Death Valley: An Ode to Running, Community, and The Speed Project

The Speed Project LALV 2026 | Photography by: Patrick Kleineberg

Content Note

This story includes personal experiences with domestic violence, sexual abuse, self-harm, suicide, emotional trauma, and mental health struggles. We share stories like this as part of our mission to inspire action and possibility through the power of shared stories, but we also know that not everyone is ready to read something this heavy in every season.

Please take care of yourself while reading. Pause when needed. Come back when you’re ready. Share this with care. And if this brings anything up for you, please reach out to someone you trust or contact a mental health professional or crisis resource in your area.

You are not alone. Keep going.

“Letting go of the past just means you don't allow your scars to hold you back anymore.” 

“But I’m covered in them”

“Good. What a shame to be 42 years of age and not completely covered in scars. They’re the evidence of a life fully lived.”

“I don’t want this. I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

“You’re not. I think you're strong…[but you] either stay stuck, or go make some new scars. Choose wisely.”

-Shrinking S3 E11

I'm back from completing The Speed Project. A 340-mile relay race from Los Angeles to Las Vegas through the desert. I've had a glass of wine, I just finished the finale of one of the most beautiful TV shows ever created, Shrinking (on Apple TV), and I have a lot to share.

This scene in the finale—of a show centered around community, allowing people in, vulnerability and healing from trauma—really resonated with me and the stage of my life I'm currently in. As a survivor of domestic violence and 6 years out of my abusive marriage, I've been sitting with a lot of grief. I spent over 3 months preparing physically, emotionally and mentally for The Speed Project and was very public about my "why" behind the run. I was running for women who have been abused, for women who survived situations they should have been protected in, and for the women who didn't make it out of their violent environments. I thought publicly declaring my why and solidarity would be just that: a declaration and I would keep it there—on my Instagram for people to like and comment little encouraging messages on and hopefully not relate to. But that wasn't the case. By actively talking about it, I found myself reliving memories I thought I'd processed.

There were nights I would get off work (I'm in hospitality and oftentimes not off until spooky hours) and I found myself involuntarily replaying the times I was being punched in the face by the man I loved. The mornings I spent putting cover up on my black eye. The nights I felt so alone and so unsafe in my apartment I was Googling "women's shelters" while locked in the bathroom. The mornings I walked around Chicago watching the sun rise because he locked me out of our bedroom or our apartment. The day he told me, "I wish I could throw up on your ugly face you fat cow" when I hadn't done the dishes 'correctly.' The night he slapped me across the face on my birthday and screamed how worthless I was because he misplaced the keys to the rental car.

His past and his trauma—these stories still keep me up at night and were a huge influence on why I stayed in the relationship longer than I should have. That he traveled for work 3 weeks each month and would go days without texting or calling. How he gaslit me into thinking I was overbearing when he would leave me on read for 12 hours. How after we were married he took a solo trip back to New Zealand without me and barely spoke to me the 2 weeks he was there. When I would get to travel with him for work and something would set him off, how he'd try to book me flights home in the middle of the night to get rid of me and I'd have to console him. The times he choked me, or kicked me when something out of my control went wrong. How his eyes would go black and the person I knew would disappear when an episode of rage was coming on. The pit in my stomach when I realized that tonight we'd be up for hours talking in circles and nothing I could do or say would calm him down.

I'd think about how it took me almost 2 years after I left to realize I was sexually abused. That I had used sex to calm him down when he was angry so that I could make the yelling stop—even though I didn't want to have it. How there was this one time…it wasn't consensual. How there are pictures of me he took in the privacy of our home without my knowing that he sent to people and posted on dating apps without my knowledge "looking for a third" that I discovered later on. How he cheated on me without protection and gave me an STI that I didn't find out about until my annual checkup. How he stole my antibiotics when I got them and I had to go back to the doctor for more. How I felt like I was walking on eggshells any time he came home, my mental list of his triggers growing every week and every argument. How hopeless I felt when I'd hit another landmine and set him off after things were going so well. The negative comments he would make on my body, and criticize how I dressed. The time he bought me a Brazilian wax package because he wanted me to stay hairless and clean.

How after a few years of this cycle I texted my dad "I hope I don't wake up tomorrow." And my parents showed up at my place of work to take me home. How I spent that weekend at the hospital for self-harm. For dangling my feet off the edge of our 41-story building. For writing a note. For attempting to OD on antidepressants on his work trip to Hawaii when he screamed at me and kicked me out of the hotel room for bonding "too well" with his boss's wife and children out of jealousy.

How absolutely alone and empty I felt sitting on the beach crying—so small and worthless. How while I was hospitalized I looked my abuser in the eye and begged him to be honest with me. To love me. To just tell me what was going on. And how he told me he couldn't do that. How it took me so damn long to finally allow myself to accept what was happening. That he was cheating on me and that I was emotionally, physically, and sexually being abused. The resentment I still have towards myself for holding on so long; for giving up a full ride to grad school because I was so deep in fight or flight mode that I couldn't keep up with my coursework.

I thought about the night he drugged me after we were separated—I was so concerned about his well-being and so codependent I drove to our old apartment after work to check on him and he made us dinner and I realized I couldn't drive home; as I got sleepy he revealed he'd cooked copious amounts of THC into the meal—a substance he knew I was EXTREMELY sensitive to (And no I couldn't taste it while eating—he made sure of that). How I had to call 911 on him the following time he tried to get me to come over, because he was slurring on the phone and I stayed up all night texting him in the ER and then was his only family to bring him a toothbrush and clean clothes to the state mental health facility. How I couldn't stay in a hotel room alone for years after I left because I would relive the abuse and have a panic attack. Finally accepting that I was nothing to someone who was my everything and the long journey it took to finally leave and go no contact.

I spent the three months leading up to The Speed Project reliving how much I tolerated and excused in the name of "love". It kept me up on more than one occasion. Late at night when things are quiet and also too loud. A mixture of shame, grief, and deep sadness would wash over me. On top of that, I had people in my life reaching out, sharing their stories of sexual assault, abuse at the hands of previous partners, and of mental illness. There was one night my partner, Vincent, found me on the couch curled up and crying so hard at 2am he had to scoop me up, bring me to bed, and hold me until I could ground myself.

[By the way, I want you to share your stories with me. This is a safe space. There are just nights where it hits me that so many of us share a common thread. Your stories make me sad but also feel less alone. Please keep sharing.]

I remember after I left my abuser telling my mom, "Oh my god, I'm not even 25 and when I date again I'll have to tell people I was married…I have so much baggage already; who is going to want this??" Much like the quote from the show, I am covered in scars. Metaphorically and physically. But it's gotten better than I could have ever imagined.

When we got into The Speed Project (TSP), I was originally going to assume a supportive / admin role. To be fair, I wasn't training much, I was living in a liminal space, having just quit a secure job that was no longer a fit for my mental health, and was drifting day to day quite lost. Vincent, my ever kind, but incredibly practical partner, wanted me involved but was witnessing a very low moment of my life with little to no consistency. TSP requires emotional and physical strength and discipline—I had neither. But then I started thinking about what the project could mean. And how I could bring something to it while gaining fulfillment in return. I told Vincent one afternoon, "I don't want to be a bystander, I need to be a participant. I'm running with you." And he of course agreed.

I knew I had to make some drastic life changes because we started recruiting our team and it was bad ass. The women who said less to team Sayless were fast, and smart, and disciplined. They didn't complain, they got it done. And they inspired me deeply. I spent December messing around, unable to commit to a training plan. But then came the first of January: I started and stuck with 75 Hard. I locked in for 90 minutes every day to get better. I cut alcohol. Fried food. I fed my mind, my soul, my body. I started realizing that I had been starved of discipline, of fresh air, of pushing myself. I found confidence after years of beating myself down.

Next thing you know, it's a crisp Friday morning in April at 4am and we are at Santa Monica Pier with a thousand other athletes. We've all done the work, we've all planned, packed, sacrificed, traveled and trained. We're here. We have our causes. We're ready.

And then I got to do it. I got to prove to my team, to myself that it was worth it. That I'd invested time and energy into something worthwhile. That I had fought really hard for the days like this.

I thought with the preparation, with the amount of time put into training, with the messages I'd been receiving from other women, with my personal why coupled with the toll of no sleep and physical exhaustion…that I would be a lot more emotional on this project. I don't know what I thought exactly but I think I figured I'd be crying a lot or something. But in a really interesting turn of events the opposite happened—I experienced pure joy.

Don't get me wrong. I was anxious. There were nerves. But then my feet would hit the pavement and I felt like I was 12 again just learning about the sport. I was running! And fast! My feet and my team were taking me through the streets of LA at 4am. I was sprinting through Beverly Hills, past Universal Studios. The sun was coming up! I was peeing in a 7-11 and dashing out the door to run past a bodega with a DJ. An all-women's team called me a badass and cheered. I was eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, laughing with my teammates. I was taking a nap in the RV, waking up in the desert, racing down the dirt roads as the sun set, high-fiving another woman from Poland while we waited for a freight train to go by, "tough luck" she said because we were stuck waiting mid relay leg, I smiled and the barriers were barely lifted before we were off again.

"I'm scared of the dark," I said and my male teammates and friends didn't hesitate to get on the bike alongside me to narrate a car coming or a dog in the distance. To light my way. To take on the extra effort to make me feel less alone. We were back up at 3:30am, walking a half mile in the dark to a trailhead we hoped was correct, a bobbing headlamp in the distance, our team! The quiet of the desert with a 4x4 bouncing behind me on the "ankle buster" section of the route. Just myself, the trail and the stars. My pace is slow…I'm running in the fucking desert! I'm scared…my teammate Michael is so at peace on this trail, if he isn't scared I'll be fine.

The sun comes up in 40 minutes. Oh my god the sun is rising. Holy shit I'm alive. Gas station coffee has never tasted better. Ok, last leg. I am so nervous. It's Death Valley and I've never performed well in the heat. I feel nauseous. I know I'm going to be so sad when this is over so I lock in. This is a privilege to be here. Let's shotgun a Red Bull and turn these nerves into excitement. My teammate Farrell just ground up that grueling hill. I get to full-send the downhill. I get to.

Oh my god I'm running. I'm running. I'm running as fast as I can through Death Valley. There is no one else around. Holy shit I'm running so fast and I feel so strong. I prepared for this. It's so beautiful! Blue skies and the desert. I get to enjoy this. I get to. I get to be here. I almost wasn't here. I'm tired but I've never felt more alive. Holy shit I just ran a 6:13-minute mile through Death Valley. I have 4 more 1-mile legs after this. I don't know if I can hold this pace. Wow I just ran a 6:23 mile! Who cares if I leave it all here. I'm with my friends in the desert!

Michael just found a desert rose. My partner is doubting himself, we all remind him he's the reason we're here. He finds another mile in himself. He cries. He found the point. Let's keep pushing. My last mile was 7:45. I left it all there. I'm bent over in front of the car. I well up, huffing and teary eyed. I ran my last mile for this team. I wish I could give more. I'm so grateful. The gravity hits. I prepared. Then I executed. What an incredibly fulfilling but hollow feeling. It's over so quickly. In total I ran 27 miles as fast as I could in 36 hours and it's over. My team is carrying us to the finish line but my part is complete.

The Speed Project is an unsanctioned 340-mile race through the desert. You have to be invited to participate. There are no spectators. There are no rules. It's just you, your team, and the finish line at the Welcome to Las Vegas sign. TSP is a grueling, beautiful, and humbling experience. Most of us had never driven an RV—we had to all watch a 35-minute tutorial on grey water and generators. Most of us have never driven an off-road vehicle on a road that definitely required off-road experience. Most of us had never run in the desert. Most of us never had to use a map to navigate the desert. But we did it anyway. We did it scared. We did it uncertain. We did it because it meant something. We did it for each other. We did it because why not? We braved the dark because there was a teammate doing the same. We did it for our own reasons. What an honor to do something difficult with people I love and admire. How special to find joy in discomfort.

I think joy is radical. I think the world wants us to be sad. I think the world wants us to feel shame. It wants us to burrow into ourselves. To isolate. To consume. To be selfish. To think we're alone in all of this. To hoard resources. To think no one wants or needs what we have to offer. And that's so far from the truth. Humans have never been that way. It's not our nature. We've just been conditioned. We bloom when we get to offer our gifts and shortcomings. There's no hiding in an RV with 11 other people. You bare your soul. Your triggers, your fears. And guess what happened? Radical acceptance. Vulnerability was met with understanding. Fear was met with gentleness. Exhaustion was met with a blanket and a sandwich. Nerves were met with assurance. And that spirit traveled outside of our pod: teams were keeping each other safe on the road. Men were silently running alongside all women's teams in dangerous areas without being asked. Teams were sharing water and resources with each other. People were dropping pins in the group chat where there was a loose dog or a potential drunk driver. People were digging cars out of the sand. The nonbinary team adopted and fed a runner who got separated from his group until his team caught up. People were good and kind in a competitive space with little to no resources. Humans want to be good. There is so much good.

TSP was life-changing. It was a jolt from this world we live in. It was a reminder that if we put our phones down and look people in the eye, and say hello that we all have so much to offer. That it's ok to be messy. It's ok to be scared. It's ok to not know fully how you are getting from point A to point B but if you have really beautiful people around you and you're not afraid to ask for help, the journey is arguably the best part. That the sun sets but it also rises. That you can go through the lowest of lows and if you can just hold on, experience some of the highest highs. That there is beauty in existing. That I am not reduced to what happened to me. That there is strength in sharing my story. That I am not alone. That you are not alone. That I get to love and be loved. I get to be here. I also fought to be here.

So many of us are battling. And I promise you if you can hold on. It gets so much better. I love my team. I love this project. I am forever changed by my time in the desert. I'm changed because of the people I had around me. I ran for the women in my life. But I also ran for me. And I ran because I love it so fucking much. I lost myself for a while and I found her in the desert. What an absolute honor to run. What an honor to live. I found myself crying and laughing as I ripped through Death Valley. TSP gave me an excuse to believe in myself again.

Do it scared. Do it sad. Do it tired. And keep doing it.

It was a fucking honor to bare my scars and quite honestly, I'm now more terrified of a life without them. I'd say I chose wisely. What about you?

Watch Haley tell more of this story in her own words on the Art of Doing Something About It podcast.

If you or a loved one is experiencing domestic violence, there are resources available: For the National Domestic Violence Hotline call: 800-799-7233 or text START to 88788.