Holy Week has always been a pause button.

For many, it means stillness, silence, and stepping away from routine. But for runners, it takes on a slightly different form — not a contradiction of reflection, but another way of arriving at it.

This past week, I saw how the running community marked the occasion in deeply personal ways. Some chose to move — literally — toward something sacred. A group made their now-familiar pilgrimage run to Antipolo, a route that has become almost symbolic for many runners. It’s not an easy route. The climb tests your legs, your lungs, and, in some ways, your resolve. But perhaps that’s the point. The suffering is part of the offering. Each step becomes a form of prayer.

Others took on a different tradition — Visita Iglesia, but on foot. Instead of driving from one church to another, they ran. Seven churches, seven stops, each one a checkpoint not just of distance covered, but of intention. There’s something powerful about arriving at each church slightly tired and depleted. It strips away distractions. You enter not as a tourist, but as someone who has exerted effort to be there. And maybe that makes the prayers a little more felt.

Then there were those who chose stillness in a different way. No long runs. No mileage goals. Just a deliberate pause. For many runners, that can be the hardest thing — to stop. To not chase pace or distance. But Holy Week offered a reason to step back, to reset, to let both body and mind recover.

As for me, I spent the week a little differently. I had just gotten back to Manila from a brief break in Baguio City with my family. It was the kind of trip you don’t realize you needed until you’re in it — cool air, slower mornings, conversations that aren’t rushed. It felt like a necessary pause.

But somewhere in the middle of that break, reality caught up. I received news that a close friend’s father-in-law had passed away. It was sudden enough to make one stop and think, but not unfamiliar enough to ignore. These moments have a way of cutting through whatever rhythm you’ve settled into. They remind us that life moves on its own terms.

And so this Holy Week, more than anything, has been about trying to make sense of things. Not in a dramatic or overly philosophical way, but in quiet, small attempts at understanding. I find myself bringing more questions to God these days — not in search of immediate answers, but resting in the quiet trust that His responses will find me when I am ready to receive them.

Running has now become less about performance and more about presence. Whether one is running to Antipolo, moving from church to church, or choosing not to run at all, the thread that ties it all together is intention. What are you carrying with you? What are you letting go of?

I don’t think there’s a single correct way to observe Holy Week as a runner. Movement can be prayer. Stillness can be prayer.

What I do know is this: weeks like this remind us that running is just one part of a much bigger life. A life that asks us to be better — not just faster or stronger, but kinder, more present, more grounded in something beyond ourselves.

This is what I hold on to as I ease back into routine. To run again, yes — but to do so with a little more awareness. A little more purpose. And, hopefully, a little more grace —from God, for my family, friends, and for the country we’re all still trying to serve in our own ways.