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I’ve been no exception.

STILL, ABOUT A WEEK LATER on my last-day-of-my-twenties party, I abandon social graces and herd the conversation back to Congo at every turn. “No, you don’t understand. Four million people have died. Don’t you think we should do something? Let’s have a fundraising party or bake sale or walk. . . .”

I am met with awkward silences, blank stares, and polite changes of subject.

Despite attempts to map new terrain for myself, I wake up on the morning of my thirtieth birthday without a clue about where I am headed. Ted says he has a surprise for me. Whatever it is, I welcome the change.

On my last birthday, we were in San Diego prepping a photo shoot. We spent hours in sprawling malls, driving from one chain store to another. We roamed the aisles at Target, Ross, and the Saks Fifth Avenue outlet, hunting for size 2 summer dresses and swimsuits. By the time evening came around, we abandoned plans to eat at the nicer strip mall restaurant, opting for rice and beans at the Baja Fresh across the parking lot to avoid the long lines outside the marginally fancier place. Back at the hotel, Ted presented me with my birthday treat—a card picked up while we were prop shopping. I stayed up late, wrapping empty boxes in flower-print and striped gift paper and tying them with inviting bows for the next day’s shoot, a fake child’s birthday celebration.

So wherever I am headed to inaugurate my thirties, it’s already something better. When we get in the car, I have no idea: The beach? The mountains? The desert? The train? A drive? The airport? I’m not used to this lack of control, “Can you at least tell me when I’ll know?”

“Soon,” Ted teases.

When we pull up at the airport, I am just as lost, even after we check in for our flight to San Francisco.

As we sit in the airport terminal, I spot a newsstand with the February issue of O, The Oprah Magazine, which has an article on women in Congo. Minutes later, in the crowded waiting area, I read the article, then its online expanded version, “Postcards from the Edge.” One woman describes a militia dragging her away to the forest to rape or kill her. She pleads for her life. One of the militia responds, “Even if I kill you, what would it matter? You are not human. You are like an animal. Even if I killed you, you would not be missed.”

I decide to run.

CHAPTER FOUR

Lone Run

I AM NOT A feel-the-burn kind of girl. I am a casual runner. Make that very casual.

Years ago, my then roommate and I decided to train for our first marathon. We trained consistently for about a month, then scheduled our first fourteen-mile training run. We procrastinated until late afternoon, forgot our water, and set out in ninety-five-degree heat on an endlessly flat, sun-exposed cement path. (I still call it “The Corridor of Hell.”) Our chatter about frozen dessert could only keep us distracted for so long, and around mile ten, it trailed off into the sound of panting and footsteps. My running buddy asked, “How are you doing over there?”

“Exhausted,” I admitted.

“Want to stop?” he asked.

“Got your cell phone?”

“No,” he said, then he pointed to a convenience store. “But I bet they have a pay phone there.”

We called a cab to drive us back to the car. I collapsed in the back of the taxi, delighted to declare that giving up was one of the nicest things I’d ever done for myself. That marked the end of my marathon ambitions.

Now, back from our San Francisco trip and over my midwinter bug, I find a five-mile run long, but doable. Though I’ve tried to enroll friends to join me in creating a run or walk for Congo’s women, not one of them has agreed. They don’t know anything about the conflict and aren’t interested in learning. So I’m doing this alone. Because everyone and their cousin’s boyfriend do 5Ks and marathons to raise funds for every cause imaginable, I need to take it a step further. I realize I need an effort that can’t be faked: something extreme. Something