STRIDES OF STRENGTH w/Allié & Angela

One moment, Allié was working at her computer. The next, she was struggling to see the screen—not in both eyes, just one. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, tried to refocus. And then, just like that, her vision disappeared completely.

​A trip to the emergency room led her to an ophthalmologist, who then sent her right back to the ER. “Your eye is perfect,” they told her. “No issues at all.” Yet, she still couldn’t see. That’s when they gave her a possible diagnosis: multiple sclerosis. Further testing confirmed it—lesions on her brain and spine. A reality she never saw coming.

Movement, something she once took for granted, suddenly felt foreign. Her vision was unreliable, her balance unsteady. Running, something she had once loved, seemed out of reach.

Angie was Allié’s best childhood friend. They went to school together and they ran together. Angie recounts that Allié had always been a runner. A natural. In high school, she shattered records in the 200 and 400 meters, in long jump—her speed was almost supernatural, the kind of talent people stopped to watch. But what people didn’t see was the anxiety. The fear of failure that always lurked in the back of her mind, despite her undeniable success. She ran fast, but she also ran scared.

​Years passed, and running became less about competition for Angie and more about something bigger. One day, she signed up for the Philadelphia Marathon. She trained, pushed through the miles, but something felt missing. Why was she doing this? What was driving her forward?

Then it hit her—Philadelphia. This is where Allié was born, but the city now held a deeper meaning. While Allié faced a challenge she never chose, Angie realized she could choose to run for her. She could run in her honor. Angie had the ability, the strength, and the privilege to move freely. And she wasn’t going to take that for granted.

On her 45th birthday, she picked up the phone. It was Angie. “I’m running the Philadelphia Marathon in November,” she told Allié. “And I want to do it in your honor to raise awareness and funds for MS.”

Allié was stunned. “Why?” she asked. “Why are you doing this?”

And Angie’s answer was simple: “Because I can.”

That call changed everything. Allié hadn’t run in years—not since her diagnosis. She had convinced herself she was done with it. With her loss of vision and her balance being off. Allié thought running wasn’t for her anymore. But if Angie could push herself to run 26.2 miles, what could she do? 

Allié signed up for the 8K. It wasn’t a marathon, but it was 5 miles. It was a start.

Training brought back memories of high school, where Allié had always been the fastest one on the track, and Angie had always been in awe of her talent. Back then, Allié was the runner who made it look effortless, while Angie was her emotional support teammate, the one the coach sent to find Allié when her anxiety got the best of her. “Just go do it,” Angie would tell her. “It’ll take 30 seconds, and then it’s over.”

Now, years later, the roles had reversed. Angie was the one going the distance, and Allié was in awe and inspired. “This race has turned into something so much bigger than I expected,” Allié said “I know I’m learning something along the way—about life and about myself.”

For Allié, this race wasn’t about running a certain time. It wasn’t about getting a particular place. It was about proving that she could try. And in that, she had already won. ∎