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On March 25, Crystal Lovell will leave her home in McKinney, Texas–where she’s been sleeping in a Box Altitude tent to simulate the rarefied air at 18,000 feet–to fly to Kathmandu and climb Mount Everest. Sitting across from her in Houndstooth Coffee on Henderson Avenue, it’s hard to believe that the F45 fitness trainer only hiked her first mountain three years ago. “I got into it kind of by accident,” she says, sipping a bottle of water while I eat a croissant. “I moved here from Florida for work and went through just total depression and gained 50 pounds. My whole life revolved around work.”

A friend invited her to go backpacking through Yosemite, and one night they camped on top of a mountain peak. “I fell in love with the struggle of it, and then getting to see the views,” she says.

She took a break from her job as a sales consultant with Lincoln Financial to attend a 6-day mountaineering school in Washington with Alpine Ascents International. Then she climbed Mount Rainier, the tallest peak in Washington.

In between cultured butter tastings and winter cocktail samplings, we talk a lot about healthy living around here. We each have our own peccadilloes (cold brew, kouign-amanns, caipirinhas) and penances (SoulCycle, sliding lunges, stair climbing with the trainer for the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders). For the most part, we want to have our chilipanzinga empanadas and fit in our Kiki de Montparnasse leggings with the lace inset, too.

But, despite my best efforts, in a little over a week I will turn 47. I recently realized, four years too late, that I reached my peak at 43. Turns out, life isn’t like a box of chocolates. At least for the first half, it’s more like ascending the Titan’s 255-foot hill at Six Flags.

You know that moment when your car crests and you hang, suspended in time, with nothing but blue sky ahead of you? That’s 43. Then comes the tipping point, when you discover it is all a gut-churning, panic-inducing, fist-clenching, sleep-denying, weight-gaining, nerve-pinching, full-speed descent from here on out. That’s perimenopause.

So, yeah, I’d like to throw some gravel on the tracks and slow this train down. I want to live my best life during my arthritic second half. I’d like to cleanse and look cute in my Bandier leggings and generally be more flexible, personally and physically (like the acro-yoga superstar couple of Max and Liz Lowenstein, shown above and on the current cover). But I’ll settle for a healthy heart rate and more wins on the tennis court.

The latter is the result of my attempt at sports-focused mindfulness with Melissa Marks for our January cover feature, “Build a Better You!” The former is, hopefully, a happy byproduct of said aerobic efforts on the court. Whatever you have in mind for your 2019, whether you’re still on the ascent or well into a 540-degree helix on the way down, we’ve put together an unusual, insightful, and useful guide to local options that can help improve your fitness and performance. More importantly, we hope they make the ride more fun. The cover story is online now. 

When your city gets dinged by something called a CityHealth report, it’s probably a sign that we could all stand to do some pushups, right? Kind of, although that’s more the domain of the American Fitness Index, which ranked Dallas this month as the 31st fittest city in the country. (Plano, with its median income that allows residents to buy gym memberships and healthy food, landed in 12th.)

CityHealth, an initiative of the public health policy advocacy group the de Beaumont Foundation and the healthcare consortium Kaiser Permanente, instead looks at city-wide policies that can “improve residents’ health and quality of life.” The gist here is that while not everyone can afford gym memberships, everyone deserves to live in a city that takes steps to make people healthier. Public responsibility vs. personal responsibility and so forth.

For the sake of this report, CityHealth handed out medals to each city it evaluated. Dallas got “no medal,” which is somehow even more dispiriting than a numerical ranking that says Plano is in better shape than us. Let’s look at each of the criteria and see how Dallas’s individual policies, or lack thereof, fared.

A couple from St. Louis has opened a pioneering hemp shop in Dallas-Fort Worth. The hope: Provide a welcoming environment for people looking for hemp-based health and personal-care products.

“There’s no place to specifically get it,” says Dafna Revah, who co-founded CBD Kratom with her husband David Palatnik. “A lot of people looking for it would rather go to a place like this.”

The shop, which opened Dec. 5, is the company’s first Texas location and is located off Knox and U.S. Highway 75. It carries oils, edibles, creams, capsules, crumbles, waxes, and pet products containing cannabidiol, a compound in cannabis said to aid with pain, mood, and mental function. The products all follow the federal legal limit of no more than .3 percent tetrahydrocannabinol, the compound responsible for creating a “high.” The shop also sells kratom, an herb from the coffee family, in powder form. The supplement is said to increase energy and aid with pain and other ailments.

Sometimes, a simple gif of Ryan Gosling blowing a kiss to a kitten or Armie Hammer dancing offers enough assurance that life isn’t all that bad. But this Monday, we have something so much better than that, courtesy a heroic, heartwarming finish at the Dallas Marathon. When New Yorker Chandler Self begin collapsing just 2 ½ miles from the finish line, Greenhill School senior Ariana Luterman, who was running relays nearby, rushed to her side and repeatedly helped her to her feet until her final lunge to win the race.

I remember the first time I saw Demi Lovato in concert. She was opening up for the Jonas Brothers’ Burnin’ Up Tour at the then Superpages.com Center (now Starplex Pavillion, thankfully). The Disney Channel had just premiered an original movie called Camp Rock, where Demi had finally landed a starring role after years as a neighborhood kid named Angela on Barney & Friends. She recorded hopeful singles where her killer vocals shined, and was slightly edgier than Disney contemporaries such as Selena Gomez and Miley Cyrus (oh how times have changed). I loved her.

During that summer concert in 2008, Demi stood on stage reflecting on her first memory of the Superpages.com Center: singing in a radio station’s amateur concert in the parking lot of the Kelly Clarkson concert. For her, performing on the same stage as a woman she’d looked up to her whole adolescent life was the moment she’d been waiting for. Demi might actually make it big.

When Caitlin, our online lifestyle editor, offered to let me take her place interviewing Demi at an upcoming event at Fabletics in Legacy West, I unsuccessfully tried to play it cool and keep it together. But I was going to meet Demi, my girl since I was a 16-year-old pop-punk fanatic, and it was going to be my day to thrive.

LimeBike, a dockless bike-sharing service, has announced that it will be launching in Dallas this September, making North Texas its sixth location. San Mateo, Calif.-based LimeBike provides an environmentally-friendly alternative for city transportation.

Kourtny Garrett, CEO of Downtown Dallas Inc., said in a statement, “Downtown Dallas, Inc. has been exploring funding opportunities for operating a bike-share program on our own for years, and we are thrilled to work with innovative companies entering the market.”

The bright green bikes require no deposit fees for use, and the pay-as-you-go ride costs $1 for 30 minutes, or 50 cents for students. LimeBikes are also GPS and 3G enabled, making it easy for riders to find, unlock, and pick up a bike using the iOS or Android LimeBikes app. Once the ride is finished, riders lock the bikes’ back wheel and park between the pedestrian-designated sidewalk and the street curb or at a bike rack.

The new dockless bikes will initially be deployed at partner business locations this month as the company works with city officials and key stakeholders on rules to allow company expansion throughout the community. LimeBike will head a local operations and maintenance team to support the program, which will call for dozens of full and part-time local hires.

“Dallas is a forward-thinking town that is at the intersection of sustainability and economic development … By working closely with city leaders, community organizations, and local businesses, we plan on ramping up service quickly in order to provide commuters and cycling enthusiasts an empowering way to get around in Dallas,” Toby Sun, CEO and co-founder of LimeBike, said in a statement. “We have been extremely encouraged by the community support and reception we’ve had so far in Dallas.”

The Dallas City Council’s Mobility Solutions, Infrastructure and Sustainability Committee will hold a briefing on August 14 to discuss how the program can support Dallas’ mobility priorities.

Four months after moving to Dallas, I stood at the reception desk at the Texas Health Presbyterian Hospital ER, struggling to articulate in a whisper, “I need to find the Dallas Area Rape Crisis Center.”

“I will get you a doctor,” the receptionist said, picking up a phone.

“I don’t need a doctor. I escaped.”

“Are you alone?”

I was.

I’m Abi Grise, the hero of this story. I’ll spoil it for you: on nearly the three-year anniversary of escaping my rapist, I ran the BMW Dallas Marathon. But making peace with this city and reclaiming my body were more complicated than that.

I towed my Mustang from Kentucky to Old East Dallas on August 14, 2013, and moved into a century-old mansion that had been cut into studio apartments. The foundation visibly leaned, my bathroom door wouldn’t shut, and the landlord’s five dogs did their business in a bed of plastic flowers on the balding front lawn. Rent was $500, including utilities. I knew no one.

I was enrolled as a graduate student at SMU, but I quit on my first day of class after being offered my dream job as a copywriter for an advertising agency in Richardson. Things looked good, until they didn’t.

After the attack, friends suggested I cut my losses and retreat home to Kentucky. This wasn’t outrageous—I’d never had a positive relationship with my body, and forging through the freshman year of my career with post-traumatic stress disorder apart from a support system seemed unfathomable.

Some background: I started running in college for all the wrong reasons. I ran as a way to lose weight, even though I barely had any weight to lose. I ran for someone else, foolishly hoping to capture the attention of a friend I liked who dated skinny girls. I ran as punishment after a handful of Cheez-Its or a couple of cheap beers. I hated running.

After the attack, I didn’t run again for a year. Well-meaning people told me I was lucky to escape. The 911 operator, police officers, detective, nurse, DARCC therapist, my friends, my family. I said it, too. But I didn’t feel lucky. I woke at odd hours of the night, gasping from recurring nightmares of being choked to death. I backed myself into corners on the DART train during my commute, side-eyeing male passengers. Every time I shook hands with a man I’d never met, I’d wonder, Would he?

Along with a normal case of impostor syndrome at my first job, I quietly battled panic attacks in the bathroom. I confided in the wrong people. I made noncommittal friendships. I wondered if it would be possible to ever be inherently trusting again or feel at home in Texas.

After a year, I met a casual runner at Trees during an Ishi concert. We began dating and ran together along the Katy Trail. A boyfriend still wasn’t a great reason to run. It wasn’t until he quit the sport, the relationship fizzled out, and I continued running on my own that I accidentally fell in love with running.

Life is complicated. The strengthening of our muscles—including our hearts—occurs so slowly that we barely notice. Growth is nonlinear. Healing from PTSD, falling in love with running, and making Dallas my home were things I felt before I understood them. I was drinking water before I realized I was thirsty.

One mile at a time, the sharpness of PTSD softened. I attended free therapy sessions from DARCC in the offices of an old church. I walked to Deep Ellum and Lowest Greenville from my apartment, determined not to let one man scare me into becoming a shut-in. I explored the city, perusing the stacks of The Wild Detectives, going to concerts at The Kessler Theater, marveling at the taxidermic animals at Double Wide. I read Strange Peaches, Dallas Noir, and Love Me Back to study the nuances of my adopted city through other writers. I put in the effort to befriend co-workers. I doubled down to secure a promotion from junior copywriter to copywriter. I adopted a cat.

For years, I had assessed my body’s worth on sexual appeal. The attack was the breaking point. It took someone else reducing me to an object to understand that, unless something changed, I would never be happy. I had a choice: I could accept this man’s appraisal that my body was worthless and let him win. Or, I could treat my body as an extension of my spirit and feed it with kindness and patience.

Running made me health-conscious. I no longer cared about being skinny or pretty. I wanted to be strong. So I ran without makeup in old sweatshirts, with my hair in a lopsided braid. When it was cold, I blew my nose on my sleeve.

Running taught me patience. I forgave myself for walking. I bandaged my blisters. I sang to soothe myself as my toes turned pink during ice baths. I learned to listen to my body—cramping meant dehydration, sluggishness meant poor sleep, aches meant busted shoes. I noted the light of sunrise reflecting off street signs and car hoods, and the dew I kicked off blades of grass. I counted ducks, rabbits, squirrels. I felt my heart beat.

During the most difficult hours of running, I mouthed mantras. You’ve come so far already. You were born for this. Thank you. I gave thanks for my bad runs and my good runs.

Nearly every weekend last year, I hit the pavement for my long runs along White Rock Lake. Seven miles into the 9.3-mile loop, there is a part of the trail open only to pedestrians. As a ritual, I stop at a bench at the top of a small hill. In summer, sailboats glide across the skyline. In spring, Indian paintbrushes sway, and bikers whir on the path below. This is where I pause my music and my GPS app. I listen to my labored breath and feel my calves tingle. Then I list aloud, to my city skyline, at least three things I’m grateful for that day. It lightens my step for the last 2 miles. It is never a waste of time to reflect on the gift of your health and life.

After completing the Big D Half Marathon on April 10, 2016, I sobbed. For the first time in my life, I had done something with my body I was proud of, for no one else but me. I proved my attacker wrong, that this body was strong, beautiful, something to be revered. And I decided I wanted to run the full BMW Dallas Marathon on December 11.

Like many first-time marathoners, my goal was to finish. But I had other goals, too, such as being levelheaded, compassionate, and not assuming the worst in people. On the surface, it looks like these goals are not about a marathon. But, for me, running was therapy.

Hours early to the starting gun, I watched thousands of runners arrive. Some paced, jittery with nerves. Others stretched in custom t-shirts along the barriers. Running is a sport dominated by introverts, and I was surprised by the sheer mass of competitors drawn together after most likely training solo for months. By that point, I’d run 1,005 miles by myself.

I was placed in the first corral. Hundreds of toned, competitive athletes surrounded me. But instead of jealousy, I felt camaraderie. I knew the battles they’d fought to get here. Sprinkled throughout the marathon spectators were adults and children, arms outstretched, holding Tupperware containers of lemon slices. I had never heard of runners sucking on lemons, so at first I thought it was a joke. You know, “When life gives you lemons …” Turns out, runners suck on lemons for sugar, hydration, and to jolt themselves into a state of heightened awareness. If this isn’t a perfect metaphor for this story, I don’t know what is.

I have a secret to running fast. You ready? High-five the children holding out their hands along the course. Wave to spectators ringing cowbells and shouting encouragement. Thank every person offering Gatorade or Goldfish crackers from a folding table on their driveway. Gratitude gives you strength. Saying thank you is never a waste of time on your journey.

I finished my first marathon in 3 hours, 44 minutes. I ranked in the top 6 percent of women running the BMW Dallas Marathon in 2016, and top 14 percent of women and men combined. The numbers defied my expectations, but my real victories occurred while running at ordinary speeds, on weekdays I barely remember, in my ratty sweatshirt, around my apartment complex.

“If your legs are tired, run with your heart.” This was a sign I passed at mile 22. It’s true. The strength of your spirit carries you across the finish line. After all, the first marathon runner in Greece hadn’t trained for weeks on end. He ran for a cause.

At the end of the BMW Dallas Marathon, elite and Olympian runners—Meb Keflezighi, Desiree Linden, and Deena Kastor among them—stood at the finish line to present medals to the runners behind them. That’s when I realized I had a job to do. When we win battles, it is our duty to help others still fighting.

I didn’t choose to be assaulted. But I choose to share my story, to bring awareness to sexual assault, to show that PTSD is not a death sentence for happiness or success. Running a marathon hasn’t cured the lingering, possibly lifelong psychological and physiological effects of being assaulted. I’m jumpy. Catcalls terrify me. I can’t sleep in unfamiliar places. I close my eyes during violent movies. Nevertheless, I live a full life.

My story is bigger than my assault, just as the marathon was a fraction of the miles I ran last year. The highlights and shadows of our lives do not define us. This is how I honor those still fighting behind me.

My story is not extraordinary. One out of every six women in Dallas has been sexually assaulted. You ride next to us on DART, you pass us on the Katy Trail, stand behind us in line for lunch at Serj. We are your relatives, co-workers, friends. This is the tale of 1,183,799 women and 215,236 men in North Texas.

I moved to Dallas with the intent to earn my master’s degree at SMU and promptly leave. Three years was all I planned to give Texas. My story could have ended under a white flag after four months. But I stayed and made peace with this city instead.

As a result, my story includes drinking Blood and Honeys with friends at The Foundry, countless concerts at Granada Theater, hiking at Cedar Ridge Preserve, boogieing at Reunion Lawn Parties, wakeboarding at Grapevine Lake, Late Nights at the DMA, evenings at Bowlounge and Truck Yard, movies at The Texas Theatre, countless sunrises at White Rock Lake, throwing popcorn at Pocket Sandwich Theatre, eating foot-long hot dogs at Rangers games, writing fiction at the Creative Arts Center of Dallas, laughing to tears at the Dallas Comedy House, discovering mindfulness at We Yogis, eating deep-fried shrimp boil at the State Fair of Texas. And, now, running through the finish line at the BMW Dallas Marathon, with my hands in the air and my face lifted to the sky, saying thank you, thank you, thank you.

You can donate to the Dallas Area Rape Crisis Center at dallasrapecrisis.org. Abi Grise is the copywriter for D Magazine Partners, the parent company of D Magazine. 

John Stubbs had been in the pest control industry for nine years when he had an epiphany. All the pest control companies were offering the same services, he says—the same house-blasting of pesticides when a solitary cockroach would appear. But what if the focus were put more on prevention and less on the blasting?