Ade

 

The Long Walk Back

By Ade Olude

My name is Ade Olude. For the past decade I have walked, run, and lived with one mission: keep moving and tell the truth about homelessness, healing, and resilience.

I’ve run marathons across the United States, studied the marathon monks, and pushed into ultramarathons. I’ve run tens of thousands of miles. But life also hit me hard. I went through a divorce, suffered a stroke, was hit by a car, and experienced homelessness. For a time I lived in shelters—Gateway among them—and what I found there changed me.

Shelters didn’t know how to handle someone who was sober, positive, and determined to heal. Many of the staff themselves carried unhealed trauma. Instead of being supported, I was sometimes asked to fit in a program that didn’t match who I was. So I chose to use my running to raise awareness. I decided to run for those who feel unseen.

I ran 100 marathons to shine a light on homelessness. I remember one 24-hour race when I was sleeping on a Greyhound bus between events. No one came from the office. No one came to help feed except my brother Micheal from Philadelphia’s Black Men Run. I ran 24 hours straight with no food until mile 80, then felt the first signs of a stroke. By mile 90 a brother named David — a vegan — handed me food that kept me going. I slept briefly and still finished 109 miles that day to bring attention to people sleeping on streets and parks. That experience taught me this healing would be long, but I refused to give up.

When I returned to Atlanta after one of those races, I was removed from the shelter. Immigration complications followed—temporary work status, then a notice that barred me from working. With a young son I could not see, and without health insurance, the pain and fear were real. I lost my center. In the middle of that chaos a car struck me. For a moment I was outside my body; I was on top of the car, and my first thought was, How will I run again? I survived. I was humiliated, broken, but not defeated.

In the aftermath I forgave—my parents, my childhood trauma, even the man who hit me. I found forgiveness was the first step back to running. I apologized to Tyrone, the driver, because the voice inside me said forgiveness was necessary to walk again.

My running is not about medals. It’s a prayer, a protest, and a lifeline for those who feel invisible. I run to show the world that healing, discipline, and compassion can live in the same body that has been through everything. I will never, ever give up. And one day — till I die is my word of determination, like calling Ogun and Orunmila — I will run another 100 miles.

The Long Walk Back Continues

After the car accident, I lay in pain with no health insurance, no stability, no home. I thought I would never walk again. But God always sends help in unexpected ways.

For two weeks, a lady came out of nowhere and fed me while I could barely move. After four weeks, I finally crossed the road again. My first walk of three miles took three hours — but I knew the journey had begun.

Miss Cheryl, who I call my auntie, came to me and said she was fasting for one hundred days, only eating apples. Her discipline gave me courage. If she could sacrifice in that way, then I could walk again. Slowly, my miles grew: five miles, six miles, every single day.

During that time I met a young boxer who became my protégé. I mentored him not with words but with example — waking up at 1 a.m. to do yoga, jogging, and walking. Together we reached the Olympic trials. Even though his career was short, that experience showed me that leadership is not about money or possessions, but about showing the path.

Still, life was heavy. For three years after my stroke, I had no movement in my hand. Every Saturday I would run 52 miles from sunrise to sunset, taking 16 hours, praying for my hand to open. It never did. Depression came, suicidal thoughts stayed with me for over a year. But as a Yoruba man, I knew suicide was not an option. Our Ifa tradition teaches that ancestors do not welcome those who take their own lives. That belief kept me alive.

Instead, I ran. I meditated. I wrote affirmations. Even in pain, even with shame, I smiled and kept moving.

One of my hardest moments was when my son — who I had not seen in years — came to visit me. He cried and said, “Daddy, I want to stay with you.” I had to look at him and say, “No, son, you must stay with your mom because Daddy doesn’t have a house.” It was the most painful moment of my life. That same day, I suffered another stroke.

But I refused to give up.

I practiced yoga every morning between 1 a.m. and 5 a.m., slowly jogging, slowly healing. I forgave my father for my childhood wounds, and even though I did not see him again before he passed, we became close through forgiveness.

For four years I could not even open a bottle of water — I had to ask others for help or use my teeth. But I kept running. I refused to put alcohol, drugs, or negativity into my body. I lived on faith alone. By 2021, something within me said, Run a marathon every day. So I did. By then I had already run over 60,000 miles in my life.

Even when the courts tried to humiliate me — once I was ticketed for jaywalking — God turned it into a lesson. The judge looked at me, laughed at the absurdity of the case, and dismissed it.

Through everything, I remain grateful. Every mile, every step, every humiliation has been part of my discipline. My story is not about what I lost — it is about what I continue to gain.

Running Through Fire

When the judge laughed at my jaywalking case and dismissed it, I thought it was over. But then came the lawyer with a settlement — $35,000. I thought I was finally going to see money. Instead, he took $25,000 for himself, gave me $5,000, and sent me on my way. I looked at that check and wanted to run away with it — but I couldn’t run. My body was broken. And for the first time in my life, I realized how valuable my health really is.

I gave that money away. I didn’t want it. To me it was blood money. I gave it to the young man I was staying with, because I refused to let that be my story.

In 2021, I heard a voice inside me say: Run 26 miles every day. So I did. My marathons took eight hours each, moving slow, in pain. After marathon number 162, I couldn’t believe it — I finally gained flexibility back in my hand after years of being locked. My healing had begun.

But the struggle was still heavy. At every traffic light, I would hear a voice telling me to jump in front of the next truck. For years I lived with that voice. I didn’t run from it — I stood with it, just as my Buddhist practice and my Yoruba culture taught me. Then one morning, I woke up and the voice was gone. For a whole year, I didn’t hear it again. That was victory. That was worth celebrating more than any race.

Later, I met a woman who used to drive trucks. She told me she quit because someone jumped in front of her rig. I held her hands and told her my truth — that I had fought the same voice, and I chose to live. She cried in my arms, and for the first time she said she could let go. That moment taught me that my suffering had a purpose.

My Uncle T — may his soul rest — used to drink and smoke every day. He died of an overdose. But he always called me “the last dying of the dying.” He saw something in me. Even when I spread my shame across social media, when people mocked me, called me names, judged me, I never stopped. I shared it all because I was determined that one day the shame would break and peace would come. And it did.

When enlightenment came, my shame disappeared. My inner peace was stronger than any insult, stronger than any pain.

Six years passed before I got my green card. By then, I was disabled, in constant pain, but I said to myself: I will run another 100 miles again.

My overnight yoga, my prayers at 1 a.m., my constant meditation — they tuned me into God. I don’t even know what normal sleep feels like anymore. But I know what grace feels like. God speaks to me daily through my body, through my breath.

From Oyotunji to the Bench: A Quiet Revolution

In 2021, I moved to the African village of Oyotunji in South Carolina. Something happened there that changed everything. The king died, and I had already written it down. The king was my brother, father, uncle from years past — it felt as if I went away and came back. He showed me love and embraced the idea of running 100 miles in the name of Orunmila.

But my intuition told me to leave. As an orisha priest and an outspoken man, I began to offend people simply by speaking my truth. I stopped telling people what to do; I learned to let them arrive at their own place.

That path led me to Savannah. I tried staying in shelters again, but the same pattern repeated: most of the staff and many residents were trapped in overeating, numbness, and old coping habits. They didn’t know how to help someone who was sober, disciplined, and focused on healing the inner life. For three months at the Salvation Army, the only place I could stretch and pray was the bathroom. Every morning I would go in there and do my yoga and prayers.

When the shelter asked me to leave, I chose the park. Sleeping on benches for three months humbled me, but it also transformed me. I got up every morning, did my yoga, meditated, and ran. Sleeping in the park stripped life down to what mattered: body, breath, discipline, and God.

I have been called “mentally healed” and I have lost friends and family because of my journey. Still, I wear my beads with pride. I know the orishas have a plan.

Brother to Brother

Three years ago, on the trail, I met Jason Russell, co-founder of Black Men Run. At first, I was ashamed to admit I had a stroke. But when Jason told me that he also had a stroke, something lifted inside me. Suddenly I didn’t feel alone. It was easier to share my story because I knew he understood. He didn’t judge me. He lifted me. He listened.

Our conversations went deep — about psychology, depression, and healing. For the first time in years, I felt seen, not as a homeless man or broken runner, but as a brother.

Till I die, I will never give up. One day soon, I will run another 100 miles.

Peace,

Ade Olude