November 2021, It was supposed to be a quiet long run, an early morning LSD on the soft sands of Goa, stolen during a family holiday. The sun had barely risen, the shoreline empty, my breath in rhythm with the tide. And then, out of nowhere, came the growls, low, menacing, multiplying. A fierce pack of stray dogs, territorial and unrelenting, emerged like shadows from behind beach shacks and trash heaps. Within seconds, I was surrounded, cornered, heart pounding, body frozen, instincts scrambled. What followed wasn’t just a physical attack; it was a rupture of safety, space, and spirit.
I walked away that day with bite marks, bruises, and a wound stitched across my sense of freedom.
“The Attack: A Silent Ambush”
It happened without provocation. One moment, I was chasing the sunrise on a beach run already having finished 18kms, the next, I was surrounded by terrifying growls, teeth, and fur. 5-6 stray dogs rushed from behind shacks and beach umbrellas. I remember the metallic taste of fear and the sharp ache in my chest as I bent over in shock and trying my best to shield my legs as they surrounded me. In the intense cacophony I realised one of them had bitten me, on my thigh. Then, just as suddenly as they came, the pack scattered. What followed was a silence. A silence filled with my shock and utter helplessness.
Onlookers continued their Sunday breakfasts, oblivious. A trinket-seller lady rushed over, pressed her hands to my wound to staunch the bleeding, and helped me drink some water. She stayed with me until help for me arrived. I was immediately taken to a local hospital. The doctor told me that a pack of five to six dogs could have done far worse. He confirmed the kind trinket-seller’s actions likely prevented greater injury on my leg wound. After cleaning and bandaging the wound, he cleared me with a stoic warning, “complete the full rabies-vaccine series ”

“The Aftermath: Needles, Exhaustion, and Unseen Scars”
This brief terrifying attack was not even long drawn out enough to justify the psychological aftermath that followed for me. Somehow it wasn’t just a series of medical treatments, long enduring bite marks, strong fatigue-inducing rabies vaccinations spread over the next 4-5 months but also a slow consistent unravelling of my belief in my ability to get back on the running track like before.
Suddenly, every decision to get fit, every weekend run started feeling heavy. My gut would tighten each time I reached any open running track. My eyes always scanning for stray dogs nearby. Being outdoors got exhausting , my neck and chest ached from constant tension. It got so bad, I just started avoiding run events and training sessions. I was always homebound. At home, networking for work started feeling tiring and ominous. Slowly unravelling into self doubt, I withdrew from my daughter too, afraid I would project my silly fears onto her. I silently watched peers thrive and my runner friends achieve various milestones.A sinking feeling stayed, that I was falling behind. I would only realise later that this bruise on my otherwise indomitable spirit would soon become one of my most important lessons as a female runner and as a mother.
“The Anatomy of Invisible Wounds”
In the slow, silent aftermath, filled with lethargy inducing vaccine doses, skipped races, and sleepless nights, I began to understand that the deeper injury and its ramifications.
A 2024 WHO India report estimates over 18 million dog-bite incidents annually, often in spaces where women find solace or fitness.
Internationally, a 2023 U.S. Runner Safety Report found 1 in 5 female runners have faced animal aggression or harassment.
2025 Global Runner Wellness Report: 57% of women attacked while running either quit or reduced outdoor activity for over a year; 68% reported long-term anxiety.
Especially for women runners over 40, many who are already emotionally attuned and carrying invisible weight resulting in the impact of this fear lingering long after the scar fades.
These statistics resonated with me. It was not about puncture wounds on my leg anymore, it became a fear psychosis. Reexperiencing anxiety, hypervigilance, and avoidance long after my physical wounds healed.
A 2023 Global Mental Health Foundation survey found women aged 45–55 take up to 40% longer than men to emotionally recover from such sudden physical trauma.
Studies show that trauma, particularly in women, is not just about survival, but about the stories we carry in our bodies, in our pace, in our hesitations.
This incident stripped me not only of running routes, but of self-confidence. I watched my upcoming marathons quietly slip away. Admitting that this fear had set in and redefined my relationship with open roads was both humbling and terrifying at that time. I realise now, for mothers, professionals, and midlife dreamers, like me, the pressure to “keep it together” made this psychological healing even harder.
And yet, in that terrifying rupture or attack , I would slowly come to see something else too, that I was lucky. Lucky to have survived. Lucky to not let one incident define my journey as a runner. Lucky to reclaim my space, even if it meant returning to the track, one trembling step at a time.
Somehow, such moments seem to arrive like uninvited guests, splitting your life into before and after. That beach run became a life altering experience that redefined my understanding of safety and resilience and shook my sensibilities to the core. More that I was ready to admit at that time. Little did I know it was a turning point, a moment that separated who I was before from who I would learn to become.
The Quiet Return of Light
Emotional healing demands time, compassion, and what I call a village of tenderness. People who show up without advice, who respect that grief comes in waves. For me healing was not linear, it was a mosaic of small kindnesses throughout that year, from so many who I call my inner circle.
One regular training weekend morning, as usual fear gripped my legs and I couldn’t lace up my shoes. I had loudly announced at home that I was skipping my workout again. My daughter who was already up, gently placed my sneakers at the door and said, “Mom, I am they’re na?” “Today, I will run with you.” That was enough to push me out of the door that day. In the weeks that followed she became my compass, steady, sure, reminding me that healing is possible when love runs alongside. She also signed up with me for each of my upcoming races that year and accompanied me for all training sessions.
“Grace at the Bend”
My bestie noticed too. Without questions, she invited me on unplanned morning walks, to Cubbon Park under gulmohars, to slow morning brunches on MG Road. We walked at my pace, laughter and banter intact as before. One cappuccino, one plate of Italian, once in a month plans, millions of laughs. Healing came to me easily, disguised as ordinary days. Her friendship unknowingly helping me carry what broke me.
“Patchwork Of Kind Gestures”
My mentors in Delhi saw the void too in my weekend photos, chats, and posts. They nudged me with run updates and kept checking in .Then came the call. “We’re flying down from Delhi. Sign up, we’re all running together the TCS 10km in Bengaluru.
I laughed. I hesitated. Eventually I registered.
As expected race day wasn’t fast. My breath was cautious; my legs, tentative. With every slow lap, every cheerful checkpoint, their concern, quietly carried me, across that finish line. Later that evening at the after-party with them, medals clinking, laughter shining, I felt lifted. Being with them and listening to their race banter reminded me of who I was, and who I could still be as a runner.











“The Wound, the Wonder, the Way”
The question that haunted me long after the bruises faded was simple and persistent: Why did the pack of dog attack me? It felt personal, almost existential. Slowly, through conversations with animal behaviourists and quiet hours of reading, I began to understand that it wasn’t about me. It was about survival. Urban spaces like beaches, though idyllic to us, are battlegrounds for stray animals navigating shrinking habitats, unpredictable feeding patterns, and daily human neglect or abuse. Territorial aggression in street dogs is often a symptom, not of cruelty, but of fear. Perhaps someone before me, a stranger more threatening, had harmed them. Perhaps I was just a silhouette at the wrong place, the wrong moment, carrying the burden of human history in a dog’s memory.
And yet, my love for animals, especially strays, remains unchanged. I still pause to greet the familiar faces in my own neighbourhood, those gentle souls who’ve come to trust our shared routines. And even now, despite the scars and the trauma, I refuse to let fear erase compassion. The real question, then, might be this, What does it say about us, our cities, our systems, our species? When survival forces the most loyal creatures among us to become the most feared?
At the Bend of Becoming
That raw wound on my leg may have healed but now has became a portal, not just into trauma, but transformation. I’m not the same Ancy who stood on that beach in Goa. I am no longer chasing who I was as a runner before this incident. I am slowly becoming someone steadier, softer, fiercer as I was always meant to be. I learnt that sometimes it takes a terrifying experience, to learn how lucky we truly are. For me, that unexpected betrayal on the running track was the mirror I needed to learn this very important lesson. I survived. I didn’t let that experience define me. Some days, I still flinch at barking dogs. Some days I still skip some runs and I tell myself that it is gonna be alright as I will always have the morning sun to try again. Every step forward makes me feel like the luckiest girl on the planet. Some scars aren’t always visible. They may fracture your pact, with open spaces, with your body, with your voice but they also teach you to insist that your fear matters. Your grief is valid. Your recovery deserves space.You need time to heal on your own time, because when the road betrays you, steadily rebuilding yourself, your pact, your trust, is the bravest run of all.
And maybe that’s what becoming truly is. Not some loud, sweeping transformation, but the stubborn, almost defiant act of choosing yourself in the quiet. It’s gathering up the shattered, forgotten, overlooked parts of your soul, brushing them off, and stitching them back into something new. I am learning that when the road turns on you, it isn’t punishment, it’s an unexpected, unwelcome, but necessary push toward the person you were always meant to be. I don’t chase what I lost anymore. I honour it, I grieve it, and then I build something better. In the stillness of all that becoming, I realize I am, against every odd and expectation, “The Luckiest Girl on the Planet.” Not because life went to plan, but because I stayed. I fought. I softened. I took the time to heal. That, right there, is my greatest becoming.
About the Author:
Ancy James is a former television producer who, after a fulfilling 17-year career, chose to step away from the relentless pursuit of output and certainty in favour of retiring from corporate life at age 37, to a slower and more intentional life.
In what she calls her act of quiet rebellion, her toddler’s health scare ensured she followed through on this decision and she traded deadlines and huge pay packets for meaningful quiet personal life. Now over 10 years later, She truly believes that our identity isn’t something we need to keep proving. It’s something we shape daily with the decisions we take for our loved ones.
She now keeps herself busy as an internationally trained Cake Artist and Chef Trainer with a culinary diploma and runs a FSSAI approved business “Ancy’s Sugar Art Academy, in Bengaluru, India.
She discovered marathon running in her journey to reversing her bone health diagnosis at age 42. When she is not customising cakes or running, she is busy reading books across the spectrum or spending hours pouring her heart out in these personal weekly memoirs.
She shares raw, honest reflections on grief, resilience, motherhood, midlife reinvention, and the quiet beauty found in overlooked corners of everyday life. At 48, Ancy writes not to impress, but to connect, believing that vulnerability is the birthplace of both healing and growth. In a fast and AI driven world she believes her memoirs are her attempt to stay real and relevant as a female writer who is just embarking on her journey of “Becoming”.