“It's very hard in the beginning to understand that the whole idea is not to beat the other runners. Eventually you learn that the competition is against the little voice inside you that wants you to quit.” —George Sheehan, Running & Being
I didn’t always like running. In fact, I detested it. But as a soccer player, and particularly as a midfielder, it was all part of the game. Once my team-sport days were over, I would try every summer to run. So much about the idea of running appealed to me—you needed no one else, very little equipment, and no special time or place to do it. It is the pinnacle of self-control and self-reliance in terms of sport. No special skill is required, really. It’s just a matter of putting one foot in front of the other. So then why is it so difficult? Each summer from high school onward, I’d go out, run, and think, “well, that was not fun at all.” I always stayed active—cycling, spinning, weight lifting, aerobics, swimming, yoga, hot yoga, pilates—I’ve done it all. But I kept coming back to envy the minimalism, the purity, of the runner—just a person propelling herself on her own power. So, what had to happen to make me that person?
I decided.
That’s first. I just decided that I wanted to be a runner. I knew that meant one thing: I had to commit to run. So, I chose a training schedule that seemed doable and I promised myself I would honor that commitment. Why? Because I said so. Because I decided I wanted it. Because I knew that finding this runner inside of me was actually and undeniably up to me. All I had to do to be the person I wanted to be was to act like that person. It’s William James all the way: “Begin to be now what you will be hereafter.”
I still remember those early runs, laboring through it, cursing myself—the only racing happening was between the unhelpful thoughts speedily traversing my mind:
“I’m just not built for this.”
“My legs are so heavy.”
“What is the point of this without a ball or a goal?”
But as I came home and ticked off those miles on a sheet of paper, I came to realize that I had a goal, alright. Now, if I could only figure out how to have a ball. Running still didn’t feel like much fun.
Slowly, I recognized something. No matter how much I didn’t feel like doing my run, that feeling didn’t even come close to the feelings I had after having done it. The glory was in the doing—and in getting it done. The more I didn’t want to go, the more I realized the importance of doing it anyway. It reminds me of a time in high school where I pushed back on the notion of confession to my friend’s mother, who had been a nun for seven years. “It’s ridiculous,” I told her with all the conviction in my 16-year-old heart, “to think that we need to confess to a priest what an omniscient God must already know.” She fixed her gaze on me, smiled gently, and said, “We do it because it’s difficult to do. There is value in doing things that are hard.”
I’m not really a Catholic anymore, but I still have a tough time arguing that point. Sometimes doing things we don’t want to do is worth it—sometimes it has a redemptive quality. And while not every run feels this way, I honestly can’t think of one run, not one, where I didn’t come back a slightly better version of myself. It doesn’t always last, of course. Sometimes I just come back better balanced. Sometimes I come home with clarity. Other times it’s inspiration or peace. It’s indeed a moving meditation, a mind-body exercise for me. Simultaneous physical and mental therapy all in one shot. And it’s free. Oh, and it’s still, quite often, really freaking hard.
Running taught me so much over the years, but this past year of the pandemic is the one where I think it saved me. To be specific, it saved me from myself, from that dark rabbit hole I can sometimes go down, from the pit of despair. I am one of the most hopeful people I know, but this year hope often eluded me. Who didn’t feel like quitting at some point this year? Who didn’t ask what the point is? People around the world asked these types of questions in myriad ways: What’s a life lived without hugs? Who needs buttons on their clothes, anyway? Why care about our appearance when we don’t see anyone?
And running kept answering: Because it matters. Because I am alive. Because I do this to be better. Because life goes on. Because this is the one thing I can do, outside, in the fresh air, and I can see human life and nature collide and I can wonder, and I can feel awe, and I can still run. I can still do that. And so running has gifted me with a perspective that I am not sure I would have otherwise.
It was not a particularly good year for me: A romantic relationship that began with great expectations ended in bitter disappointment; my job prospects all but crumbled under the Coronavirus; the plans I had made were utterly useless. I felt myself staring ahead into a blank future that I had trouble imagining would be much better. I couldn’t see the light. But then I remembered that I learned a long time ago how to run in the dark. Yes—I can run in the dark—I had done it countless days. I had done it when I worked full time with three small children. I had done it in the pitch black, in the cold, in the wet, in whatever conditions could be thrown at me. Let the pandemic be damned! As long as I woke up in the morning in good physical health, I could get myself out the door and into the world. There’s no real trick to this: I just don’t give myself an option to be less than I know I can be.
I can master myself, and most days that is enough. It is a gift. Remarkably, it is a gift I give myself.
I run mostly by myself and for myself. I am well aware that no one else in the world really cares if I run or that I run. The few accomplishments I have had in the sport pale in comparison to the way it has changed me and changed my life. Like most runners, I go out there not expecting anyone else in the world to care—so why am I writing about it? Because this year I’ve fallen, and I’ve kept running. I have been overwhelming sad, and I’ve kept running. I have felt completely lost, and I’ve kept running. Each run made me stronger. Each one made me better. Each step propelled me forward on a path where, even though I couldn’t see the end, I knew I was moving forward. I was forcing myself in a positive direction. And if I can do it, so can you. If you want to.
You just have to decide.
You don't have to be gifted to be a runner. You just have to give yourself the gift of commitment—to just get out there. It actually doesn’t matter very much how far you run or how fast. It matters that you’re doing it—following through, holding yourself accountable, being the person you want to be. And my guess is that this will hold true no matter who or what it is you want to be, even if you don’t have the slightest interest in running. Just decide who you want to be, set an achievable goal, and go after it, day after day, and don’t quit, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. Because that is how we get better at life, it’s how we get better at being the best and truest version of ourselves. This is even the lesson I learned palpably through sport.
I am a big believer that where there is a will, there’s a way. But before you get to any of that, you have to be able to answer the question of what, why, and who. What is it that you want? Why do you want it? And who it is that you want to be? Because the will and the way are the how. And the how is summed up by Nike: You just do it. Although this year threw many of us off course or off-kilter, we still get to decide what to do for sport. Sports are pastimes that help us push ourselves to be better. Whether “sport” to you means reading or running, you get to decide. But whatever it is—go after it with gusto. Do it for yourself, because you want it, because you said you would, and because you can. And if you ever can’t remember why you’re doing it, go do it anyway and see if you remember when it’s done.
The pandemic is a daily reminder that life is hard. And every single day you make it through should remind you that you’re strong enough. Not everyone is so lucky, and our luck won’t last forever. But we’re here now and to some extent we can make our own luck. As the song says, “I’d rather be working for a paycheck than waiting to win the lottery.” Every run reminds me that I am worth my own investment, so I’ll have more to pay forward. For example, the other day I was running past a medical building and an elderly man with a walker was coming toward me, on his way to or from an appointment, I suppose. He gestured to me and I slowed down in time to hear him say enthusiastically through his mask, “I wish I could do what you’re doing!” It was the third time something like that has happened to me in 2021. I had only a second to reply as I was passing, and so my knee-jerk response was to yell, “I’ll do it for you!” And I meant it. Because while it’s true that I run to make myself better, I do hope somehow to help make this crazy world a bit better, too.