Why I Run.
Whenever someone finds out I run marathons or ultras, the first question is almost always:
"Wait—why?? All that pain? And you sign up for it??
I usually smirk and say, “So I can feel alive again.”
The funny thing is… I used to think I was joking.
But I’m not.
Numb is Safe. But It’s Also... Numb.
For a long time, I kept everything at arm’s length—emotionally, mentally, physically. That distance helped protect me from painful or overwhelming feelings.
But it also dulled the good ones.
The joy. The pride. The wonder. The awe.
Even those became muted.
Growing up, I learned—like a lot of people do—that my emotional needs came second. Or third. Or not at all. There was always something bigger, scarier, more important going on. So I made myself small. I stopped asking for space, attention, or care. And eventually, I stopped expecting it altogether.
I got really good at surviving. And somewhere along the way, I forgot I had a voice.
The Run That Changed Nothing—And Everything
Then came the pandemic.
When everything shut down, I started running loops around my neighborhood. Nothing epic. Just—something. If I couldn’t do anything else, I could do this.
At first it was just physical: movement, fresh air, a way to shake off cabin fever.
But gradually, something started to shift.
- How am I breathing?
- What do I need?
- Is this pace comfortable?
- Can I push harder?
- Does any part of my body need a little extra attention?
Running gave me space to listen. It gave me time to reflect without a phone in my face or a million things to do. It let me feel what I was actually feeling—for the first time in a long time.
The Feedback Loop of Trust
The more I ran, the more attuned I became to my body.
The more attuned I became, the better I got at taking care of it.
And the more I took care of my body… the more it took care of me.
It became a conversation.
If I rest, fuel, move, recover, then I can trust my body to show up when I ask it to. And during those moments of challenge - those miles that stretch long and quiet and hard - everything gets louder.
The emotional oven mitts come off.
The joy of a view deep in the forest? Majestic.
The energy of fellow runners and shared struggle? Electric.
The gratitude I feel from my friends and family showing up for me? Unreal.
The pain of my calves locking up mid-trail, falling hard? Excruciating.
But every feeling is real. It’s honest. It’s mine.
And then sometimes I cry. Not from sadness - but from hearing my own voice again.
I choose this pain.
That’s the difference.
When I’m out on the trail and things start to hurt, I make a choice: to get up, to breathe, to stretch, to negotiate with my body.
“Take care of me,” I'll ask myself. Sometimes repeatedly.
“And I’ll keep taking care of you.”
So far, it’s never let me down.
So… Why Do I Run?
Because out there—in the silence of the early morning, on dirt trails and open roads—I can hear myself with 100% clarity.
Because when I move, I remember that I exist.
Because I feel alive.
And wow… what a feeling.
