My relationship with running is best described as “complicated”. I love and hate it in equal measure. It started during my third year of college when I wanted to exercise for free. The relationship escalated quickly and within a couple of months, I went from running for three minutes on a treadmill, to completing the Women’s Mini Marathon.
Since then, I’ve peaked at 14 km (I had notions of training for a half marathon) and I’ve taken hateful breaks from my running relationship in between.
I hate running because, after a hiatus, the first run makes me want to cry. Getting up early before my daughter Zelda wakes, pulling on my running leggings that are tighter than I remember, and the squidge under my sports bra are harsh reminders that we should have never broken up.
I am not and never will be “a runner”, I merely dabble in the sport. I envy the lean machines of true runners, and their dedication. I’ll admit it, I run so I can eat. I run so I can have the chats with my sister-in-law, Caroline. I run because it makes me feel good … afterwards.
Occasionally, I sign up for a race and even though I curse my decision throughout the entire 10km, the euphoria of finishing shuts out the negativity. I love running because once I get into the groove, I feel the lightness of my feet, the air in my lungs and my squidge melt away. This is a fact that my vanity won’t let me forget.
Right now, running and I are in a good place. We’re starting over (again) and I’m optimistic for our future together.
If you’re considering going on a run for whatever reason, do it. Go get your runners on, get out there for fresh air and some mental headspace. It’s unlikely you’ll regret it.
