It was almost a year ago exactly when I bought my first pair of running shoes in years. Not those sleek, flashy Nike sneakers you wear to get compliments on at the gym. These were the clunky New Balance “mom shoes” that would get me past the finish line at my first half-marathon (and three more after).
At the time, I didn’t really know what I was running for. I wasn’t unhappy, but I wasn’t entirely happy either. I needed something to wake me up from the fog I sometimes found myself in, between one exceptionally great time in my life and the next. What began as a fun challenge now tested (and shattered) my own limitations.
Why do I run?
I run because for every hill climbing, legs burning, wheezy, exhausted second I know I am becoming better. I run through rain, snow, sun, and (lots of) sweat. I run for the days I can’t wait to get out the door, and the days when I can barely drag myself out of bed. I run for my own sanity, because sometimes a ten-mile run is the only way to solve a problem (or to simply stop caring). In a world where nothing is ever truly in our own control, my body hasn’t let me down yet.
I run because the only other option is stopping.