What Running Revealed
Global Running Day is as made up as any other holiday.
Yesterday was Global Running Day, which is, of course, completely made up.
But then again, so is time. So is the idea that Wednesday is different than Thursday. So is the decision to mark one day as important and another as ordinary.
The older I get, the less interested I am in whether something is official and the more interested I am in whether something is true.
And this is true: Running changed my life.
Not because it made me faster. Not because it made me healthier. Not because it gave me medals or race photos or a collection of finish lines hanging on a wall.
Running gave me true freedom.
There are very few places in my life where nobody needs anything from me.
As a mother, someone needs something. At work, someone needs something. As a friend, a daughter, a partner, a person moving through the world, there is always something to answer, solve, schedule, remember, carry.
Running asks for none of that.
The road doesn’t care who I am. The miles don’t care what title I have. The clock doesn’t care whether I had a good day or a bad one.
Out there, I get to simply exist.
Not perform or produce. Not explain.
Just be.
For someone who has spent much of her life being observed, that freedom is difficult to describe.
I have spent decades answering questions. Telling stories. Advocating. Explaining. Being available.
Running is one of the only places where I don’t owe anyone anything.
I don’t have to make sense. I don’t have to be inspiring. I don’t have to have the answer.
I can just move.
And somehow movement has always helped me find what stillness cannot.
Some of the most important conversations of my life have happened entirely inside my own head while running.
Miles have untangled problems I couldn’t solve sitting at a desk.
They have softened anger. Clarified decisions. Exposed truths I was trying very hard not to look at. There is nowhere to hide from yourself on a long run. Eventually, every distraction falls away. Every excuse. Every carefully constructed story. And there you are.
Just you. Meeting yourself honestly.
Sometimes what I find is joy. Sometimes gratitude. Sometimes certainty. Sometimes grief.
Running has held all of it.
There have been runs where I laughed out loud. Runs where I rehearsed speeches. Runs where I’ve realized I'm in love. Runs where I’ve fallen apart. Runs where tears showed up before I even understood why.
One of the best gifts of running is that nobody asks questions. You can cry for three whole miles if you need to. The trees don’t ask if you’re OK. The road doesn’t tell you to cheer up. The wind doesn’t demand an explanation. You are allowed to feel whatever it is you are feeling and keep moving forward at the same time.
In fact, running may be the thing that taught me that those two things can coexist.
You can be heartbroken and moving forward. You can be uncertain and moving forward. You can be scared and moving forward. You can be grieving and moving forward.
The movement itself becomes a kind of faith. Not faith that everything will work out. Just faith that the next step exists.
The funny thing is that if you looked at me on paper, I am not a particularly impressive runner.
I am not fast. Never have been. No one is confusing me for an elite athlete. I am rarely the fastest person in any race. My marathon times will never make headlines. I am, by most conventional standards, a fairly average runner. But average is an interesting word. Because it assumes speed is the thing that matters most.
Running has taught me otherwise. Because while I am not fast, there is one thing I can do exceptionally well.
I can endure. I can keep going. And if I’m honest, I think I’ve been training for that my entire life.
Endurance isn’t glamorous. Nobody celebrates the person who quietly keeps showing up year after year.
We celebrate talent. Speed. Natural gifts. Breakthrough moments.
But most of life isn’t won through brilliance. Most of life is won through endurance. Through trying again when the first attempt fails. Through getting up the next morning and doing the work even when nobody is watching. Through carrying things that are heavy for longer than you ever imagined you could.
I’ve spent my life surrounded by stories of endurance.
My parents endured years of infertility before I was born. I’ve endured a childhood lived partly in public. I’ve endured heartbreak. Disappointment. Loss. Fear. Thousand ordinary struggles that every human being encounters if they live long enough.
And running reminds me of one thing: Keep going. Not because you’re certain. Not because you’re fearless. Not because you know how the story ends.
Keep going because stopping won’t get you where you need to be.
Running understands this language. Every marathon understands this language. At mile twenty nobody is relying on talent anymore. The race has become a negotiation between discomfort and determination. A conversation between your body and your mind. A test of how long you can remain committed after the excitement wears off.
Life feels like that — the hardest parts rarely happen at the beginning. They happen after you’ve already been carrying the weight for a while. After you’ve already been strong. After everyone assumes you’re fine because you’ve made it this far.
That’s where endurance matters. That’s where character lives.
Not in the sprint — in the staying. In the continuing. In the decision to take one more step when no one would blame you for stopping.
Maybe that’s why running and I have always understood each other.
For years, I thought running was teaching me endurance. Now I wonder if it was simply introducing me to a part of myself that had been there all along.
The woman who keeps going. Not because she enjoys suffering. Not because she’s fearless. Not because she never gets tired.
But because she always finds a way to take the next step. The miles didn’t create that person.
They revealed her.
Every long run stripped away another distraction until all that remained was the truth. Not the version of me other people know.
Not the version that performs. Not the version that produces.
Just me.
Alone with my thoughts. Alone with my doubts. Alone with my hopes. Moving through all of it one step at a time.
Maybe that’s what I celebrate on Global Running Day.
Not the races, medals, or miles.
But the freedom. The space.
The quiet certainty that comes from spending time with yourself and discovering you’re stronger than you thought.
Maybe that’s why I keep coming back. Not because I need the run.
But because every once in a while, I need to be reminded of who I am when everything else falls away.