Where It All Began
Running started as something pure. Me vs. me.
No finish line. No stopwatch. Just breath and movement. It was a quiet journey inward – an opportunity to realize potential I had left untouched for too long. To make floors out of ceilings.
I wasn’t always a runner. In fact, I used to be someone who quit when things got tough.
But something shifted in 2019. I began with run-walking my first kilometre and quickly built from there – finishing my first 5K, then a 10K that same year.
My journey into ultramarathons progressed quickly, too. It was so appealing to me to do things I never thought were in the cards for me to do.
Running became my way of setting goals and breaking the old narratives. It made me feel capable. Powerful. Whole. It was a journey of self-realization.
But somewhere along the way, I started to drift. And I forgot why I started in the first place.
The Comparison Trap
The change was gradual – like erosion. I didn’t even notice at first.
I would finish a long run and feel proud… until I sat quietly with it all after the event. It was part of my post-event blues where I kept thinking someone went farther, or did it faster, or easier… or got more likes on their Strava, or Instagram, or any number of different things.
Suddenly, my accomplishment didn’t feel like enough.
Social media didn’t create my self-doubt, but it definitely magnified it. I started to believe the lie that I wasn’t doing enough. That I wasn’t enough.
Even when I ran alone, I felt like I was losing a race that didn’t exist. Maybe I had something to prove? The solitude I once loved turned into isolation. The joy I once felt was slowly replaced by pressure to push myself and achieve something.
What began as a sacred practice became a staged production – I felt like I had something more to prove. I wasn’t running for healing anymore – I was running for approval.
I pared down my social media, removing most people (nothing personal, it was more of an existential crisis than anything anyone said or did) and muting a lot of the “noise.” This was due to a very creepy and weird interaction with a nameless stranger that thought they knew me.
So I shut down. Pulled the plug. It was isolating myself, in hindsight, maybe not the best strategy, but a necessary one. I was shedding layers.
Forgetting the Why
I lost touch with what made running special.
I forgot that this was never about being the fastest or strongest.
It was about healing. It was about the process of becoming something greater than I was the day before. Step by step and mile by mile, working towards not being someone great but by understanding myself a bit more.
Running helped me cope with addiction, depression, and anxiety. It gave me solitude when my world felt loud, and clarity when my mind was clouded.
It grounded me – feet to trail, breath to sky. The long runs weren’t just physical; they were emotional, spiritual. They were sacred.
But as I became more focused on how I looked as a runner, I lost touch with how I felt.
Finding My Way Back
Maybe it was burnout. Maybe it was grace. But eventually, I stopped running – not out of rebellion, but out of self-preservation.
In the stillness, I asked myself a hard question: “What am I really chasing?”
The answer hurt: I wasn’t chasing goals. I was running from my own worth.
I had made the mistake of measuring myself against the journeys of others. But healing doesn’t live in comparison. Growth isn’t linear. And self-worth can’t be earned through mileage or buckles.
So I started again. I let go of the pressure to perform. I started connecting more with others rather than feeling like I had to compete with them or hide from them. Genuine connections, not just social media likes.
I walked. I celebrated small wins. I embraced the stillness, even when no event kept me moving. I ran slowly and soaked up my surroundings. I had to learn all these things through experience – through practice.
More importantly, I reconnected with who I was outside of running. I wrote more. Laughed more. Played with my kids. Talked with my partner. Sat in silence. Was more present.
And slowly, I remembered: Connection isn’t about competition. We’re all on our own paths – and none of them threaten mine. Social media in any form would provide me with nothing I don’t already have, so I use it sparingly.
Respectfully.
Coming Home
Comparison is the thief of joy. But awareness is how we reclaim it.
Running is sacred again.
Not because I’ve shed every insecurity. Not because I always feel confident, but because I’ve remembered who I am underneath the doubt. Who I am with internal validation and who I become in the pursuit of my goals. For my own well-being and those around me.
Maybe it isn’t even remembering who I was at all, but a process of discovery? A revealing of true self as layers are shed with these life-altering experiences of ultramarathons?
In a world that constantly tells us to be more, do more, go faster – I’ve chosen to slow down and listen. Especially in the ‘post-race blues’ moments when the imposter syndrome kicks in. When that voice tells me I’m not enough, or not doing enough, I pause and remember one thing…
… one step at a time. There’s only one me. And that’s enough.
I don’t run to earn my worth anymore. I run because I am worthy.
I run to breathe. To feel. To heal. To discover. To shed. To exist.
To come home to myself.
If You’re Feeling Lost in the Miles…
Remember this: You don’t need to earn your place. You already belong.
It’s the Wayward Way – if you can’t see the path ahead, make your own. Shine your light for others to see, and maybe, just maybe, you can help them light their own way. Your path is yours alone, nobody will carry you. You must carry yourself.
I’ve learned that joy doesn’t come from achievements or goals – it comes from learning how to stand still in your own truth and listen.
Author’s Note:
If this resonated with you, I’d love to hear your story. Whether you’re just starting out or finding your way back, know that you’re not alone. Running is more than movement – it’s memory, meaning, and medicine. Comment below.
Let’s keep coming home, one step at a time.