Why I run

On lacing up and showing up

Some mornings, I run to remember.
Other days, I run to forget.
But always, I run to return.

To myself, to the pulse under the distraction, to the breath and footsteps meeting the road.

There’s a kind of stillness I can only find when I’m running.
Feet brushing pavement, heartbeat syncing with the sky, and little by little, the world quiets down.
One step, then another.
The noise of the day hushes.
The chatter fades.
And what’s left is something clean, elemental.
Just me, moving forward.

I never thought of myself as a runner.
But somewhere between the ache of starting and the joy of not stopping, it became part of who I am.
It’s not about medals, though those things leave their own satisfaction.
It’s about the way running has taught me to stay.
When things get hard, when legs get heavier, when I want to quit.
Running reminds me I can keep going. Not just on the road, but in life.

I run for the moments when the air tastes like freedom.
For the solitude that doesn’t feel lonely.
For the way a sunrise looks different when you’ve chased it down, sweat-streaked and breath still catching up.

I run because there’s a version of me that only shows up when I do.
She’s quieter, stronger, more at peace.
She believes in things like grace and grit and finish lines you can’t always see.

And when the kilometers are done, when my legs buzz and the world feels slower,
there’s a snack on the counter.
Clean clothes folded by the shower.
Love, wordless and sure, in every small gesture.

And so I lace up, again and again.
Not to escape, but to arrive.
To meet the day: fully, fiercely, in stride.

L.