I first started running in 10th grade. I began as an overweight 15 year old, desperate to gain the acceptance from my peers that had felt far beyond my grasp for most of my childhood and adolescence. Being the chubby friend for most of my childhood, despite my parents’ attempts at helping me control my diet and exercise, I looked to the high school cross country team as the answer to years of quiet pleading.

Spoiler: it was, in fact, not the answer. At least, the team itself wasn’t the answer. As it turns out, most of my teammates had years of practice under their belts, and were more than ready to leave me huffing and puffing behind them on the track.

After only a month or so, an overuse injury took me out of the field altogether and landed me in the school gym, where I spent most of practice on the elliptical and weight training. Something subtle started there, though—despite not being out in the sun and snow with my fellow teammates, I was starting to see real, substantive changes in my body for the first time in years.

After my injury had healed enough, I started running on my own. As I logged more miles, I saw more changes. Suddenly, muscles I didn’t know existed became fuller and stronger. My stomach and waist slowly became more defined. The changes felt intoxicating and powerful. Boys started noticing. Friends started noticing. I felt attractive for the first time in my entire life.

Subsequently, I saw changes in my mind and in my diet—I became viscerally aware of the value of a calorie, and obsessed with the idea of controlling every aspect of it in order to control the way my body looked, felt, moved, and existed.

I ended up losing 40 pounds over the course of 8 or 9 months. I ran, I biked, I lifted weights, I counted calories. I was strict and dedicated. Even lowfat yogurt was treated with caution. My former overeating self was just a memory, as someone new—slimmer, more feminine, more “in control” and “healthier” emerged.

No, I was not actually that healthy. Yes, I did develop an eating disorder. This was the early 2000’s, after all. My eating disorder lasted through the end of high school into the first year of college until a health scare brought about the spontaneous end of my most disastrous habits. No longer was I bingeing and purging and putting myself on the treadmill for hours—counting calories, yes, but punishing my body, no.

But that’s not what this blog is about. It’s about the opposite, really.

Because even though the eating disorder may have blossomed alongside my early running career, running itself has morphed and changed for me over the years. My relationship with it is rarely the same year-by-year, sometimes even month-by-month.

At times, all I can think to do is strap my running shoes on and hit the road. Rarely will a day go by that I don’t run or think about running.

Other times, I get a pit in my stomach and a sense of dread or annoyance or even anger when I think about running. I put it off, I phone it in, my body doesn’t cooperate, the miles feel endless and torturous.

Since starting my journey back into 2004 (holy shit, 21 years), I’ve left running for other adventures like yoga, weight lifting, CrossFit, climbing, and bicycling. I’ve incorporated running into weight loss routines, rolled my eyes at the idea of running, calling it a lesser form of exercise, given up on it only to come back with fresh eyes, put my whole heart into it and surpassed my own expectations several times over, and allowed it to take me to some of the most beautiful places I’ve been—literally, and figuratively.

In 2023, I ran my first half marathon, the She Power Half Marathon in Indianapolis. I was married at the time to my ex-husband, “N.” It was something I decided on a whim as a new year’s resolution, and I spent 5 months training for the big day. Rather than come cheer me along and celebrate with me at the finish line, N made the decision to attend a concert for his favorite band with his son in Chicago that weekend.

Later that year, N and I ran the Toldeo Mini together—we ran side by side for the majority of the race, until the very last mile, at which point N said that “Bulls on Parade” came on his headphones and he just had to send it, leaving me to cross the finish line on my own. But hey, at least he was there at the end, eating a banana and waiting for me to finish. We got donuts and sushi later that day the celebrate.

The next year, I ran another half marathon, this time the Indy Mini (again in Indianapolis). Again, nobody was at the finish line to greet and celebrate me — N and I were in the process of divorcing and I was packing up my life in preparation for a move to Michigan. Although N and I were polyamorous for most of our relationship and I had another partner “J” at the time, J was also unable to attend to cheer me on. So I ran alone, finished alone, and celebrated alone.

In 2025, my new partner “S” and I ran the Indy Mini together. Like N, he stayed with me for most of the race, and like N, he wanted to send it at the very end, so he sped ahead as I hobbled and cursed my heavy legs and tight lungs for the last mile of the race. We reconnected at the finish line and at bananas and protein bars together while we hobbled back to the hotel room to take a nap.

I’ve had a few different races since this year’s Indy Mini — a Spartan 5k, with my partner J cheering me on; a mid-summer 10k, with my partner “A” at the finish line with a sign and a little airplant as a gift (“it lasts longer than flowers and is harder to kill!”); a DEKA Fit 5k, with nobody with me; a She Runs 10k with my partner A once again in attendance; and just this past weekend, the Sleeping Bear Dunes Half Marathon, which I attended, ran, and celebrated alone.

Why do I mention all of this aloneness versus togetherness when it comes to running? It seems like a lot to keep track of and be affected by. I’ve had people come to celebrate at some races, and none at others. Isn’t it about the running, anyway? What does it matter if someone shows up or not?

I’ve tried to take a nonchalant approach to others’ presence at my big achievements. I have come to realize that through a series of my own choices and others’ choices I am, and have been, very alone for a number of years. This includes at big moments in life, such as races, holidays, deaths, and more.

This is hurtful in a way that is hard to describe, especially since I have several people in my life who express unconditional support with their words, but whose physical bodies are very much missing at the finish line when my own body is tired and my mind is searching for a familiar face.

Running has been therapy for me for years. Years. Which is saying something, because I, myself, am an actual therapist. What started as the hardest thing I had ever done has transformed into a lifelong relationship of struggle , pleasure, and achievement, with hundreds (probably thousands) of hours and miles of mundanity and meditation in the middle.

Running, like therapy, has consistently asked more of me — more patience, more lack of assumption, more curiosity, more time, more money, more sunscreen. Sometimes I get so excited and so grateful for the mileage that I can barely contain myself. And sometimes, I hate the idea of it — it’s the last thing I want to do, and I resent the fact that I feel compelled to anyway. yet here I am, 21 years later, about to embark on the biggest running journey I’ve taken to date.

Running has been more consistent in my life than any friend, any lover, and job, any home, any identity I’ve ever had. It’s always there when I want it (and even when I don’t). It is at times punishing, and at others, incredibly rewarding. But most times, it’s just the plodding of one foot in front of the other, repeatedly, step after step, day after day, month after month, year after year.

Running itself does not hold a cutesy sign for you. You’ve got to bring the snacks and the bandaids. It’ll leave you stranded on the side of the road if you’re not careful. BHut it will hold open doors to versions of yourself you didn’t know were available until you opened them by taking that first step.

And yet, even as I’ve signed up for two — TWO — ultramarathon 50k races in 2026, with several other shorter-distance races before and after that, I struggle to share my goals and aspirations with those closest to me because the idea of only receiving a text message that says “Good job love 😘” at the end of a 31-mile ultra trek breaks my own heart for myself.

I want the people I love to be waiting for me at the finish line, holding out a space blanket, snacks, and a foldable chair, giving me kisses and crying happy tears with me as I peel the shoes and socks off of my swollen feet.

I don’t know if I will get that.

In some ways, I’d rather keep the journey to myself. I’d rather not ask people to show up out of a fear that they’ll say no—or worse, that they’ll say yes but get bored on the sidelines and subsequently resentful that they agreed to wake up early just to hold a sign.

And yet, some part of me knows that keeping it to myself is how I stay in unhealed cycles of loneliness and non-reciprocal relationships. I don’t know if I will ever find myself in romantic partnerships with people who will consistently wake up early with me, carry a drop bag, track me on GPS to meet me at different mile markers with gels and fresh socks, and hold a sign at the finish line, but I have to believe there are communities out there that would welcome me and treat me as one of their own from day one—communities where I’d be chastised for not announcing a race registration, for not inviting folks to come out and support me, for not sharing my achievements with others.

The real therapy of running isn’t just in the miles you spend with yourself, learning how to push through physical and mental discomfort while challenging your fragile human ego. It’s about learning to expand yourself in ways you don’t always want to or feel comfortable with—whether that is expansion in pushing for a new distance goal, a new time goal, or a new connection and community goal.

As I prepare for my ultramarathons next year, I’ll certainly be preparing for a distance and time goal — 50k in 9 hours or less — but the bigger goal for me is learning to lean into connection with others who want to support me not just because they feel obligated, but who show up at 6am with enthusiasm, snacks, bandaids, and a good book to read while they wait for me to cross the finish line.