The first time I experienced discomfort while running was back in the fall of ’88. After hitting puberty, I quickly learned that eighth-grade gym class was far from my favorite activity. My once nimble body, capable of darting through the playground, felt weighed down by my developing hips and chest. It was then I vowed that running was not for me—not intentionally, at least.
Throughout high school, I shied away from sports (mostly due to my aversion to running), but occasionally, my friends and I would squeeze into our trendy Spandex and take a run around town. Our high ponytails swayed in rhythm as we attempted to dash a mile or so before collapsing—often three times over the span of six years. What kept me going was the reward of ice cream from the local Dairy Bar, not the joy of running itself.
During my college years, I walked extensively and even taught step aerobics, but the thought of running never crossed my mind. I held onto a belief that simply wasn’t true: you’re either born a runner or you’re not, and I was definitely in the latter category.
This mindset persisted until I turned 35 and witnessed a stunning woman effortlessly running down the street. After wrestling my kindergartner and his tantrumming siblings into the car post-pickup, I couldn’t help but admire her flowing stride in black running tights as she conquered a steep hill. Despite the freezing 2-degree weather outside my warm SUV, she radiated freedom and joy. I found myself yearning for that same sense of liberation. I promised myself I would become a runner one day.
That day finally came a month after I turned 39. With my kids now older and more self-sufficient, I decided it was time to lace up my running shoes. I wasn’t just motivated; I felt an urgent need to prove myself wrong. My pace was laughably slow, but I didn’t care. I wanted to challenge myself and embrace the struggle.
When I finished my first run, I felt both exhausted and exhilarated. It may sound cliché, but it marked the beginning of a transformation in my life, mind, and spirit. I realized I had needed this change for a long time, but I hadn’t been ready until that moment. I was finally doing it for myself, not out of self-loathing, but out of self-love.
Since that pivotal day, running has become a constant in my life. As my children have grown, I often wake early, slip into my running gear, and step outside to greet the sunrise while the rest of my family sleeps. Just for a moment, I soak in the tranquility before I dive into my run. When I complete my daily ritual, I find it easier to tackle the day’s chaos, knowing that I have carved out time for myself—time to reflect and enjoy my own thoughts without distractions.
If you’re currently navigating the demands of parenthood or life in general, and you’re longing to pursue something that makes you feel alive—whether it’s biking, running, skiing, or any activity that gives you that rush—be patient with yourself. Trust that you’ll eventually discover “your thing” that you can’t live without. Don’t convince yourself that it’s impossible or too difficult; you are capable of so much more than you think.
How do I know this? Because you’re raising children. Once you can do that, you can truly conquer anything.
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In summary, discovering running in my late 30s transformed my life in ways I never anticipated. It provided me with a sense of freedom, self-acceptance, and a much-needed outlet amidst the chaos of motherhood. So, embrace the journey and remember that it’s never too late to find what you love.