Miles and Becoming

The evolution of my relationship with running: From competition to motherhood, and back to myself.

When I was young, I ran for competition. I wanted to be the best, faster than the rest. (I wasn’t, by the way.) At track practice, I’d catch and pass the baton over and over, “Go, stick!” ringing in my ears as my relay team and I retraced our steps for perfect lead time, working out the formula to minimize any lag between us. While I ran for myself, I did it within a team that wanted to be fast. Our 4×1 relay became one organism moving quicker than any one of us could alone. We chased records and medals. Every time we placed, dopamine hit, and I chased after some kind of nonexistent glory.

When high school ended, I ran for fun. I incorporated it into my travels, using running as a way to experience the places I moved through. Running became an ambivalent third party in my life. It was just me, the world around me, and my legs carrying me there.

In Alaska, I ran until the road fizzled out to nothing, the wet air misting my face, lupines surrounding me. I didn’t wear a watch. I didn’t even know how far I went. I only knew that the mountains rose above the ocean before me, and I felt I could go forever. In Patagonia, I ran through fields and apple orchards, along river valleys beneath unnamed peaks, stopping only to jump in the river before the black flies made me into a meal.

But as I got older, running turned darker. I ran to escape. I ran for self-punishment. Life circumstances I regretted drove me further and further from home, chasing peace that never came. Ten miles, twenty miles. When peace didn’t arrive, I ran harder, until I crumbled into injury. Still, I ran. When my shape shifted from lean to leaner, I kept going… not for joy, but to punish myself, to become smaller still. I wanted to run myself into oblivion.

Later, when I finally had the courage to change my life for the better, I ran to relax. To breathe deeper, go slower, and tend to what needed my awareness. I rebuilt my mental and physical state in tandem. As the fog lifted, so did my obsession with faster, further, thinner. My partner and I wanted to start a family, and with that came a gentler approach. For the first time, I treated my body as a temple to grow something greater than myself. I was kind to my body, nourished it well, and gave it attention. 

After almost a year of uncertainty, I was finally pregnant. And then I ran for him. As my son grew inside me, all of my effort went toward loving him. I chased health so he could be healthy. I reached for calm so he could feel calm. I ran to talk to him in private, a moving meditation just for us. I’d stop at overlooks, rivers, and streams, hold my belly, and tell him my thoughts and fears. I imagined how life was about to expand for both him and me.

I saw those runs as training for endurance — the endurance of birth itself.

Fifty-two hours of labor and seven interventions later, I still had just enough strength to push him into the world. My son was born, and life shifted to shine on this bright, beautiful being. We were bound together, my partner, my baby, and me in a rhythm so tight I couldn’t bear to leave him, even for a walk.

But with gentle encouragement, I began to guide my body toward recovery. Slow walks turned into slow strides, paying careful attention to the new twinges in my pelvis, the heaviness that made me wonder if my body might give out beneath me. Alongside tenderness toward my newborn came a tenderness toward myself that I’d never known before.

For the first time, I set no goals. I just went. My leaking breasts and hungry baby dictated my outings more than any training plan. As the months passed, the strides turned into jogs. I felt like a beginner again. After twenty years as a runner, it was like something brand new. And it felt exciting, like I could build something just for me.

Running became my way to reconnect with nature, to feel my breath, and to build a new relationship with my body. I knew I needed these moments of calm to be at my best for my baby. No longer punishment. No longer about shrinking. This time, it was about celebrating what my body and my persistence brought me: carrying, birthing, and now holding our son.

The release of expectation allowed me to find something natural. And to my surprise, my miles and quickness returned easier than I would have thought. I became reacquainted with the running community that encouraged me and mirrored my aspirations of self. 

Six months after the birth of my son, I celebrated with an ultramarathon. My only goal was simple: to do my best and enjoy the miles. I ran for fun. I ran for strength. I ran for myself. Over those hours, I reflected on everything that had brought me to this point. My baby had just learned to stand, and there I was running again… both of us finding our footing, together in the midst of our union. I ran to be joyful for my son, for him to see me pursue a practice that makes me feel alive. I ran for the strength to play with him, for the late nights feeding and swaying, for the adventures still to come as a family. 

And after many miles, and many more to come, I run to honor the woman I was, the woman I am, and the woman I will become.