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Running Down a Double-Edged Sword
What happens when a singular basket becomes too full of eggs?
One of the first things long-distance runners are taught is to push through pain. It is what makes the endurance athlete a formidable, and I daresay, respectable title. We are, some might say, a bit of a cult when it comes to our breakdown of the sport:
10% physical
90% mental
The game is who can run one more lap, one more mile, one more time. It’s a bit of runner’s math, if you will.
Of course, canon is that “Exercise is healthy. Running is one of the best things that you can do with your body.” Anything to the contrary feels absurd, and those who exercise consistently are lauded with praise and respected for their discipline.
But there’s a thin line between discipline and addiction. And no one ever told me that running can become an unhealthy obsession, a mental crutch.
This realization arose because I’ve been sick for a bit — nothing crazy, of course; just a mere month of a common, albeit nasty virus that’s done its fair share of bashing my lungs and has rendered me “miss coughing couch potato on two inhalers” status for the last few weeks. My last run was a 14-miler mid-July—and since then, nothing. I feel foolish sometimes, when the way I describe being uncomfortably sick sounds equivalent to some exaggerated atrocity that’s toppled my life over, but as I am surrounded by more and more requests for running advice and see this once masochistic-seeming ritual become hype again as one of the latest health trends (the half marathon being quite popular these days), I’ve started to question my own relationship with the sport.
I’ve been running for a while now. Over half a decade, in fact. Since 2019, I’ve seen the social media side of the sport ebb and flow like some out-of-pocket sinusoidal function. When COVID hit, running’s popularity went off the charts. Post-COVID, it went back to “our sport, your sport’s punishment.” Recently, the running trend has exploded again.
Perhaps it’s the dopamine rush. The low barrier to entry (shoes are all you need), the toned body, the runner’s high, the stress-relieving properties, the challenge, or the curiosity of how far one can push one’s physical mind and mental spirit. Whatever the reason one goes into the sport, I like to tell my friends this: it doesn’t matter.
As long as you got into running, great! Who cares the specific reason? Your life will be changed forever, I promise.
I am always so incredibly excited whenever someone I know ventures into running, regardless of the motives. But for the first time, I am questioning my own. It’s begun to scare me how big a hold this activity has on my life—how closely my daily wellbeing, happiness, mood, and psychological stability are tied to whether I’m able to run or not.
When I don’t run for a certain period of time (usually ~three days), I become miserable. Most people, I daresay, probably have not gotten to this level of co-dependency, and I wonder whether those who relate to it struggle to conceptualize this feeling to the wider public, who might look upon this declaration with utter disbelief.
Looking back, I can probably name all the offhand remarks I’ve commented over the years as this sport has become more and more integrated into my lifestyle:
- I feel like I’m going to throw up if I don’t run.
- I’m really exhausted right now. I think I’m going to go on a run.
And now, when I’m sick:
- I’m so sad because I can’t run.
- Can I *cough* go run now? To which someone in my life replies: No, idiot. You’re sick. Stop it.
It’s concerning when the first thing that comes out of my mouth is not, “I feel sick,” but rather “I can’t run, and that’s making me feel depressed.” Being sick is a nuisance, of course, but it is a misery amplified tenfold by this feeling that I won’t be free and myself again until I put on a pair of ASICS sneakers and fly on the road.
Running, alongside its many benefits, has always provided this mental escape for me—this form of peace, control, and freedom. There are so many things in life that we don’t have control over, so many things we invest in that yield little progress, and exercise is one of those things where, if you put in effort, you gain outcomes. There is no cheating the system—if you want to get better, you run more. You put yourself through pain and consistent hard work over time, and that’s the only way you improve. Anyone who gloats or exaggerates their abilities will get humbled the minute they’re placed on a running track. It took me four years to comfortably run a half with no injury — six to run a marathon. There are no shortcuts in a sport like this — only injury and disaster await anyone who decides to cheat.
And perhaps that’s what makes it such a fair and good thing. If there is one thing to get addicted to in life, is it not exercise and taking care of one’s body?
But anything, and everything, I suppose, has its limits. My sister and mom were discussing my 999th uneasy exercise comment of the day, and came to the conclusion (which they’ve actually been hinting at for some time now) that while my initial intentions for running were good and allowed me to go from amateur to cross-country captain and consistent athlete, I may have overshot. To which I’ve been in denial for quite a long time, but now that I’ve been forced to stay idle, it has never rung more true.
When I’m stressed, I go on a run.
When I’m sad, I go on a run.
When I’m bored, I go on a run.
When I need to be left alone, I go on a run.
When I need structure in my life, I go on a run.
When I’m socially drained, I go on a run.
When I’m happy and done with finals, I … go on a run.
When I’m sick, my first concern is that I can’t go on a run, so I ask if I can go weightlifting instead. When I realize that’s not such a good idea, I try going on a run anyway.
That cycle, in fact, has already happened multiple times this month. I feel a little bit better, get incredibly excited, try some form of exercise, feel worse, spiral, and repeat. When I trained for the marathon earlier this year, I got sick, and the same thing happened in milder form. Even when I was out of surgery a few years ago, I started running again two and a half weeks after the procedure, when the suggested wait time was 1–2 months minimum. My doctors were shocked — like “there’s no way this gal ran two miles after all that.”
Sometimes, as I sit dejectedly on the couch, I want to escape out of my own body just to feel that spirit of freedom that’s awarded when I’m alone, out in the streets, jogging in the wind. But no matter how good that old fantasy feels, no matter how anxious I get not moving my body, and no matter how many accolades I garner for discipline or strength or whatnot, only I can be honest with myself and acknowledge that this relationship with running has gone too far; what was initially good has transformed into a thinly veiled, socially acceptable form of addiction, whether I like it or not.
Exercise Obsession is a real thing. Putting a name to it is kind of liberating in a way—you know it’s taken over your life when you feel your day is dictated by whether you’re able to fit in a workout or not, and how poorly your mood feels as a result of not doing so.
So I’m making peace with the fact that I might become slower, my body might feel like it’s deteriorating a bit every day, and my stamina might decrease — but finally regaining a healthy relationship with running means that I must learn how to rest, let go, and find happiness and stability in the other wonderful things that life has to offer.
Perhaps it’s time to take all my eggs out of this one basket.
