I first experienced discomfort while running back in the autumn of ’88. After hitting puberty, gym class in eighth grade became a struggle for me. The lithe body that once glided effortlessly during recess had vanished, replaced by the awareness of my fuller hips and bust with every lap around the track. At that moment, I resolved never to consider myself a runner—not intentionally, anyway.
During high school, I avoided sports due to my aversion to running. However, on rare occasions, my friends and I would squeeze into our trendy Spandex and sprint around downtown. Our high ponytails bobbed in unison until we inevitably reached our limit—often after just a mile. And by “rare,” I mean we did this maybe three times in six years, typically rewarding ourselves with hot fudge sundaes from the local Dairy Bar. My motivation was hardly the love of running; it was all about the ice cream and the good times.
In college, I walked often and even taught step aerobics, but running never found its way into my routine. I held on to the misguided belief that you were either a natural runner or you weren’t—and I definitely fell into the latter category.
That mindset changed when I turned 35. One day, after wrangling my kindergartner and his tantrum-throwing siblings into the car, I spotted an elegant woman gliding down the street. Clad in black running tights, she moved with apparent ease, maintaining her pace as she ascended a challenging hill. I watched her through the warmth of my SUV, and her radiant smile was infectious. She exuded a joy for running that I longed to feel. I glanced at the temperature display in my car—it was 2 degrees outside—but she looked so free and adventurous. I wanted that freedom, that thrill. I promised myself I would become a runner someday.
That day arrived about a month after I turned 39. With my children older and less demanding, I finally made the leap into running. It wasn’t just a desire anymore; it was a necessity. I was slower than a sloth on a lazy day, but that didn’t deter me. I was determined to prove my doubts wrong and push my limits.
Completing my first run left me both exhausted and invigorated. I know it sounds cliché, but it marked the beginning of a significant transformation—mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. I realized that I had needed this change for quite some time; I just hadn’t recognized it until I was ready. The moment came when I decided to run for me, embracing my body and my self-worth rather than succumbing to self-criticism.
Since that pivotal day, I have continued to run. With my kids now older, I often rise early, don my running gear, and step onto my front porch to watch the sunrise while my family sleeps in. I take a moment to breathe in the morning air before I head out. Each run is a sacred ritual that prepares me to tackle the day’s chaos, knowing that I have carved out time for myself to be free, lost in my own thoughts without distractions.
If you’re navigating life with kids and yearning for an outlet—be it running, biking, skiing, or something that makes you feel liberated—give yourself grace and time to discover your passion. Don’t tell yourself it’s impossible or too difficult, because you absolutely can do it. If you can manage raising children, you can conquer anything that life throws your way.
For more insights on parenthood and self-discovery, you can check out our other blog posts, including one on the home insemination kit, which offers valuable resources on starting a family. Another great resource is Make a Mom, an authority on home insemination. You can also gain deeper insights into the science of pregnancy through Genetics and IVF Institute.
Summary:
My journey from disliking running to embracing it began at 39, leading to profound personal transformation. As I learned to run for myself, I found freedom and clarity. I encourage others to explore their own passions, reminding them that if they can handle the challenges of parenting, they can achieve anything.