Looking back at my first year of running, most of what I wish I’d known isn’t the kind of thing anyone could have simply told me. I mostly had to find it out the slow way, alone, over time.
Around month five of running, I sat on my front steps and decided I was done. What kept me from actually quitting had nothing to do with willpower and almost nothing to do with running itself.
My first race was a small local 5K I almost didn’t show up for. It wasn’t triumphant. I got passed constantly, doubted myself at the start line, and finished more relieved than proud.
I spent my first year convinced my pace was an embarrassment I needed to hide. Looking back nine years later, I wish I hadn’t spent so much energy being ashamed of something that just meant I was starting.
I spent my first year of running in the wrong shoes and clothes I chose for looks over function, and I didn’t figure out why things hurt until well after the fact.
Nine years on, I still remember how unglamorous my first month of running actually was. No big transformation, just a lot of stopping, starting, and wondering why it felt so much harder than it looked.