In university, my boyfriend Samuel and all his friends raced bicycles. It was thrilling to be around them. At the time, I didn’t quite understand why; I couldn’t have put into words that what attracted me was their focus, their confidence. They knew what they wanted to do and how they were going to do it. They planned their days around their goals, and they met these goals.
In contrast, I struggled with generalised anxiety disorder, although I didn’t have a name for it yet. I always felt like I was caught in a storm, being tossed about by the winds, while the racers seemed, despite their speed and agility, perfectly still. When they moved they moved with grace, not just on the racecourse, but in life. I wanted to be like that.
Meanwhile, I hadn’t an athletic bone in my body. I grew up reading books. I was squirrely on my bike and afraid of traffic. I could not even imagine a world in which I raced bikes. But I could see myself running. One foot in front of the other, proceed in a straight line. I could handle that. Samuel gave me a pair of trainers and an iPod for my birthday, and so it began.
I started off shuffling at a snail’s pace down the pavement for 20 minutes. I gradually gained fitness and speed, and was soon running up and down the hills behind the university. I felt glimmers of my own confidence and the rush of physical exertion.
I didn’t start running to fix my brain. I did it to fix my body. As I settled into adulthood I’d become sedentary, and my poor eating and drinking habits were already catching up to me. I knew I needed to change.
We’ve all heard people say that exercise lessens your risk of diabetes and heart attacks (which run in my family, so this is a big motivator for me). They don’t mention that it lessens your risk of talking yourself into a corner, of spending weeks in bed, of being too terrified of the world to go to class or work. Besides, I already had fixed my brain, or so I thought. I took medication that brought my anxiety down to a lower level. It was still there, albeit in an amount I could usually handle.
But nothing made me feel the way that running did. I never particularly wanted to go run. It was hard, and uncomfortable, and I would much rather sit on the couch and eat cereal. I made excuses to skip runs. Still, I kept doing it because of the way I felt afterwards. After a run I felt cleaned out. All of my sick, poisonous thoughts and emotions were washed from me, and an exhausted peace was left in their place.
When I became stronger, and running wasn’t as gruellingly difficult, it became meditative for me, in the sense that it’s difficult to concentrate on anything else when I run. All those incessant inner voices, worries, and doubts just don’t get enough blood flow to sustain themselves. I stop caring about anything, in the best way.
Plus, it’s an excuse to get out in the sun and make some vitamin D. No matter how unhinged I’m feeling, I always feel much better in daylight. This, combined with the endorphin rush of hard work, make running as good as any anxiety drug I’ve taken. I learned later that running is scientifically shown to positively affect anxiety and increase self-esteem. I didn’t really think about it in that way back then; I just knew I felt better.
Samuel taught me how to train to get stronger and increase my performance. Like him, I began rising early to work out, eating healthier, drinking less, and sleeping more. I didn’t enter races and never considered myself an athlete like he was (neither did he), but I was running regularly, and we both acknowledged that I was better than I had been before. Healthier, saner, more focused.
Shortly after I began running, Samuel and I went on a jog together. I suited up in my spandex capris, sport bra, and breathable, wicking top. He just wore his cargo shorts and cotton t-shirt — our 30-minute run wasn’t even a workout for him. As we sat on the grass afterwards cooling down, he told me how excited he was for me. “Running is the first step toward making things happen for yourself,” he said.
After our relationship dissolved, as many university romances do, I rebelled and went back to my former habits. I stopped running and started staying out late drinking with my friends again, because I could. (Samuel would get upset when I’d come home late and interrupt his sleep.) I got angry or impatient sometimes and snapped at my friends, got in tiffs, got sad, but I chalked this volatility up to heartbreak and the new cruelty of single life. I didn’t put the pieces together.
At a certain point though, it was time to get back on the horse. I dusted myself off and laced up my runners. I’d fallen out of shape, I was slow, but it felt good to run again. For the first time, I wasn’t running in the shadow of a better athlete. With Samuel, he was always the athlete, and I was the girlfriend. But now, I was the athlete. My hard-partying friends admired my discipline, and I found new friends who I could run and do yoga with.
I pulled myself together. I began training for races. I no longer dragged my feet, but looked forward to running — I wanted to do it as much as my body would allow. My confidence soared. It took a long time, but I eventually was able to respect myself as much as I’d respected Samuel, and then to realise that I didn’t have to compare myself to him anymore.
Now I know what he meant, that running is the first step toward making things happen for yourself. When I am running consistently, I sleep better and keep to a more regular schedule. I naturally want to eat healthier to fuel my training, and rein in my drinking. All of these things contribute to better mental health, and, when I feel better, I have more energy to do things like look for new jobs, see friends, write, and get involved with family and community life. Running starts a chain reaction of positive choices.
This is why I don’t make excuses anymore. Running is always a priority. It takes precedence over partying, even hanging out sober with friends, because I know that without running, I might have more time to hang out, but I’ll enjoy it less. I won’t be as good of a friend. I run so that I can be the person I want to be. Even on days it’s hard to leave the house, I make sure to at least go for a run.
Running is the first step. When everything is falling apart, and I feel like there are too many things I have to do to pull it together, I don’t think about any of those things. I just think about running. I know that if I run, I’ll find stability, and I can build everything else on that foundation.
Help information
If you need help please talk to friends, family, a GP, therapist or one of the free confidential helpline services. For a full list of national mental health services see yourmentalhealth.ie.
- Samaritans 116 123 or email jo@samaritans.org
- Pieta House National Suicide Helpline 1800 247 247 or email mary@pieta.ie – (suicide prevention, self-harm, bereavement) or text HELP to 51444 (standard message rates apply)
- Aware 1800 80 48 48 (depression, anxiety)
If living in Ireland you can find accredited therapists in your area here:
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