Running

Content Warning: This article contains a discussion of dieting/exercise/ and weight loss.

There’s nothing like your first run. I remember crying through mine. 

I was 12. I had no plans on doing anything beyond waiting for the day to end and eating my next meal. My Dad forced me to go on a run. 

It’s funny how truly massive a mile is. Five thousand two hundred and eighty feet. Sixty-three thousand three hundred and sixty inches. And with all the shit you hear about that size, you forget this measurement means this truly obtuse length of distance. It doesn’t make any logical sense. A mile is the distance it is because Ancient Rome decided it so. A mile means “a thousand paces,” and yet it doesn’t. It’s just one mile. The feet, the yards, the inches—all bull. 

I guess on that day—my first run—my first mile decided to live up to the rumors of how long, how hard, and how much of a bitch she could be as I stepped onto the sidewalk. 

She made me her latest victim. 

So, I made a promise to myself after that first mile to avoid her like a school bully who would pick on you if you gave her the wrong look. My parents told me I had to get active in one way or another; I have a greater chance of dying from obesity-related diseases than the average person. But I couldn’t move my legs to run. They stuck to my sides like pillars of a bridge. I refused to run. 

So, I stuck to swimming. I swam for seven years. I swam on Thanksgiving break. I swam on Christmas Eve. I swam every holiday because swimmers in Florida don’t take days off. 

And I would go through these fluctuations of joy and misery during my time there, like a bad heart rate. Some weeks, I would do anything to skip practice, take the day off, study for some test, or read a book I couldn’t get out of my hands. But then I would be antsy, waiting for a taste of the chlorine, first feel of the water on skin. I had a friend group, a crush, a best friend—and so, every hour and a half felt like minutes, and I felt great. I grew big shoulders and hip dips. I had big calves without running a single mile.

And I ate. I ate fast. I ate often. In swimming, all you do is burn calories. And my parents weren’t fans of having soda or processed food in my house. I ate sugar and snacks but I quickly learned to hide what I ate and snack often. 

By the time I was a senior in high school, I realized I’m not going to college with a scholarship that relies on how fast my 500 freestyle is. My crushes went away. My friends started to feel distant, or they left my swim team for water polo or just quit. And my passion dwindled once more. This time, it would never spike up. 

My parents signed me up for a gym membership. 

I was depressed my senior year of high school. I was grounded a lot for things I can’t remember. My best friends, all a year older than me, graduated and went to college and were so caught up in the hoopla of things that rarely I would speak to them. My friend group in highschool decided my jokes weren’t that funny, and I had to scrape up new friends along with applying to colleges and being in management positions in my clubs, and studying and having a part-time job at a Chinese restaurant. I ate the same, thinking my metabolism was still young enough to keep me skinny-looking. And hating myself while projecting to every university that I was disciplined, nice, smart, and helpful made me rely on comforts. Eating the way I did made me feel good for 20 seconds. I couldn’t help myself but want more of those sweet 20 seconds. 

So I cried when I went to the gym. 

I didn’t do much, and I really didn’t know how to work out the right way. Eighteen-year-old me figured everyone was staring at me, thinking I needed the gym more than they did. 

At this point, a mile seemed millions of years away. But sometime after having to be forced to go to the gym—being grounded and forced to go to the gym—I ended up forcing myself to go to the gym. Eventually, I got more serious about the gym, like a guy you aren’t sure about dating until you realize he’s really, actually, great.  

I went to college. And that summer was the best summer of my life so far. No job for the first time since I was 14(I started young). Boys, everywhere the eye could see. And girls who looked like me went to the gym partly because there was nothing to do all day and partly because we wanted to look good for the boys galore. They walked blocks away from our dorms to the school’s gym. I joined in. 

I think I was truly in love then. Working out made me feel good. Made me feel a way I never really felt before. I enjoyed the gym. I made it a priority in my life. I got into lifting heavy weights, seeing how many reps I could do till failure. All the friends I made called me confident, bold—things I never thought would be more than a facade for me. 

But over time, I lost track of my goals. By the end of my freshman year, the gym—a chore I liked to do—became something I avoided. I had no goals. Every repetition of a set made me internally say, “Another one? Really?” 

And I got into my first ever real relationship. That really gave me a reason to stop going to the gym. Some weeks I didn’t go at all. More weeks where I only went once. I ate whatever I wanted, and he reassured me that I looked great. So I drank sugary cocktails and ate fast food often. We would go on dates at pizza restaurants. And what they say is true. He got better looking; started dressing better, wearing his hair differently. I did not. 

And he would tell me I looked great. But I didn’t feel great. Looking at myself in the mirror, as raw as one could be, tanked the self-esteem I worked so hard to build from when I was at my lowest. I gained 15 pounds over the course of my relationship. I saw it in photos, in the mirror, and whenever I tried to look nice—that extra weight stood out like a funny Halloween costume in a room filled with sexy ones.

We broke up. I mourned the relationship, but I also mourned me. 

And my parents noticed. They saw how I changed and brought it up. I was upset, but they were right. If I stayed the same I would resent myself. And the best way to show you love yourself is to change for the better. 

So there I was. At a park I’ve come to for dates and hangouts where my friends (who liked my jokes) would read or draw. I had on gym shoes, a sports bra, and a new feeling about this. 

That first mile greeted me like an old friend who forgot the bullying she used to do to me as a kid. But this time I was going to bite back. I was going to run this mile. 

After all these years, I cried. Not because I hated myself for doing this or that it was hard, but because I knew a new chapter was opening in the book of my life. 

One mile became two. Two, three. My first 5k. Then my entire family woke up for a Turkey 4-miler on Thanksgiving. Then, I trained for a 10k. Six miles, eight, nine, and 10. My first ever half marathon is in March, a few months from now. 

Running brought back the joy of swimming—the days when I became excited to go to a swim meet or see my crush was just the thrill of endorphins pumping through me. A few of my friends started running through my influence. My diet changed. I make food at home and started to really enjoy cooking. I drink coffee that tastes like coffee now. I eat more fruit than I used to. I am conscious of protein, and I drink tons of water. I save up the sweet treats for when they are worth celebrating with friends and family instead of every other day. I have goals and a newfound passion. Most importantly, I know that if something happens again, where I fall back, I know how to pick myself up. I’m on my way to getting back on track. So long as I have a clear goal, I will be able to run—and keep on running. 

My dad texted me recently—my dad, who started it all by forcing me to run, telling me to pick up the pace when all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball. In his own tough-love way, he saw me stick to being consistent with running and said, “No day is a hero, no day is a villain.” 

Because a mile is whatever you make of it. 

Strike Out,

Orlando

Writer: Riley Flynn

Editors: Nina Rueda & Erika Ryan