When I tell people I run, they either groan or widen their eyes. When I tell people I’ve run seven half marathons this year alone, they usually think I’m crazy. But what’s more crazy to me is that it’s almost two years to the day since I stepped out of the house at 6am in my Air Max (because I didn’t know any better), for my first ever one-minute-on, one-minute-off run around the block.
I always wanted to run but couldn’t. I figured I was someone who just couldn’t do it. Eventually I moved past the 1.5-minute jog, managed a whole kilometre and felt bloody invincible. One kilometre turned into two, two became 10 and, before I knew it (literally, my boyfriend signed me up without telling me), I was half-smiling, half-wincing my way around my first 21.1km.
Next year, I’m signed up to run two marathons, which is still blowing my mind. I’m just a normal person who sits at my desk all day, writes around the clock, and drinks prosecco like it’s water. How did I find myself here? The answer: I fell in love with running. And with the endless string of emotions it brings – from pain to success, happiness, invincibility, struggle and satisfaction. I’ve cried more over running than I have over relationships. But here we are, still together.