For the past month, I’ve been thinking about writing something that I truly connect with. Something uniquely mine—woven into my daily life, shaping who I am, and quietly helping me grow. But also something so instinctive that if someone were to ask, “Why do you do this?” my answer would simply be, “Just because.”
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After putting it off for far too long, the realization finally struck me: that something is running. It’s become an anchor in my routine. No matter how unpredictable life gets, I always find at least one day to slip on my shoes and head out for a 5–10k. Even if I miss a week or two, I know it’s ingrained enough that I’ll return to it—often on a random day when I feel completely drained.
And that’s the irony: most people lace up when they’re buzzing with energy, but for me, it works the other way around. I run precisely on the days when I’m not feeling 100%. That’s when I chase the “runner’s high.” In the motion itself I find release, and when I’m done, I feel like the best version of myself.
Here's a link to how and why it helps hit peak dopamine in the process.
It wasn’t always this way. Consistent running only began during the pandemic, when I noticed I had fallen into a few habits I knew would hurt me in the long run. It all shifted after one particular run with my cousin. I was struggling to keep pace while he moved steadily ahead, and all I could think was—why am I finding this so hard? That day, he helped me understand my biggest barrier.
I wasn’t unfit—I was anxious. The shortness of breath kept making me panic. But the truth is, when you’re running outdoors (or anywhere, really) — breathlessness isn’t failure; it’s just part of the process. The trick is to control your breathing and keep your rhythm. He told me: “Next time, run until your legs start to hurt. And don’t stop. If you need to, slow down—but don’t quit just because you’re out of breath.”
That was the push I needed. Soon, I started with short distances, and before long, even the lockdown couldn’t stop me. I’d run loops around my terrace for 30 minutes straight, just to hold onto the rhythm.
So why do I run? What goes through my mind when I’m out there? For the longest time, I couldn’t put it into words—until I read Murakami’s book. Suddenly, it all clicked. The way he describes running is exactly how it feels for me.
When I run, I don’t think about much of anything. I just run—into a kind of void. Sometimes my restless mind clings to a passing thought, but it never lingers. As Murakami writes:
"The thoughts that occur to me while I'm running are like clouds in the sky. Clouds of all different sizes. They come and they go, while the sky remains the same sky as always. The clouds are mere guests in the sky that pass away and vanish, leaving behind the sky. The sky both exists and doesn't exist. It has substance and at the same time doesn't. And we merely accept that vast expanse and drink it in."
At first, I ran to shed the weight I had put on in my legs. But even after that changed, I kept going. Because running gave me something deeper: it made me feel fit. Strong. Capable of anything. And I realized—that feeling was my true motivation.
My goal has never been to look fit. Abs and definitions are just byproducts, not pursuits. What I chase instead is the state of feeling alive and resilient, and running is what unlocks that for me.
Beyond my personal journey, research only reaffirmed what I’d already discovered: running brings immense value to the body and mind. I’ll save that for the next piece.