Running has been a constant thread in my life for as long as I can remember. Legend has it, I learned to run before I could walk.
Maybe it's in my DNA: my grandparents were runners, my mom's a runner, and my brothers ran in their youth too. And I’m built like a runner. I'll never forget when I was in 3rd grade, sitting on the swing set in a swimsuit at the country club, soaking in the warm summer sun. There was an older girl nearby—maybe in high school, maybe in college... everyone seems impossibly old when you’re that young. She was watching me, and after a moment, she asked, "Are you a runner?" Surprised that she could tell, I shyly nodded and said, "Yes."
She smiled and said, "I could tell by your thighs."
I don’t think she meant anything by it— or rather she probably intended it as a compliment about the noticeable muscles— but the comment stuck with me. What did she mean? Is that a bad thing? It became my earliest memory of feeling self-conscious. It’s crazy to think that awareness can start at such a young age. From that moment on, I became hyper-aware of my thighs.
In college, especially, I came to resent them, hating how disproportionate they felt compared to the rest of my body. I wished they were slimmer, like the other girls’ legs around me.
Eventually, I learned that everyone has something silly like this they focus on. We all distort our own image, fixating on things that others may not even notice. And in the end, it doesn’t really matter. Though even now, I’ll admit I sometimes catch myself glancing at my thighs a bit too long in the mirror. But I’ve learned to embrace them, to celebrate my body as it is.
These thighs have allowed me to do so much. They've run marathons, summited Mount Whitney, and pushed me beyond physical limits I never thought possible. They’ve danced on tables and in clubs, moving and grooving until the place shut down. They've carried me through long walks with loved ones, helped me stand up my first ever time surfing, and have held me steady on days when it’s hard to get out of bed.
All of those things are beautiful. So therefore, my thighs must be beautiful too. I’m a runner; runners have thighs.
I’m grateful for these legs that let me keep running, especially now that my relationship with running has shifted. I’m no longer training for races. Instead, I run for enjoyment, adjusting my mileage by what feels right. It’s allowed me to form a different kind of relationship with my body—one that’s taught me to listen, to be present, and to redefine what I need to feel good in my own skin.
On running
Published 4/9/17
I was born a runner. My parents began my training early, pushing me in the stroller as they ran countless 10k’s so that I could learn the art of race strategy. After I took my first steps, they started signing me and my siblings up for community races as well under the guise of “family bonding.” It was all fun and games until my little brother beat me in a race, bringing out my competitive nature and subsequently making me take things more seriously.
By the time I was old enough to join my elementary school’s Cross Country team, I was already a seasoned runner. I did not lose a single race during my four-year career. Clearly I peaked early in life.
Everyone seemed shocked and disappointed when I decided to abandon the sport. I offered up a convenient excuse that I was tired of being one of very few female runners on the team and I wanted to devote more of my time to soccer. While both statements were true, I don’t think I’ve ever shared with anyone the actual reason for the timing of my “retirement”. During the first race of the season in what would’ve been my fifth year, I was almost stripped of my undefeated title. I had experienced a few close finishes before, but in this particular race I could nearly feel the girl’s heavy breath on my neck as I mustered every last bit of strength I had to sprint across the finish line. I didn’t want to continue the season and risk disappointing myself and all of the people who knew me as “the really fast St. Anthony’s girl.” I didn’t want to lose.
As you can imagine, over the course of ten years I have grown much more accustomed to losing. In fact, while I’ve been in London, I’ve lost a lot of things: my wallet, my room key, my hair straightener, and at times probably my sanity. Puns aside, I have come to accept that winning isn’t everything as I’ve had to overcome defeat during meaningful games and competitions in all my athletic endeavors. More importantly, without the fear of losing holding me back, I’ve realized that I genuinely enjoy running.
The other day, someone asked me to explain what runners high felt like. It was the first time I had ever really thought about or put into words the euphoric sensation I experience when I run.
The moment I find my stride feels like a transfer of energy from the pavement to the soles of my feet as my movement becomes more effortless and mechanical. I turn up the music blasting in my ears as the beat intensifies until I just let everything go. My confidence rises in unison with my heart rate, and before I’m able to process what’s happening I find myself in a full on sprint. I want to scream at the top of my lungs and laugh at the same time, and I grow certain that I’m absolutely invincible. In that instant I am more powerful, alive, and in control than I’ve ever been before.
What a beautiful thing when we can quite literally rewrite our imperfections 💕 loved this one