Becoming (A Runner)

It didn’t start in December, not really. It started quietly in October, with short runs around my university neighborhood of Huron Heights. Nothing ambitious, just me, a pair of cheap Vessi sneakers, and the need to clear my head. It felt good to move, to shake off the static of long days and longer readings, to run past dorms and downtown streets and feel, for a few moments, like I had some kind of rhythm. I didn’t know then that those small loops would turn into something bigger. That a couple of hesitant jogs would grow into the kind of movement that changed how I saw myself.

Soon after, I joined the Western Run Club. I figured if I was going to keep running, I might as well surround myself with people who knew what they were doing. They pushed me. gently, consistently, and before I knew it, I started pushing back. Longer runs, faster paces. Cold mornings. Dark evenings. I started chasing something I couldn’t quite name but boy oh boy, it made me happier every time I did it.

At some point during that blur of midterms and mileage, I decided to go for it. An unofficial half marathon around London, Ontario. Just me and my watch. 21.1 kilometres. I crossed the invisible finish line in 2 hours and 24 minutes. It wasn’t pretty, but it was done and that mattered more then anything else in that moment.

Then came travel. Suriname. Barbados. Bermuda. I packed my upgraded running shoes with me like a ritual, hitting unfamiliar roads and humid trails with the same beat in my chest: forward, forward, forward. No matter where I was, running grounded me. It became something solid in the very much changing landscape of my life.

Bermuda Runs With The Germans!

After I got back from Bermuda, I ran my second unofficial half marathon, this time in 2:12. Still not fast, but faster. And for the first time, I felt like I finished strong with gas still in the tank. I also felt like I belonged in this strange community of people who voluntarily ran distances most would avoid and that was empowering.

When March rolled around, I started training with more intention. I built a plan. I followed it. Rainy long runs, tempo days, recovery jogs through quiet streets. I was no longer just trying to finish, I was trying to grow.

And then, suddenly, it was May 4th. My birthday. My first official half marathon. The big one.

I lined up at the Queen Elizabeth Park start with nerves in my throat and adrenaline in my fingertips. I had trained, yes, but I still wasn’t sure what kind of day it would be. Races are unpredictable. Bodies are unpredictable. But something deep inside me believed I had more to give than I’d ever given before.

And I did.

1:52. My final time. I crushed my personal best by a full 20 minutes. I crossed that finish line with nothing left in the tank and everything in the heart. I smiled. I might’ve cried. I felt something crack open within my mentality, something I didn’t even know was still closed.

Because this race wasn’t just a birthday run or a fitness goal. It was the culmination of every early morning, every long kilometre, every quiet run through foreign streets where I wondered if I was even cut out for this.

It was proof that I was. And am ready to be the person I want to be.

Running, somehow, has reshaped the way I see challenge. It’s not just about finish lines. It’s about showing up, again and again, when no one’s watching and when everyone is. It’s about finding peace in discomfort, and belonging in the motion. It’s about realizing that progress isn’t always fast, but it’s always possible. At least that's the message I found true for myself.

Now I'm signed up for my next race on June 22. I’m no longer the person who signed up for that first run on impulse. I’m someone who’s run across countries (small ones like Bermuda for now), through low lows, into the highest of highs. I don’t just run now. I am a runner.

And never have I been more proud to be able to say that.

moments after I cross the BMO Half Finish Line