No one loves running. Even runners don’t love running. I have the right to say this as a runner who is trying to break the barrier back into the long-distance running community. Waking up early. Having to sacrifice hours of doom-scrolling late at night. No one wants to give that up. My screen-time can probably tell you that. I bet you that even those running girl influencers you see in those adorable free people sets, don’t always want to get up and run. But it’s routine. The run itself isn’t always what feels amazing-it’s what comes after. Running changes you before you realize it.  

I’ve been running since the fourth grade, but I am no pro-runner. Trust me, I took many, many breaks in between those years to now. I only did it because my dad would pressure me into it. Him being an ultra-marathon runner and wanting me to be just like him. I did like it in the beginning, but then the pressure on little me became too much. All the pressure sucked the fun right out of it. I started getting back into running around the seventh grade, then took a break. 

The summer going into eighth grade, everything changed. I ran six miles around my middle school track because I was having a terrible day and needed to do something to get my mind off it. When I finished, it was pitch black. Only a few stars peeked through the light-polluted sky. But I loved it. Not the run—that was hell. I loved how I felt afterward. I felt unstoppable, like I could do anything. So, I continued to chase after that feeling. 

I started my days earlier. Alarms at 7 A.M. became 5 A.M. and bedtimes of 12-1 A.M. became 9-10 P.M. My schedule started to change and I started to grow rapidly more and more excited simply to wake up. Not only to run, but the feeling of breathing in the fresh air before anyone else. Feeling like the world is only yours for that little amount of time. It was refreshing. I returned home at 7 A.M. already feeling accomplished. Constant thoughts of.. wow, it’s only 7 A.M. and I already ran 9 miles. I’ve done something that most people haven’t done all their lives. As I started to run longer and farther distances, I asked my dad to sign me up for the Orange County Marathon. Until October, when my father and I got into an argument. I tried to train by myself but it was difficult. Before, my dad would be there with me on my long runs. He’d support me and wake me up when I had those days when I didn’t want to run. He’d take me out for fast-food the night before long runs. He would take me shopping for running clothes and text me every morning while I got ready for school, telling me how proud he was. During this time, I felt like his favorite person. All of that changed when we got into this fight. As I tried to keep on training,  I slowly started to give up and then I fell out of my routine. My watch went from celebrating 56,000 step days to 10,000… then barely 5,000. I spent four months not running at all, and lost those four months of training I knew I was not going to get back. Around February, my dad and I made up. We started training again but we knew we were so short on time. Only 2-3 months until race day. At the time, I truly believed that I screwed myself over. He didn’t believe in me, but I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t even believe in myself. As we’d train, I fell back into my routine. I may have not looked the same, back into my naturally chunky build and my abs were long gone, but I was training harder than ever. By race day, I was terrified. My milestone had just become 18 miles as of a week ago. I had to wing the last 8.2 miles. I didn’t think I would have it in me. The thought drove me insane, that I would come home a failure. I had the intention to go into this race, only to finish it, to get it over with, even if I walked half. By mile 18, I knew I would not allow myself to walk. I’ve gotten this far so I knew I had this in me. Mile 22, I started to cry. Not because of the pain in my body but because I never thought I’d make it this far. I sucked up my tears, it was almost over. All I had to do was push myself. Everything started to burn but I didn’t allow myself to stop. Plus, once I started walking, I’d probably crumble into the ground. Every single part of me ached, but I knew if I stopped it would hurt more. I finished the race and earned that medal. It was strange. The pain disappeared almost instantly, as if my body had forgotten the last twenty-six miles. Eighth grader me completed the Orange County Marathon without stopping once. Crazy right?

After the race, when I got home that’s when everything started to kick in. Standing in the shower felt like too much on my feet, trying to sit on the couch was a challenge. Now I am going into the tenth grade, still trying to figure out how I did that? The Long Beach Marathon is coming up, and I will complete it. I just don’t know how. Training obviously, but so far it has not been going so great. I know eighth-grade me would’ve been able to do it. In all honesty, I know that I don’t really care for the medal. It’s nice, and looks really good on my wall but the real prize that I’m trying to earn is my old self back. I knew what I wanted and I worked for it. I made promises to myself that I kept no matter what. “I’m going to run 9 miles tomorrow”, and so I did. I was full of so much ambition and promise. Promising myself to run 2 miles is a challenge now, or just waking up before 9 A.M. Plus, I was much tanner, healthier, and I had abs! I was a go-getter, and I know that girl is still inside of me. 

Currently, I do not speak to my father and haven’t for a good seven months now. It is so much more difficult to train by yourself. Other than all the times being yelled at on my runs and wiping away the tears as I ran, it was fun to run with him. I know my love for running isn’t rooted in him. My love for this sport came from me, no one else. I know that my success in running only depends on myself and how hard I choose to work for it. Grieving an older version of yourself hurts more than most people would realize. People always say, “Just become that person again.” But, it’s not that easy. Still, I think when we move past that version of us, we leave something behind. The discipline. The ambition. The courage. Those things don’t disappear—they wait for us. The girl who woke up at 5 A.M. and ran nine miles before school isn’t gone. She’s still me. I just have to find my way back to her.