I started running three years ago, not because I wanted to get fit, but because I needed to clear my head. I was going through a stressful time at work, and a colleague suggested that exercise might help me manage the anxiety I was feeling. I had never been a sporty person, so the idea of running seemed almost ridiculous. But I had tried everything else, so I laced up an old pair of trainers and went out one evening.
That first run lasted about eight minutes. I was out of breath, my legs hurt, and I seriously considered never doing it again. But something small happened as I walked home afterwards — I noticed that the tight feeling in my chest, the one I carried around all day, had gone. For the first time in weeks, my mind felt quiet.
So I kept going. At first, I could only manage short distances, and I had to stop and walk several times. But after a few weeks, I was running for twenty minutes without stopping. After two months, I completed my first five-kilometre run. It wasn't fast, but I didn't care. The achievement felt enormous.
The run I remember most clearly, however, was on a cold Tuesday evening in November. It had been pouring with rain all day, and every sensible part of me said to stay indoors. But I put on my jacket and went anyway. Within minutes, I was completely soaked. And then something unexpected happened — I started laughing. Running through the rain with water streaming down my face, I felt completely free. There was nobody watching, nobody judging, just me and the empty streets.
That evening changed my relationship with running. I stopped seeing it as something I had to do and started seeing it as something I wanted to do. Rain or shine, early morning or late at night, running had become the part of my day that belonged entirely to me.