Relentless Rhythm

On Writing with a Running Mindset

It started with one steady foot in front of the other. A nightly solo walk. I don’t know why exactly, but at some point, I got curious, and dared myself to run one short lap just to see what would happen; to see if I could do it. 

And I could. So the next night, I did it again. Eventually, one lap turned into two, then three, then four, until my daily strolls under the moon morphed into out of breath runs in a sleepy suburb. I guess I became a runner by accident.

Before that, I always hated running. It was a miracle I managed to go from being an asthmatic who couldn’t jog a single mile to eagerly knocking out 6 of them nightly. By that point, even after hours on campus spent sitting in long lectures, holed up in the library writing sociology papers or solving phonetic problem sets, I only craved one thing: to push my limbs off pavement.

I’d love to say there was only calm and clarity during those runs, as if it was all a beautiful ease. That wasn’t the case. It was mostly a constant mental wrestling with loudness and pain, but it eventually melted through the movement. If I kept running, I’d hit a rhythmic moment of golden quiet.

But it took repeated bargains with myself to get to that point. I ran to the mental chorus of just one more lap. And when my calves burned or the rest of my body hurt, or I felt embarrassed and exhausted by my efforts, I didn’t quit. That felt pathetic. I didn’t like disappointing myself. So I quickly learned to rest and walk, but then get right back to it. When I felt myself getting wheezy, I’d slow down and steady myself. I’d take care of myself and then keep going. I did what I needed to do even if it was imperfect.

There were no shortcuts to improvement. I showed up again and again and put in the work. Whether it was cold out, or I was busy and drained, or even annoyed with the constant questions from my roommates around why I was running late at night in the first place, I shut it all out and focused on myself. Once I had momentum, I ran with it. The process was worth it. Those runs brought out a relentlessness in me. It was weirdly primal, but the thing is, it was never about beating anyone, or impressing anyone, or anything like that.

It was just about me. I ran alone in the quiet to be with myself. I’d go into myself and tune everyone else out. It was me confronting myself, challenging myself, trying to be better than myself to bring out the best in myself. And it was all from a place of love. The challenges were all mine, the subtle and gradual growth was all mine, and the highs like the lows were all mine too. The joy it gave me was intrinsic. I was obsessed with the possibility of seeing what I could do, my commitment, and my own ability to follow-through. That’s what fueled me. 

These days, I no longer run. But recently, in zooming-out and reflecting, I’ve realized how much that same desire to confront and challenge myself is still alive in me. Instead of one foot in front of the other, I find I’m tapping into my old running mindset when I’m putting one word in front of the other. The mental wrestling when I’m writing is just as loud, some days louder, but that same relentlessness still quietly flickers in me.

That relentlessness shows up when I show up. So I keep showing up. Both privately, and publicly here. Alone, a different kind of mental chorus plays that helps me through, but it all feels similar. The work is irrelevant in the sense that I know it’s a requirement, and I relish it. 

And though I’m not pushing off pavement, but pushing around words, I’m still going into myself and tuning everyone else out. I don’t worry about what anyone else is doing or how they’re doing it or what they think. And I’m still doing what I need to do even if it’s imperfect, actually, especially when it’s imperfect.

Maybe I started running by accident, but I’m writing with purpose. And the challenges are all mine, the subtle and gradual growth is all mine, and the highs like the lows are all mine too. But it is all love. And when I hit that rhythmic moment of golden quiet, my god, it feels good. 

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Stay Tender,

Sandra