Republish: How Running and a Walking Pad Saved My Sanity (Again)
What does running, lesbianism, and orthorexia have in common? Me, apparently.
In our busy, often overwhelming lives, hobbies tend to slip through the cracks. Work, endless responsibilities, and the soul-sucking grind of just keeping it together leave little room for the simple activities that once brought us joy. But there’s something magical—profoundly refreshing—about dusting off an old pastime or diving into something new. Recently, I’ve found myself reconnecting with a long-neglected love: running.
This year has been a circus of distractions and major life events. I’ve been saving (read: sacrificing morning coffees, bailing on friends, etc.) to buy a place in NYC, navigating the wild waters of dating, and—oh yes—stumbling into a serious relationship just two months after a breakup that left me emotionally bulldozed. Amid all this chaos, I’ve been asking myself: What makes me, me?
And while I might not have everything about myself figured out, I have discovered that at my core… I’m a runner.
"The most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you find someone to love the you you love, well, that's just fabulous." -Carrie Bradshaw
In college, exercise was less about joy and more about control.
I have orthorexia—a vicious loop of calorie restriction and obsessive exercise that sometimes feels less like wellness and more like a prison sentence. In college, I was at my worst. I’d wake up with insane exercise goals and subsist solely off of one packet of ramen a day. Five miles one day, seven the next, then ten. No breaks, no excuses. For me, it wasn’t exercise; it was punishment for not being perfect.
In college, especially during my junior year, I was going out excessively. Every night, I had to go out to another party. I’d meet up with friends and have what seemed a like an amazing night. But inside, I felt so empty. And afraid.
When you go out, you drink. And drinking just meant that there were always more calories to burn.
I’d wake up early after a night out, severely hungover, to go walk my dogs for two miles. And then I’d come home, wash my face, and excessively hula hoop for hours before going for a run again. I was praised excessively for how skinny I looked, and the praise egged me on.
But then came the pandemic.
One of my best friends, an excellent chef, had gotten displaced from his campus housing and became my quarantine buddy. And soon after, a much-needed shift in my relationship with food occurred. We only lived together for a short amount of time, but his influence changed me for the better. I was being more conscious of what I ate and attempted to feign normalcy with food so much that I developed it.
He also ran. A lot.
But the thing about him that always stood out, was his willingness to rest. After running what seemed like insane amounts to me, he’d come home and make himself a snack. He’d lounge on a sofa or go out briefly to interact with friends in our pod. We didn’t live together for very long, but the short overlap affected me a ton. And when he moved away, I didn’t relapse into old habits: eating or running wise.
A year later, I moved back to NYC. My perspective on exercise had softened over the year away from home. It was no longer something that I needed to do to maintain my small physique. Rather running became my solace—not an obligation but an escape from the everyday obligations of life. For two years, I ran for the love of it, finding peace in the rhythm of my feet against the pavement.
But, as it often does, life threw a wrench in my routine.
First came the situationships. Oh, the emotional whirlpools of undefined almost-relationships. One involved someone recovering from a traumatic accident. Another was fresh out of a four-year relationship. Spoiler alert: neither was ready for anything real, and I was too busy chasing ghosts to lace up my running shoes.
Between both situation, I bounced between dating apps and sporadically ran on lunch breaks while working at a college library. And then came the doozy.
A year-long relationship with a Spanish pianist that could double as a telenovela. The ending? Dramatic, abrupt, and devastating. When that romance ended in June 2024 (lesbophobic, is that not?), I crumbled. I spent the summer indoors, binge-watching shows and feeling utterly unmoored.
Then TikTok entered the chat.
One day, as I scrolled aimlessly, the algorithm hit me with a video featuring my ex’s voice. Was that… her pants? My heart clenched. We’d barely spoken since the breakup, aside from her text lamenting how “miserable” she’d been when I contacted her in attempt to have her roommates give me back some stuff. Yet there she was, carefree and thriving. And with someone new!
Something in me snapped.
Anger surged—a rare, revitalizing burst of emotion. I was done wallowing.
Running had once been my therapy, my sanctuary; even if short-lived. I realized it was time to reclaim it—not for revenge, not to prove anything, but for me.
Ironically, inspiration came from my ex’s new flame. Her TikToks prior to my ex had be centered all around her “celibacy runs.” Those, of course stopped, after she met her. And while I didn’t aspire to emulate her lifestyle, the idea of running as self-care struck a chord.
Starting again wasn’t easy. I wasn’t the mile-crushing, endorphin-fueled runner I used to be and I was terrified to fall back into disordered habits.
To ease back in, I invested in a walking pad for my office—a compact treadmill that lets me sneak in steps between emails and meetings. Slowly, the joy of movement returned. For a few moments everyday, I’d zone out and grab a book and walk. It started with a strut, and then a saunter, and after a few months and towards the end of the summer; a run.
The walking pad has been my gateway back to outdoor runs. My distances are modest, but every step feels like a triumph. The mental clarity, the rush of accomplishment—it’s all coming back, piece by piece.
Running again feels like reclaiming a part of myself I’d lost. It’s not about my ex, her girlfriend, or the messy timeline of who-dated-who (and what overlap definitely existed). It’s about me—my health, my joy, my balance.
And as for my ex and her new fling? They’ve already broken up. In typical ASB fashion, she became overbearing… very quickly. The poor girl posted that my ex soon became violent, stalking her lives, begging her to see her again. It feels bittersweet. I’m thriving in a new relationship, my Hokas are breaking in beautifully, and my walking pad gets daily love. Meanwhile, my ex’s new ex seems to be stepping into her own storm.
All of that is to say, reclaiming old hobbies—and ourselves—isn’t linear. It’s messy, full of false starts and awkward steps. But each stride is worth it. Whether it’s running, painting, or picking up the guitar you abandoned years ago, hobbies have a way of reminding us who we are.
So here’s to moving forward, one step at a time. And maybe for my ex’s ex, she’ll find solace in running again too.