Oh ladies, I can’t lie. No matter how differently it ended up, it totally began with losing weight. I can pinpoint the moment: my sister’s wedding photos. It had been a joyful day, and I wouldn't have changed a second of it, but the ‘me’ in those pictures was not the ‘me’ that existed in my head. She was bigger. Something had to be done.
I had always dreamed of being a runner. But as strong as my desire to be ‘one of those’ women leaping through the park was, I was equally sure that I was ‘not a runner’. I was clumsy, curvy, the girl who’d make a joke during games at school to avoid being picked last for the team again. We were two separate breeds: sporty women and other women. I was the latter.
My conviction had been strengthened by my disastrous initial attempt at running earlier that summer. I had not reached the end of my road before stopping to lean against a lamppost, drenched in sweat, my chest heaving. The humiliation had been too great, the pain too intense, the thought of who might see me too all consuming. I wasn't a runner, and that made me sad.
But, as I said, that wasn't how it ended up. Yes, I lost weight. But it was the psychological weight I lost that was the heaviest. Because, as I got a little slimmer, I realised that running was giving me more confidence in my body than simply having less of it could ever do. Sure, I had not been obese before, and I'm still a size 10 only on a pretty good week, but since I discovered running I know myself so much more. And I know what I can do.
My bum is no longer a source of shame, to be sighed at when I try on trousers with a face filled with regret – it’s a powerful muscle group that I have worked and worked at to get me up hills, round lakes and across shorelines. Skinny jeans could never make me happy the way that having the strength to run past the Golden Gate Bridge at dawn, surrounded by inspiring women did (as happened at the Nike Women’s Marathon 2 years ago). And slimmed down arms don’t look nearly as good in photos as picking up my baby niece or nephew and flying them around the room for hours on end feels.
The more miles I covered, the more pairs of trainers I wore smooth from tarmac, the more medals that hang in my bathroom, the more I appreciate that my body is mine, for me to use as I see fit. Of course it’s a delicious bonus that I can eat with gusto after a long run, but the real treat has been in feeling the gaze slowly shift.
What began as being about how I look is now about what I see.
Of course I still paint my nails before a big event and I can spend hours ogling new running tights online, but now I run not to impress more but to see more. I have taught myself the back roads of Brighton, my new home city, learning what the best time to see a murmuration over the pier is, which grand Regency Terraces I can peer into at dusk, and the names of the local dogs as they take a morning walk.
Each view across the South Downs, or London Parks or New York’s rivers I achieve because of running, I am thankful that this whole journey didn't end with what my body appeared to be to others.
Physical inactivity is currently a greater threat to health than smoking and obesity combined, and too many of us are fearful to get involved because of a cutting comment from a teenager on a park bench, an indiscreet glance from a flabby old man or a tactless sportswear sales assistant. I have encountered all of these and I know what one of those shards of self doubt feels like when you’re already dreading doing something.
But the glow of conquering these fleeting moments lasts so much longer. Running taught me this, and it is why every time I run, I feel I've won my own race.
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Running like a girl: how I won my own race
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