Normal Person Running
Running Like a Normal Person: Why I Lace Up Even When I’d Rather Sit Down
I’m not a runner. At least not the kind that gets featured in glossy fitness magazines or logs a “recovery 10K” before breakfast. I don’t have a personal best to beat or a strict training schedule taped to the fridge. I don’t carb-load. I don’t own fancy running gear that costs more than my monthly grocery bill. I don’t even know what pace I run at, to be honest.
But I run. I run in old sneakers with socks that sometimes slide down into my shoes. I run with music in one earbud and traffic in the other. I run after work when I’m tired, or before work when I’m even more tired. I run not because I love every step but because something inside me shifts when I do. And that’s enough.
This is a blog post for the rest of us: the normal runners.
The Start is Always the Hardest Part
There’s a weird mental negotiation that happens every time I think about running. First, there's the voice that says, “Let’s just skip today. It’s cold. Or hot. Or rainy. Or sunny in a way you don’t like.” That voice is a professional at making excuses. And honestly? Sometimes it wins. But most of the time, I find myself putting on my shoes anyway. And here’s the funny part—getting dressed for a run takes more willpower than the actual running.
The moment I step outside, I feel a small shift. It's not a huge burst of motivation or a cinematic swell of inspiration—it’s more like a quiet click, like a gear finding its place. The world feels slightly more manageable. That feeling—small as it is—is what keeps me coming back.
I’m Not Fast. But I Go.
I’ve been passed by kids, dogs, senior citizens, and once, memorably, by a woman running backwards. I’m not out here setting records. Sometimes my run looks like a brisk walk with a determined facial expression. But movement is movement. And moving my body—no matter the speed—reminds me that I’m alive. That I’m trying.
I used to be embarrassed by how slow I was. I’d pick routes where no one could see me. I’d pretend to be walking if I saw someone approaching. But over time, I’ve come to realize that nobody cares. Truly. Other people are in their own heads, their own stories. And even if they do notice me jogging awkwardly down the sidewalk like a confused penguin, so what? I’m doing it.
The Thoughts That Come With the Miles
One of the best (and weirdest) parts of running is the mental chatter. Sometimes I solve problems while running—real ones, like how to deal with a work conflict or what to make for dinner. Other times, my brain decides to make a playlist of every embarrassing thing I’ve ever done, from that one time in sixth grade to yesterday’s Zoom call.
But then there are the golden runs—the ones where the thoughts melt away, where my breathing syncs with the rhythm of my feet and I lose track of the miles. Those runs are rare, but they’re magic.
No, I Don’t Always Enjoy It
There’s a myth that all runners love running. I do not. Sometimes I hate it. Sometimes I spend the entire run counting the seconds until it’s over. Sometimes I stop halfway through because my legs feel like wet sandbags and my motivation has vanished like a sock in the laundry.
But I always feel better after. Not euphoric. Not transformed. Just...better. My shoulders relax. My thoughts settle. I stand a little taller. I sleep a little deeper. That’s the real reward.
Gear, Gadgets, and Real-Life Running
I own exactly one pair of running shoes at a time. I buy them on sale and keep them until holes appear. I’ve never tracked my cadence. I don’t fuel with goo packets. I drink water from the kitchen sink and sometimes I run in cotton shirts that were free from events I didn’t even attend.
Running as a normal person means doing it imperfectly. It means running in mismatched clothes, forgetting to stretch, and sometimes choosing a nap over a jog. And it’s still valid.
Injuries, Breaks, and Coming Back
At some point, I stopped running for several months. Life got busy, my knees ached, and winter came hard and fast. I figured I’d just start again when the stars aligned.
Spoiler: the stars rarely align.
Eventually, I started again not because it was convenient but because I missed how I felt when I was running. The first run back was awful. My lungs burned, my legs protested, and I seriously questioned every decision that led me to that moment.
But the second run was a little easier. And the third was...almost enjoyable. It reminded me that running doesn’t require perfection—it just requires starting again.
Why I Keep Going
So, why do I do it?
I run because it gives me a sense of ownership over my body. Because it helps me process emotions I can’t put into words. Because it’s one of the few times I feel truly present in my own skin. I run because I want to be a person who moves forward, even slowly.
I don’t have a six-pack. I don’t share my runs on Instagram. I don’t have a training plan. But I have a path I follow, a pair of sneakers that still get the job done, and a stubborn belief that moving matters.
If You’re Thinking of Starting
If you’ve never run before, or if it’s been years, or if you’ve tried and hated it—let me say this: you don’t have to run like a runner. You can run like you.
Run-walk. Shuffle. Jog with your dog. Run for 30 seconds and walk for five minutes. Wear what you have. Go as slow as you need. Just move.
You don’t need to be fast. You don’t need to be thin. You don’t need to be motivated every day. You just need a pair of shoes and the willingness to try.
Final Thoughts
Running as a normal person is messy, inconsistent, and often unglamorous. But it’s real. It’s raw. And for many of us, it’s a way to reconnect—with our breath, with our thoughts, with our bodies. Not to win medals or break records, but to show up. To take one more step forward, even when we don’t feel like it.
And sometimes, that’s more than enough.
