“Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.”
“The most important thing we ever learn in life is how to keep going.”
- Haruki Murakami, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running.
There are sanctuaries where I lose myself, where the world blurs into a soft hum and I am untethered, free. Writing and reading, of course, are the steady flames—ink spilling like a river over the page, words unfurling like petals in my mind. But there is another, a wilder refuge: running. It’s a solitary dance, a rhythm of breath and earth, where my oldest companion joins me, stride for stride. He is my shadow self, my imaginary friend, born in the dust of a sixth-grade 5K when I claimed second place with a week’s worth of grit. Since then, he’s aged alongside me, a faithful echo through the years, and in his company, I dissolve into the act of running—me, him, and the open road.
He’s there at dawn’s first light or under the moon’s quiet gaze, a friend who asks no questions, who listens when my lungs burn or my belly groans from a meal too recent. Together, we face the incline’s stern challenge—he grunts at the sight of it, then grins, whispering, “Race you to the bottom,” as we crest the peak. Down we go, strides lengthening, momentum a wind at our backs, carrying us like leaves on a current. Other days, we’re quieter souls, hoodies up, eyes tracing cracks in the pavement, wandering in companionable silence. No need for words—just the steady thrum of feet, the pulse of being.
He’s been with me through it all—life’s sharp turns, its heavy seasons. I see him still, that younger self, wild with a fire for living, tearing out too fast, chasing the horizon. I see him at mile 21, blistered and breaking, lactic acid clawing at his legs, yet refusing to yield. He’s slower now, as I am, but he never stops. Grayer, perhaps, in the mirror of my mind, but steadfast. Running is where I close the door on the world and step into his presence, this truest friend who knows me as I know myself. In that space, I am renewed, lighter, whole.


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