A particular kind of misery comes with starting a new habit, especially when it’s physical. Let’s talk about running.
We’ve all seen those fitness influencers, gleaming with post-run glow, and of course, they’re kitted out in the trendiest gear — Bluetooth earphones pumping motivation, fancy shoes promising to support every step, tracking apps counting every calorie burned. They make it look effortless, almost enjoyable because that is their goal.
So, like many people, and after hitting the new lows, I set out with a hope — a rather naïve hope, in hindsight — that I, too, would eventually enjoy running. You know, get that “runner’s high” everyone raves about, feel that rush of endorphins, and become one of those people who craves their next run.
But here’s a truth that doesn’t get enough airtime: You might never enjoy running. In fact, you might hate it every single time. And that’s okay.
Starting is Brutal. obviously.
The first time I went for a run, it was excruciating. Gasping for air, my heart pounding, my legs heavy like they belonged to someone else, I kept questioning, “Why am I doing this to myself?” The sweat dripped from everywhere, and that strange metallic taste crept into my mouth. If you’ve been there, you know exactly what I’m talking about. It tastes like the metallic smell you get on transport buses in Himachal, IYKYK.
And yet, there’s a lingering question that nags at you in those moments of pain: Will I ever start to like this?
Maybe you’ve asked that question yourself, holding onto the hope that one day, after enough runs, it will just click. But if you’re waiting for that magical moment where running feels like joy, let me be blunt — it might never happen. And maybe that’s not the point.
When I started running, I made a rule: no phone, no music, no distractions. I figured if I was going to hate it, I might as well face the discomfort head-on. But there’s something else that I hadn’t anticipated.
My running route takes me through rural areas — fields dotted with buffaloes, the earthy smell of manure, village homes slowly waking up with the sunrise. The sounds of life are all around, but it’s a different life than the one I usually see. It’s quiet, raw, and beautiful in its own way.
While I could easily distract myself with a podcast or music, I chose not to. There’s something grounding about just being present in the moment, even when that moment is filled with the ache of every step. I’m not running on sleek city streets or manicured parks, and maybe that’s why it feels different. The mud on my shoes, the early morning sounds of animals, and the occasional nod from a villager — it connects me to something more real, more human. It’s not pretty or comfortable, but it feels honest.
The Myth of Enjoyment
Today’s world romanticizes enjoyment. If we don’t like something, we want to quit. If something feels hard, there’s an underlying expectation that it will eventually get easier, or at least more fun. But after munching a few hundred kilometres over the past couple of months I have realised that not everything has to be enjoyable to be worthwhile.
Sure, some people find joy in their morning runs or in the likes they get on Twitter after sharing their stats. They thrive on the data from their fitness trackers, the playlists curated to give them a rhythm, and the apps cheering them on. And that’s great for them. But for me, it’s never been about that.
Running, for me, isn’t about joy. It’s about resilience. It’s about showing up.
Meaning in Discomfort
We spend so much of our lives chasing enjoyment, seeking out experiences that will give us that dopamine hit. But sometimes, the value of something isn’t in how it makes us feel in the moment, but in what it teaches us over time.
Every run reminds me of my limitations, but it also shows me my capacity to push through discomfort. In a world that often feels overwhelming, with constant distractions and noise, those quiet, painful moments of running have become a form of clarity for me.
It’s not that I’ve learned to love running, but I’ve learned to value what it gives me. A sense of solitude, a connection to my surroundings, and that metallic aftertaste in my mouth. jk. It’s a reminder that even when things are hard, I can keep going.
We’re conditioned to believe that success means enjoyment, that if something doesn’t feel good, we’re doing it wrong. I think it’s the wrong way to look at things.
Running hasn’t brought me joy in the traditional sense, but it’s given me a deeper understanding of myself. It’s made me intentional about how I spend my time, and it’s shown me that discomfort isn’t something to be feared. It’s something to be embraced, because it’s in those uncomfortable moments that we grow.
If you’re waiting for the day you’ll wake up and love running, I’m sorry to disappoint you. That day might never come. But maybe, just maybe, that’s not the point.
Because sometimes the hardest things are the ones that teach us the most.
