I dislike running. I don’t use the word “hate” because it implies negativity and a sense of permanency that I don’t think anyone should use to label anything. Dislike though, we will go with that term because I’ll do it but I do not necessarily enjoy it. I never achieved that “runners high” or euphoric feeling that makes you feel light on your toes and want to keep going, but I don’t stop running just because I don’t like it or am not good at it.
I also don’t stop running from things in life. I actually just realized I had been running a lot. I probably ran a few marathons, some relays around a track, up some hills and easily down, but back up again. I flew to California and Israel and home and then back again. From what? I don’t know, well I might know. I might know a lot more than I think but there are also layers upon layers to peel back. I haven’t dug that deep yet. Could it be fear? Of happiness? of commitment? of change? of settling? of others? of myself?….who knows but I ran.
And I didn’t realize I was running until I turned around and came back.