Reviewed by Dietitian Katey Davidson, M.Sc.FN, RD, CPT
Credit: Design elements: Getty Images. EatingWell design.
Key Points
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A lifelong runner shares how chasing thinness led to burnout.
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After a decade away, running looks very different the second time around.
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Ten weeks of running brings plenty of challenges, surprises and small wins.
In my mid-20s, I had a running contract. No, I wasn’t a professional athlete. This contract existed only in my mind. The deal? I would run, run, run my hardest. In return, running would make me seem cool. Running would make me seem tough. And most of all, running would make me thin.
I ran when it was below zero—blizzards be damned. I ran through shin splints and stress fractures. I was all in, and I assumed running would be, too. But only one of us kept up their end of the bargain. After nearly 10 years, I hung up my size XXL tights for good—or so I thought.
My Journey to Burnout
I started running for the healthiest of reasons. I was a stressed-out graduate student who never got outside. But a branch of the Running Room, a popular Canadian running store, sat near campus. Their learn-to-run course promised that anyone could finish the program “upright and smiling.” That positivity was exactly what I needed.
While I was large, awkward and terrified of sports, I persevered and I genuinely enjoyed it. As I slowly completed my practice runs along a woodland path, being in nature proved to be an unexpected balm, and my progress was so encouraging that I signed up for a Santa Shuffle charity run.
Let me tell you, doing your first road race in mid-December in Canada isn’t for the faint of heart. But I liked how it made me feel. So much so that when I moved to a new city a few months later and noticed a Running Room nearby, I signed up for another clinic and slowly tackled 5- and 10-kilometer (3- to 6-mile) runs. Two and a half years after that first Santa Shuffle, I ran a full marathon. Despite this, I still somehow felt like I was failing.
Here’s the thing. I didn’t start running long distances to lose weight, but I still believed that thinness would inevitably come. I mean, how often do you see an overweight marathoner? This had to be the solution for my lifelong quest for slimness and became my new reason for running. So, even though I was getting better at running, it wasn’t enough. This led me to double down on my identity as a runner and create an iron-clad contract in my mind. I never missed a scheduled run. I signed up for every event. I even became a running clinic leader.
However, I wasn’t healthy. I was sore and banged up. Parts of me were literally broken (you’d think having stress fractures multiple times would be a red flag I’d pay attention to). I had no energy or motivation for anything else. I shifted my diet, embracing points-based eating programs that awarded bonuses based on your exercise. I even tried training on an ultra-low-carb diet, which went about as well as you might expect. Running gave me adventure, friendship and strength, but it failed to deliver on the one thing I asked of it. I was still, more or less, about the same size as when I had started. And that’s all that seemed to matter.
This obsession led me to complete burnout. In fact, I couldn’t even remember why I started running in the first place. It was time for a break. A 10-year break, to be exact.
The 10-Year Break
Instead of the running path, I slowly found myself on a path to self-acceptance as I transitioned into middle age. Say what you like about the perils of middle age, but it definitely offers up some perspective on what really matters. Things which once felt so important, like body shape and size, now feel downright silly.
Ten years in, strength and stress reduction are my priorities now, and I’ve been embracing yoga, aqua fitness and forest bathing. For upward of a decade, running was not part of my fitness routine, and it only recently crossed my mind when I started seeing some unexpected content on my social media feed.
Social media is normally the last place I’d expect to find body-positive content. But after stumbling across down-to-earth accounts that encouraged running for people in midlife—size be damned—it had me rethinking my relationship with the sport and myself.
These accounts gave the proverbial middle finger to aging stereotypes and diet culture. They posted about feeling good and building bone density—something that becomes increasingly important with age. They talked about thriving. Most of all, they all seemed to be having fun. And after I’d been enjoying this content for some time, a tiny voice started whispering in my head, That could be me.
So, after a much-needed—perhaps longer than planned—running break, I’ve decided to start running again.
I’ve got a new pair of pretty lavender sneakers, and I’m ready to get started. This time around, I’m going to take a different approach. One that is gentle, balanced and slow. Well, maybe not too slow.
My 10-Week Running Journey
The Santa Shuffle is in a few months, so it’s the perfect time to start training. My plan is to follow most of the Running Room schedule from the learn-to-run clinics, starting with a rhythm of running for one minute, then walking for one minute, until I’ve done 20 minutes of exercise. Each week, I’ll increase the running portion by a minute, steadily building toward running for two 10-minute reps in a row.
I’ve decided to journal my experience to remind myself of my progress and honestly vent a bit. Getting my feelings out—good or bad—is part of the experience.
I’m excited to run again. Week 1 should be a breeze.
Week 1
I feel like an idiot. I forgot that the community center’s main entrance is closed for renovations, so I had to march around the building, use the side door and trudge past the skating rink and swimming pool before I even reached the gym. Then, I had to go up a flight of stairs to find the treadmill area. I’m out of breath, sweaty and frustrated before I’ve even started.
Despite my forced warmup, I’m on the treadmill and I’m moving slowly …painstakingly slowly. I’m walking for a good five minutes before I feel anything loosen up.
And screw what I said about Week 1 being a breeze. It’s not. It’s humbling. And it’s uncomfortable. Since when do my knees make noise like that?
However, I keep going and by the time I reach my cool-down walk, I’ve done about 30 minutes of sweaty exercise. It feels like I had a workout. It feels GOOD.
I kept a journal during my first learn-to-run clinic, too. On October 8, 2003, I wrote: “The running in my life is so, so positive in every way. It’s really amazing how much things have improved—it’s really fantastic.” I vow to take this energy with me on every run.
Week 2
The cinderblock walls of my community center gym are plastered with motivational posters, equipment usage rules and charts detailing fitness metrics. Spend enough time on the treadmill and, eventually, you’ll start reading them all. I’m rather pleased when I notice that my heart rate is sitting right in the middle of its optimal zone, as per the chart in front of me. Go me! I’m so giddy with my progress that I jump ahead and start running for three minutes at a time.
Then I realize that the chart in question is showcasing heart rates for those aged 75 to 90 … and I’m 46.
Maybe this isn’t going so well after all.
Week 3
I have a bad cold, and I can barely breathe, let alone run. I’m both giddy with relief that I can skip some workouts and slightly panicked that I’ve fallen off the running wagon.
Week 4
A trio of older men frequent the community center gym at the same time as me, early on Saturday mornings. This weekend workout is clearly a longstanding tradition for them. Maybe they’re who the special heart rate chart is for?
To be honest, I find myself resenting them a bit. They’re annoyingly fit. And I’m judging their casual collection of shirts from various community festivals and activities. Who just throws on any old shirt and goes to the gym? Just getting dressed to run feels like exercise to me, and I have precisely one shirt—a high-tech, moisture-wicking one—which works with my straitjacket of a sports bra.
I’m winded as I try to run my four-minute reps before taking a break. It takes a lot of encouraging self-talk to remind myself that this is a new me who is taking a new approach and rest is allowed.
While the initial optimism is fleeting, I’m trying to stay positive—but it’s a work in progress.
Week 5
As I trudge into the community center, some toddlers from the children’s program sprint past me like they’re trying to prove a point. I get it! You can run, laugh and scream all at the same time. We’ll see just how smug you are in four decades—wow, nice mood I’m in.
I jam my earbuds in and listen to Florence and the Machine, stomping more than running. My run is long over when I realize that I have reached the half-way point of my running plan. Who’s laughing now, kids?
Week 6
Have my feet always turned outward?
My usual treadmill is taken, occupied by someone I’ve never seen before, so I use a machine at the front by the mirrors in the old gents’ territory. I can see my every step and it’s abundantly clear that the gait which feels most natural to me is undeniably that of a penguin. I run with my feet turned out. This is no doubt a key reason my right hip bothered me when I started running 20 years ago and why it’s bothering me now, as I waddle toward six-minute reps. Maybe I should visit a physical therapist.
Despite this, I’m proud of the progress I’m making.
There’s another thing I’m noticing: Other areas of fitness are also improving. I’ve been running before my usual yoga class, and I noticed something unexpected. Getting in that warmup before yoga has taken my practice to a whole new level. I’m sinking into postures further, getting more reach in tricky positions like “triangle.”
It doesn’t sound like much, but it marks a significant turning point in my relationship with exercise. I’m not running to try to change my body shape and then turning to yoga to repair the damage I’ve done. The two activities are working together.
I leave the gym satisfied, thinking of pigeon pose and not penguin feet. Looks like I’m slowly making mental progress, too.
Week 7
There’s a 2021 sports documentary about legendary runner Eliud Kipchoge called Kipchoge: The Last Milestone, which follows his journey to become the first person to run a sub-two-hour marathon. No element of this monumental attempt is left to chance, and Kipchoge goes to incredible lengths to change sporting history.
As I attempt to run around the pond by my house, it occurs to me that Kipchoge could have saved a lot of time and effort by simply introducing a Canadian goose or two to the running route. You wanna break a personal best? Have one of those devils nipping at your heels.
As I’m meditating on the benefits of bird-free indoor treadmill running, I distractedly keep going after I hit my goal of three reps of seven minutes. And so I keep running all the way home. Then, I sign up for the community Santa Shuffle that’s a little over two months away.
Things are starting to look up.
Week 8
The community center pool has reopened following its annual end-of-summer maintenance period. I have to admit I’m a little cocky when I walk in. Have I been swimming? No. But I’ve been working my legs a whole other way, and I feel in my heart that I’m gonna crush it when the instructor calls for some high kicks.
She doesn’t. Today is apparently an arms day, and those stupid foam dumbbells might just be the death of me. My arms are jelly by the end of the class and going for a run seems easy by comparison.
But I hadn’t counted on the physical impossibility of putting on a racer-back sports bra when I’m damp. In fact, I needed to be rescued by strangers in the locker room because the back of my bra rolled up against my neck and my arms were incapable of helpful movement.
This had me throwing in the towel. I skip my run and head home, where I finish drying out so I can return to regular clothing. My grumpiness continues, and it doesn’t take much to convince me my second run of the week should be a power walk.
Progress is rarely linear.
Week 9
In Alan Bradley’s Flavia de Luce mystery series, 11-year-old Flavia’s bicycle is a character in its own right. The beloved bicycle, named “Gladys,” makes approving, exciting squeaks when Flavia takes her out on adventures. For some reason, the personification of a fictional bicycle is on my mind as I take my lavender trail runners to an actual trail. Is it just me, or do they seem a tad excited to be on the turf they’re actually built for?
Just as Flavia and Gladys yell “yaroo” when the wind is in their hair and mudguards, I feel like I should have a little cheer of excitement when I start to pick up speed. Well, speed is a subjective term. I’m admittedly nervous about wiping out on slick, wet autumn leaves, and I slow down to a brisk walk when I’m around mud, which is often. But it’s impossible not to think about my favorite woodland path that I practiced on in 2003, and I’m reminded of the value of putting one foot in front of the other. Yaroo, indeed!
Week 10
I’m back at the community center and, for once, I have the treadmill area to myself. Things are already looking better. And all that’s left is to tackle the milestone of running for 10 straight minutes.
I’ve got this!
But unlike the movies, things aren’t perfect. My sports bra is still determined to strangle me. I feel like my feet are more penguin-like than ever. And, in all honesty, I’m just as large, awkward and sports-averse as I was when I started this journey 10 weeks ago (and even 20-plus years ago).
Does this mean this was all for nothing? Hardly. Despite the less-than-perfect journey I’ve had, I’m still here putting one foot in front of the other. I’ve gone from being winded before my run even started to running 10 minutes without needing a break.
And, looky here: I compare my heart rate to the correct chart this time. I’m right where I’m supposed to be … in more ways than one.
Bring on the Santa Shuffle. Running is here to stay.
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