Starting a blog about running is hilarious.

To be clear, I love running blogs. My favorite way to procrastinate on the internet is to read blogs about new running shoes, races, nutrition, etc. But starting a running blog is a different beast entirely. Exhibit A, me trying to take *cute* running photos of myself with my iPhone 6 on a 10 second timer:


Cute, right???!!!!!!! I hate this photo, but it was the best one of the bunch I took. I feel uncomfortable asking my friends to come on a run and take photos of me — truthfully, I haven’t even told many of my friends that I started a blog, and those I have told don’t know the URL. Also, running photos, as a rule, are terrible. In high school I had a few good ones, but since college I’ve hated how they’ve all turned out. A large part of this has to do with feeling self-conscience of my own body, and what it looks like when I’m not posed in a perfect angle in a perfect outfit. Running photos show how big my legs are, how awkwardly my arms swing, how odd my nose looks in profile, how squinty my eyes get when I’m focusing. But part of why I started this blog is because I wanted to celebrate how much I love running, and how good running makes me feel.

I feel at my most beautiful when I run. While I know, from photo and video evidence, that my running form is not Baywatch material, when I run I feel like Wonder Woman. So while this blog may not feature thousands of photos of me running, those that do appear may not seem beautiful to the internet at large.

Starting a running blog is hilarious, because it means being honest about who I am and what I feel, even if it looks ridiculous.

Running for grief

I wanted to start a blog so I could write about something I love in a humorous, interesting way. Sometimes, though, life gets in the way and makes things far less funny. So, this is a non-funny post about how running is helping me deal with death.

My grandfather passed away yesterday. I count myself lucky that in my 24 years on this earth, I’ve only lost a few people I love. The flip-side of that is that I’m not yet used to the idea that someday, we will all die. So, even though I’ve known for awhile that my grandfather wasn’t doing well, his death still hit me like a ton of bricks. I was at work when I found out, and I couldn’t stop crying (pretty embarrassing in a small office, especially since I’m both the youngest employee and the only female). Mercifully, my boss let me leave early.

I was in a daze on the T back to South Boston, but I knew that I needed to run. I laced on my shoes and set out, but I left my phone and watch at home — I didn’t want to count the miles or listen to music, I just needed to fall into the pace.

I was gone for about two hours, but who knows how far I ran. I stopped a few times to cry, and once to dangle my feet into the water. I alternated between sadness for my loss, and happiness for my grandfather. I spent most of my run trying to grapple with what it meant to die, and where (if anywhere) my grandfather’s spirit and energy is now.

Most days, running feels like a selfish act. I run for myself, and for my own happiness and sanity. But yesterday my run felt like the best way I knew of remembering and honoring my grandfather’s life. Running is weird like that — a workout can feel like something I have to get through, or it can feel like something that’s keeping me afloat.

The point of my run yesterday wasn’t to make me happier — I didn’t want to feel happy. Sometimes a run is the best way to meditate and come to terms with human sadness, and life, and death, and continuous change.

“You’re psycho.”

It was the first Sunday of my freshmen year of college, and I had to get up at 6:15 to run 8 miles in a flash flood. My roommate was buried deep beneath her covers, but she stirred and looked at me when I opened the door to leave. “You’re psycho. Do you actually think running is fun?”

Granted, it’s wasn’t my choice to hold morning cross country practice in a torrential rain storm, but I guess that was besides the point.

I do think running is fun; and sometimes, that can seem a bit psychotic.

I love to wake up early, drink a 4-day-old cup of coffee, and run before the sun rises. I’ll run at night, clutching a flashlight and a can of mace. The highlight of my weekends are my long runs when I try to see how far and fast I can go before needing to rest. Sometimes, I run so far that I feel delusional with happiness.

Ever since I quit soccer and took up cross country, I’ve been called a psycho by friends, family, and rando dudes on the street. Maybe I am psychotic, but honestly I think that’s better than the alternative.

This is a blog about living my best life as a sweaty, psycho runner in a world full of sleek SoulCycle advertising. Enjoy the hot race pictures.