“I told myself this year I’m going to try not to cry about running because it’s not worth it.”

I told myself this year I’m going to try not to cry about running because it’s not worth it.

That thought has been lingering in my mind for weeks now.

Running used to be simple for me — an escape, a source of joy, even a way to challenge myself. But lately, it’s been anything but that.

Instead of feeling the rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement or the wind brushing my face, I’ve found myself overwhelmed by frustration, disappointment, and sometimes tears.

Why? Because running has become a mirror, reflecting everything I’m struggling with — my doubts, my insecurities, my fears.

Every mile is a reminder that I’m not as fast as I want to be, not as strong as I wish I were.

Every ache in my body is a whisper that maybe I’m pushing too hard or not hard enough.

The finish lines I once chased eagerly now feel like distant, taunting goals. And in those moments of vulnerability, I cry

But this year, I promised myself something different.

I promised I wouldn’t cry about running. Because, frankly, it’s not worth the tears.

Running is supposed to be a source of strength, not sorrow. It’s supposed to be a refuge, not a battlefield.

So I’m trying to change my mindset — to find peace in the process rather than pain in the outcome.

It’s easier said than done.

I remember one of my toughest runs recently.

I set out with a goal, a clear target pace in mind. I felt good at first, steady and confident.

But then, about halfway through, my legs started to feel heavy. My breathing became uneven.

The world seemed to blur with exhaustion.

My mind spiraled into negativity: Why am I even doing this? I’m not improving. I’m just failing. And then the tears came.

Not because of the run itself, but because of the expectations I had placed on myself — expectations I couldn’t meet.

But here’s what I’m learning: those tears, as painful as they are, don’t have to be a sign of defeat.

They can be a sign of deep care, a sign that I’m invested in this journey.

Running is more than just physical movement; it’s emotional, mental, and sometimes even spiritual. Crying doesn’t mean I’m weak — it means I’m human.

Still, I want to find a way to run without that weight.

I want to run because I love it, not because I feel like I have to prove something.

I want to celebrate the small victories — the morning I got out the door when I didn’t want to, the extra half-mile I managed when my body screamed to stop, the feeling of the sun on my face after a long winter. These moments matter.

So this year, I’m trying a new approach.

I’m setting kinder goals, ones that focus on joy and health rather than speed or distance alone.

I’m reminding myself that rest days are just as important as run days. I’m learning to listen to my body instead of pushing through pain.

And when the tears come, I’m letting them flow, but I’m not letting them define me.

I’m also reaching out more. Running used to be a solitary pursuit, but now I’m finding strength in community.

Whether it’s a running group, a coach, or even friends who cheer me on, sharing this journey makes it feel less heavy.

When someone else understands the struggle, it reminds me I’m not alone.

And maybe most importantly, I’m redefining what success means to me.

It’s not about shaving seconds off my pace or hitting arbitrary mileage. Success is showing up. Success is being consistent.

Success is learning to love my body for what it can do, not hating it for what it can’t.

Running has taught me a lot about resilience.

It’s taught me to get up when I fall, to keep moving even when it hurts, and to find beauty in the struggle.

But it’s also teaching me about compassion — for myself and for the process.

This year, I’m choosing to be gentle with myself. I’m choosing to let go of the pressure to be perfect.

I’m choosing to embrace the messy, emotional, sometimes tearful reality of running.

Because at the end of the day, running is just one part of my life, not my whole identity.

So yes, I told myself I’m going to try not to cry about running this year.

But I’m also giving myself permission to feel, to be vulnerable, and to grow. And maybe that’s the real victory.

Would you like me to help shape this into a more personal story or add more details about a specific running experience?