The Reluctant Runner

On fraud, belonging, and redefining what counts

I’ve always hesitated to call myself a runner. Usually, I tack on a disclaimer: I’m a reluctant runner. It feels safer that way, like I’m acknowledging my shortcomings before anyone else can. Like I’m saying: don’t mistake me for the real thing, I’m just a fraud.  

Because in my head, runners look a certain way. They’re lean, toned, fast. They glide across finish lines, practically glowing. I am not that. I’m overweight. I’m slow. My half marathon took more than three hours. And so every time I mention running, I rush to add: I walk a lot, too. Sometimes I even downgrade it completely and call it jogging. I feel the need to explain myself, as if walk breaks cancel out the miles, as if running doesn’t count unless it looks effortless.

The doubt shows up in other ways too. Like when I consider buying gear: did I really need a Garmin running watch? Should I spend money on a water pack, a running belt, new shoes, clothes made for runners? Investing in the trappings feels presumptuous, like playing dress-up in a costume that doesn’t belong to me. As if buying the gear means claiming an identity I’m not entitled to.

And yet, every time I’ve lined up at a race, I’ve seen the truth: the running community is one of the most inclusive groups I’ve ever stepped into. The elites cheer from the sidelines. Faster runners clap for the ones behind them. And the back-of-the-packers, the ones who fight for every mile, who finish long after the crowds thin, are treated with just as much respect as the leaders. Sometimes more. The message is always the same: you belong here.

So why don’t I believe it?

Maybe because I’ve been conditioned to think achievement only matters if it looks impressive. That if you’re not fast, thin, and photogenic in spandex, then you’re not a “real” runner. But the truth is simpler. If your feet are moving faster than a walk, you’re running. If you lace up your shoes and put one foot in front of the other, you’re running. Even slow. Even with breaks. Even at the back of the pack.

I don’t need to earn the watch, the belt, the shoes. I already earned them the first step back I took at the track, steps that were messy, breathless, and sore, but steps all the same.

So call it reluctant if you want.

But I still call it running.