I am a runner.

It has taken me a really long time to proclaim that. Am I the fastest runner? Nope. Am I the most consistent runner? Hells nope. Am I a runner who never complains about running or never skips runs for, say, patio beers, a good sleep in, or a cuddle with my dog? Double hells nope.

But I run. I put one foot in front of the other on a semi-regular basis. I have spent far too much money on cute running clothes and race entries. I have a shrine of my bibs and medals on my wall. I have the blisters and hunger to prove it.

I don’t look like a runner. I don’t have the speed or stamina of an elite runner. But I am a runner nonetheless. To date, I have crossed the finish line of seven 5k races, four 10k races, and three half marathons.

Running is one of the few things that quiets my mind. As I struggle on the daily with generalized anxiety disorder, a quiet mind is sheer bliss. Rare, sheer bliss. Does my anxiety get the better of me with my running? You betcha. It’s my psychologist’s favourite topic to tackle with me.

I’m a work in progress, on and off the trails.