I Run Because It's Me

The author running in a cross country meet as a Holyoke Catholic High School Lady Gael

I don’t remember exactly how old I was, but I remember the feeling.

The air was cool and dry. My bare feet hit the soft dirt behind our house, dust kicking up behind me, my arms pumping wildly with no rhythm, no technique. There was no goal. No stopwatch. Just me, my sisters, and our races around the back field. Evelyn would start us off with a dramatic “GO!” and Sarah took off in the wrong direction, arms flailing, her hair streaming behind her as Joe thumped the ground with his feet.

I ran because it felt good. I ran because it felt like flying.

Something clicked in me when I moved like that. I didn’t have words for it then, but my legs knew. My heart knew. Running made me feel important. In a quiet, rooted, deeply personal way. The world made more sense when I was in motion.

I wasn’t thinking about being ladylike. I wasn't thinking about behaving or fitting a perfect definition of a young lady. I wasn’t thinking about being good or small or quiet. I was just alive.

Running was the first thing that ever felt like mine. Especially in a world where I shared everything with my siblings.

By high school, that love had shape. It had structure. We got uniforms. There were whistles and sign-up sheets. Timed races and finish lines. I started caring about how fast I was. I started noticing who was watching. And somewhere along the way, I started getting good.

I remember one of my first cross country races vividly — the shout of On Your Mark, the churn of feet beside me, the fluttering nerves that turned to fire once I started moving. I remember the cool breeze against my face, the smell of fall leaves, the burn in my lungs as I pushed toward a finish line that suddenly mattered. I suddenly mattered.

May our mind be strong and our feet be swift, our team huddle came together before those races.

Our Lady of Victory: Pray for Us, we boomed as we threw our hands upward as a team. We were the Lady Gaels and we were unstoppable.

That race was the first time I noticed the grown-ups clapping for me. I mean really clapping — their eyes on me, their hands coming together with what felt like genuine pride. And in that moment, I felt seen in a way that didn’t require being quiet or small.

My coach, Mr. Goda, paid attention. He noticed effort. He noticed spirit. And he believed in me. He encouraged the way I ran — told me I was strong, told me I had grit. He offered correction without shame, praise without expectation. There was no emotional whiplash with him. Just steadiness. Support. Encouragement.

I remember one practice when I showed up late, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. The team was already out on their warmup jog and the workout was due to begin any moment. He just patted my shoulder and said, “You’re here now. Go warm up.” That was it. No lecture. No punishment. Just grace and space to bounce back.

It sounds small — and maybe it was — but to a young girl learning how to navigate approval and fear and the rules of being liked or loved, that kind of grace left a mark.

I was a teenager, and I loved running. I loved the way it let me feel powerful in my body. I loved the way it connected me to my sisters, and to a version of myself that didn’t have to apologize for being loud or fast or fierce. And I loved having someone in my corner who saw me not for how good I was at being small — but for how strong I was when I took up space.

Even now, when I run, I carry her with me — the girl who sprinted through the back fields of Western Mass with berry-stained fingers and wind-whipped hair. I carry the teenager who showed up to practice, ready to push herself, to feel her heart pound in her chest and know it meant she was alive. And I carry the woman who still believes that when we run — when we move forward with our full selves — we become something braver, bolder, freer.

Running found me. And it's allowed me to find so much more along the way, too.