Back then, I loved to run.
It was 95% anorexia, 5% inclination, so I don’t miss it much. I’m not a natural athlete. Fear however – whether of fat or failure or loneliness or people – is remarkably motivating. The logic of addiction; your body’s begging for rest so you take it for a jog.
At four am, the alarm went off and so did I. January and August. Tow-paths and side-streets. Tarmac and fields. The slap of my feet and the thud of my heart. Run Emma, run. Till your legs and lungs buckle. Till you’re thinnersmartersaferbetter. Till you’ve reclaimed the map of your uncontrolled life.
There was no map. I thought I knew where I was going: but however far I ran, I always ended in the same place. Even in my dreams, I never arrived. And the destination was always one step ahead.
Today, my body’s tired and I’ve thrown out my trainers. But I’m still running – only a very different race.
It’s not about winning: for the prize is already mine.
It’s not about speed or strength: just staying on the path that’s marked out.
Truth be told, I’m exhausted with proving myself. Training alone, and making my name. I can’t do it – and neither can you.
Maybe all of us run. But don’t do it from fear. And don’t do it alone. Let’s run it together – into the Father’s waiting arms.