When the going gets hard, get going. Like, run. Away. Now. That’s what I say in my head a lot. A few short years ago, I used running to try to escape from myself. I had become too difficult to deal with and wanted nothing more than to be rid of myself. Suicide wasn’t working; maybe running would. Spoiler alert: Running left me ALONE WITH MYSELF. That was the exact opposite of what I was going for.

I have enjoyed running for over thirty years, but I didn’t take it very seriously until a fitness test I was required to take in 8th grade. Every lap around the gymnasium fueled my passion to take another step. After running the required mile, I couldn’t stop. I ran until the last person in my class finished. My gym teacher told me I should run cross country. I had never heard of it, but I signed up and became the first runner to make it to the State Finals.

Any runner will tell you it is more of a mental sport than a physical sport. I belong to a group called the “Slow AF Running Club.” Some of the runners are actually fairly fast, but the vast majority are, in fact, slow AF. Some look like runners, and some don’t. Some are just starting out. Some have been running for years. Some have long-standing injuries or diseases that keep them from running fast. Either way, each and every runner has to fight with their minds. I don’t want to finish last. I don’t want to be the slowest person. I don’t want anyone to see how bad my form is. What if the route is too difficult. What if that hill is too hard. Here’s the thing. As long as we continue to take the next step, no matter how difficult it is, we still have forward momentum. When the going gets hard, push harder.

I intended to run on the treadmill at the gym earlier this week, but by the time I was ready, the treadmills were all taken. No problem. I’m trying to take it easy, go with the flow, and be less rigid. I hopped on the spin bike instead. The first two miles were tough. The resistance was cranked, and my legs were burning. I wanted to stop, but my intention was to ride seven miles, and somewhere along the line, I became incapable of accepting something like dialing down the resistance. Only 5 more to go like this. GREAT. (Roll your eyes when you read that). Something shifted suddenly. The burning stopped. My breathing slowed. My heart rate leveled off. I was in a state of flow. Don’t get me wrong, it was still HARD. I was dripping sweat and probably looked like I was dying to the man two bikes over. Yet, I hit seven miles before I realized I was even close.

I reached up and knocked the resistance down to 2. My legs were flying on the pedals. I planned to allow the adjustment to slow me to a stop so I could hop off, but something weird happened. Right after adjusting the resistance, I grabbed my phone to make a note of something. When I finished, the mileage counter was 8.7. I effortlessly bike 1.7 miles. My legs were moving purely because they had been in motion before. The weight of one leg moving downward drove the other leg up. I had to put more effort into stopping than continuing. A few minutes before, With two miles in, I was ready to quit. Now, with nearly another two miles beyond my intention, I was incapable of quitting without effort.

Life is like that. We want to run from what is hard, to quit when things are tough or painful. But when we push back, increase the effort, and lean in, it often becomes second nature—effortless.

I have been working on leaning in and making an effort. It’s been a painful process. I hear things that are difficult to hear, say things that are difficult to say, write things that are difficult to write, sit with things that are difficult to sit with, ask questions, and pursue answers. What could I do better? A lot. I don’t want to feel emotions or sensations. I don’t want to speak about some things. I struggle to lean in still. But I have noticed that a little bit of momentum is often all it takes. Sometimes, that means I am screaming silently to keep talking, look around, move my feet, or stay in tune with a feeling. Sometimes, the pain at mile 2 stops me. Right now, I’d say I’m still moving the pedals, more or less. “Sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly.” That is a quote from AA. It is talking about promises of what will transpire when we (I) work hard. Those promises may happen quickly, or they may happen slowly, but if we (I) work hard, they will come one way or another.

Maybe run to the next telephone pole. Maybe pedal the next .1 miles. Maybe ask that one question or say that one thing. Maybe feel the hard things. It’s hard to do the next thing. But it’s also hard to stop doing the next right thing. Devon Brough, in a poem, challenged readers to “Choose your hard.” Marcus Taylor has used that in his motivational speeches. My therapist says that to me often. So…