Don’t stop
Running in the false spring
I’d been training the whole winter for a half-marathon in the spring.
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A few months after I first picked up running, I wrote about it on this Substack. Specifically, how the experience somehow relates to overstimulation. Tangential, but I can't seem to escape the constant contemplation of overstimulation. All the ways we are overstimulated, and all the ways we do it to ourselves and each other.
That was nearly two years ago, which means that I’ve been semi-consistently running for nearly two years. Wow.
Anyways, I signed up for this half-marathon last fall, fresh off finishing my first 10k race. At the time, I’d already unintentionally and unexpectedly run a couple of half-marathons on my own. I was in the best shape I’d ever managed, though that’s not saying much given my (lack of) history with fitness. But nevertheless, I felt good. Almost unstoppable.
And then came winter.
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Somewhere in the filing cabinet next to my desk, I have a piece of paper that tells me (and whomever it concerns) that I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). It’s a bit silly, really. The piece of paper, I mean.
“Disorder” implies a total system failure, which makes it seem like there is something inherently broken with me. And maybe there is. But while I think my brokenness is unique to me, everyone have their own special brand of brokenness to bear. We’re all special snowflakes, but snowflakes just the same.
For me, my SAD doesn’t mean I hate winter. There are actually elements of it I absolutely adore. Like driving through the snow with lo-fi jazz playing on Spotify Apple Music. Or the way a fresh, fluffy, dump of powder covers up the sharp edges of life and quiets my mind. Or the sparkles on the trees and the crust of my boots.
But man, winter is just so long here.
I don’t hate winter, but I am unamused by the darkness that bookends my workday. I am tired of checking the weather app for snowstorms. I am sick of the ritual of putting on layers: the hats, the inner layers, the jackets, the boots. I am disgusted by the surging totals of my utility expenses. And honestly, I am so fucking bored of the walls of my office being my only video chat background.
As winter drags on, it brings this heavy, dense sort of fatigue. Like a weighted blanket—except I’m a helpless little kitten underneath it—winter envelops me completely, pinning me to the mattress, rendering me wanting nothing to do with my treadmill.
I try to fight it most of the time, but fighting is effortful, and sometimes—just sometimes—I don’t have the fight in me. I let the downcurrents pull me along wherever the universe decides. And sometimes that means I end up in a pit for a while.
See? That right there is 80% of the SAD talking.
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But it’s okay to end up in a pit for a while, once in a while.
For the last few months, my half-marathon training has been inconsistent. Partly because my partner and I were snowboarding twice a week, and my body was begging to be respected as a geriatric millennial. Partly because I find indoor running about as engaging as watching paint dry. Partly because of other priorities that demanded my attention. And yeah, partly because of my SAD.
I know. Excuses.
Naturally, due to this inconsistency, I’d been struggling to make progress. No matter how hard I tried, I simply couldn't increase my distance, and I found myself actually getting slower.
Last week, we experienced a brief taste of false spring. A couple of days with soft, sunny skies.
The highlight of my week was taking advantage of that moment to run outdoors for the first time in 2026.
When I began to shift from a walk to a trot at the start of my run, it felt awkward. My body didn’t want to obey the conductor that was my brain, and my brain felt like molasses. At best, like pudding.
Amidst the clunkiness, all I could tell myself was: don’t stop. That being my only objective. Just one foot in front of the other. It doesn’t matter how slow you might be, I told myself. Don’t stop.
And of course, within the first three minutes, one of my shoelaces came undone. And I had to stop.
I find it difficult sometimes to restart when I pause. Picking that momentum and energy back up can feel like picking up Thor’s hammer. And I certainly do not show up to each day, feeling worthy. Most days, I’m just trying to find my water bottle.
But stopping is inevitable, whether because I had to or because I gave in to my desire for some sweet, sweet rest. But stopping isn’t the end of the world. Stop, and then keep going.
Sometimes that’s all there is.
Don’t stop.
—
Running outdoors again, I felt dialled in with everything surrounding me. That outdoor run turned out to be my longest distance in the last 3 months. During which, I…
Covered 12.9 km
Listened to 2.5 albums
Stomped in 3 puddles
Nodded at 5 pedestrians
Watched 7 ducks have a family intervention
Rolled my eyes at 2 Cybertrucks
I might be exaggerating here, but I felt so present, it was as if I was encountering music, muddy bodies of water, fellow homo sapiens, waterfowls, and clunky metal boxes on wheels for the first time.
Anyways, we now have snow on the ground again.
Let’s see how long it’ll take before I can hit the trails again. Canada, am I right?