For years, running was something I watched other people do. I joined a local beginners’ group after a difficult period in my life, expecting to last one session. Instead, I found a community that noticed when I turned up and checked on me when I did not.
My first half marathon was never really about the time. By mile ten my legs felt empty and every sensible part of me was saying to stop. Then I heard the voices of people from the group at the side of the road, calling my name as if I were leading the race.
A different kind of result
Crossing the line proved something I had struggled to believe: progress did not need to look spectacular to matter. The medal is in a drawer now, but I still remember the noise, the relief and the people waiting at the finish.
I now help welcome new runners to the same group. When somebody tells me they are too slow or too nervous, I recognise the person I used to be—and I know exactly what to say.