"Running Isn't My Hobby. It's My Medicine."

 

 

"Running Isn't My Hobby. It's My Medicine."

I've been reading Nexus by Yuval Noah Harari. He says humans are storytelling animals. Money is a story. Nations are stories. Religion is a story. When enough people believe in the same story, that belief becomes fact — and eventually, reality.

Reading this, a strange thought crossed my mind. What if the worries I carry every day are just stories too?

Sometimes, when I'm sitting still and doing nothing, an unwelcome visitor slips into my thoughts.

"What if I lose my income? How would I survive?"

That one sentence pulls me under. One thought leads to another, and before I know it, I'm drowning in anxiety. On those days, I'm almost afraid to go home — afraid the weight of it will seep into my wife, afraid my kids will somehow inherit this part of me and struggle because of it.

But when I stop and think clearly, none of it makes sense. There's no enemy in front of me. I'm not starving. The people I love haven't left.

And yet — the most precious thing I have, this unrepeatable moment called now, is being swallowed whole by a future that doesn't even exist yet.

I've been writing fiction in my head. Over and over. And always with the darkest possible ending.

· · ·

Reading Nexus brought up another question. Why has religion survived alongside humanity for so long? I'm not a religious person. I've never been able to simply believe.

But I have to admit something. Some of the most grounded, stable people I've ever known are deeply religious. Facing the exact same circumstances, they somehow stay calm — steady in a way I can't quite explain. They still hurt. They still fail. They still fear. But they carry their fear inside a larger story — one that holds them, and moves them forward.

Watching them, I couldn't help but wonder: Is it wiser to live inside a story that brings peace — even if I can't be certain it's true — than to keep torturing myself with the dark fiction I've been writing on my own?

But I can't make myself believe what I don't believe. They say humans live not by facts, but by meaning. And yet, knowing that meaning can be built on fiction — I can't seem to walk through that door.

So what am I supposed to do? Keep wasting today over a future I invented in my own head?

· · ·

That's when I started thinking about running.

There's a pattern in my life. The worry builds. The anxiety grows. The thoughts spiral. But after a run — somehow, things feel okay. Nothing has changed. The bank account is the same. The future is just as uncertain. And yet, something inside me is different.

I used to think it was just the exercise. Now I see it differently. Running doesn't make me feel better. It brings me back to myself.

One day, I asked an AI about it.

"Why do some people breeze through life without much worry — while others, like me, can't seem to stop?"

After pulling up a few research papers, the answer came back:

"The brain has a default state — what it does when you're not doing anything. In people who worry a lot, that default is set toward anxiety."

I didn't want to accept it. But there it was. My brain's default setting is anxiety. And running doesn't fix that — it just resets me back to baseline.

Some people take blood pressure medication. Some take medication for diabetes. I run. It's how I manage a condition I was born with — one I've started thinking of as my anxiety disorder.

· · ·

Maybe life isn't about finding some grand, overarching meaning. Maybe it's just about learning who you are.

I'm not an optimist. Worry and anxiety are my defaults. And no matter how hard I try, I can't erase them. I've stopped trying. I just carry them with me now.

When anxiety shows up, I say: "Oh, you again." Then I lace up my shoes.

Tomorrow, I'll probably worry again. About money, maybe. About getting older. About something that isn't working the way I hoped. My chest might feel heavy for a while.

But I know this now: what's weighing on me isn't the future itself — it's the story I've been telling myself about it. And I also know this: that story isn't going anywhere. It's just part of who I am.

Running doesn't change the world. The bank balance stays the same. The uncertainty doesn't disappear. But the noise inside gets a little quieter — and I find my way back to today.

I finally understand why I run. Not to get rid of the anxiety. But to learn to live alongside it.

So today, I lace up again.

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