Laps Around Lonliness

I've had this in my drafts for about 6 months now. might as well put it out there and see what happens

Sometimes, I go for a run because I don’t know what else to do with the ache in my chest.

You know the one—when your group chat’s quiet, your phone’s dry, and it feels like everyone else is out living a movie while you’re stuck in your room, eating cereal at 3 p.m.

When I lace up my shoes and start running laps, I’m not chasing the runner’s high. I’m just trying to feel something, ANYTHING—air in my lungs, sweat on my skin, the kind of movement that reminds you you're still alive and still trying.

Running doesn’t fix my loneliness. But it does something softer and slower:

It makes space for it.

Out on the track, I can cry between strides. I can think about the friend who stopped texting back, the boy who said “maybe,” or the version of myself I miss. I can feel the full weight of it—and keep going, even if its just one more lap.

Lap after lap, the sadness loses its grip. It doesn’t disappear, but it becomes manageable. Like maybe I’m not running away from loneliness, but learning how to carry it better.

What if loneliness isn’t something to escape, but something to move through?

So I run.

One lap at a time.

Until I remember I’m not alone—just human.

And that’s enough for me

one of the many photos of me training at the not so local high school during the pandemic

I run.

Not to outrun the loneliness, but to let it breathe beside me.

To give it a lane.

To let the silence stretch without swallowing me whole.

Running doesn’t cure the ache—but it keeps me from spiraling.

It gives me motion when I feel stuck, a rhythm when the world goes quiet.

And sometimes, when I want to be alone—not lonely, just alone—running is the only thing that makes that feel okay.

It’s the space where I fall apart gently… and pull myself back together, one lap at a time.

That’s how I stay sane.

That’s how I stay me.