Stillness In Motion

The meditative power of running

The body knows before the mind catches up.

I just realized—it’s been two years since I started running again! Well, two years and four days, to be precise. I laced up randomly on June 6, 2023, after a long seven-year break. I’d stopped running at the end of 2015, after my mom died.

Note to self: Don’t stop running next time when grief hits. Running helps. It helps mental health, at least for me.

I remember running on a treadmill in January 2016, just a few weeks after my mom died. I was crying while running. We have a gym at my workplace, and I was trying to finish a virtual Sherlock Holmes-themed run—called “221B” something or other. That ended up being my last run for a long time.

But thankfully, on a beautiful evening in June 2023, I decided to try again. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t even a real run—more of a shuffle-walk-jog combo—but it counted.

And now I’m two years back in. And loving it.

Like writing (which I also stopped after my mom died), I’m grateful I found my way back. Both have helped me reclaim parts of myself I didn’t even realize had gone quiet.

Since that first “run,” I’ve grown. I’ve only done one official race—a 10K, and I came in two minutes slower than I was aiming for. But honestly? I did it. That’s the part that matters.

I’m not in this for competition. I’m not planning more races—at least not right now. I’ve run a half marathon distance a couple times around my neighbourhood just to see if I still could. I can. Not fast, not like back in 2014 when I ran my first (and last) official half in 2 hours and 15 minutes—but I can. And that feels good.

Lately, my runs have been shorter. Life and a bad cold slowed me down this winter. I’d been running four times a week, but it’s dipped to once or twice—maybe three if I’m lucky. I’m working my way back up. I want to get back to my long weekend runs: 10+ km, maybe even 15km again (don’t ask me what that is in miles—I’m Canadian, we don’t do miles).

Here’s what I love most about running: it gives me space. To move. To breathe. To learn.

I listen to podcasts. Sometimes I take Peloton running classes for the music and motivation. But mostly, I find running incredibly meditative. Just me, my breath, the sound of my feet on the earth. It’s a moving stillness. Just like yoga—it’s that same sweet balance of a body in motion, mind at ease.

The Body Knows Before the Mind Catches Up

There’s something primal about running. It’s in our biology, isn’t it? We ran to hunt. We ran to survive. It’s rhythmic, stripped-down, essential:

Inhale. Step. Exhale. Step.

It asks for nothing but presence.

And presence, I find, is sometimes easier to access when I’m moving.

Formal seated meditation has its own magic, but running offers something else—a way to process emotion through motion.

I’ve run with grief in my chest. With rage in my belly. With heartbreak. With joy. With numbness. All of it.

Real talk: I cried during my run last Friday because of something Katherine Switzer said in a Peloton class. (She’s the first woman to officially run the Boston Marathon back in 1976, and had to physically fight to stay on the course, officials who tried to literally pull her off the course).

But here’s the thing: through all that emotion—my body carried me. Not away from my feelings, but through them.

I didn’t always know what I was feeling until the kilometers made it clear.

When the Run Becomes a Ritual

It’s not about distance. Or pace. Or any numbers (though I enjoy tracking those, too).

It’s about the ritual:

Putting on my shoes when I don’t feel like it.

Pushing through the first five minutes when my body says, What the hell are you doing to me?!

And arriving on the other side, free.

It’s the quiet victory of moving myself forward with nothing but my own strength.

It’s the way thoughts start to loosen the longer I keep going.

Here’s what it looks like for me:

Before the run – I stretch (thanks, Peloton). I set a quiet intention as I close the door: to enjoy the run, no matter how it goes. Even if I feel like I’m slogging through peanut butter. Even if I feel like I’m flying.

During – I stay with my breath. I try to feel the ground beneath me. I relax my shoulders. Shake out my arms. Soften my jaw. And sometimes—if I’m lucky—I hit that place where the body runs and the mind rests.

After – I thank myself. For showing up. For being able to move. For having this moment with the outdoors, in whatever weather the world handed me.

Because I know I won’t always be able to do this. But right now—I can.

This Is Stillness, Too

Running has taught me that stillness isn’t always quiet.

It’s not always on a cushion or a yoga mat.

Sometimes, stillness lives in the steady rhythm of my own footsteps.

In the wind on my face.

In the rhythm of my heartbeat.

In the soft quiet of my mind, when movement takes over and thought takes a backseat.

Mindfulness doesn’t always mean being still.

Sometimes it means moving slowly enough to feel what’s real.

To notice what’s inside and around you.

To remember—

You are alive.

And here’s a Tiny Wonder Drop to leave you with:

Maybe stillness isn’t the absence of motion — but the presence of attention.

If this letter found you at the right time, feel free to share it with someone else who might need a little wonder today.

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With heartfelt thanks, always.
— Caitlin

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