I never like running.

Every time I manage to drag myself out for a run, I am reminded of why I hate it so much. My body feels so much heavier than usual. Ten minutes in and I’m already gasping for air.

I remember when I was in middle school, I used to cheat in PE. My school was in the middle of the city, where there were more people than there was land, and classrooms were prioritised over a field. So whenever it’s running time, we had to run around the school, but on the outside. It was great actually. Because it meant I just had to run the first 500m, then when I turned the corner, my teacher couldn't see me anymore, I would jump on a bike and cruise. I even made sure that I timed it well so that I wasn't coming first or last.

George got me into training for our first run event together a couple of years ago. He has been a huge motivator, but also a tough coach. I completed my first 5k and felt so proud of myself.

But then I stopped going out for a run again.

Because my bunions cause me a lot of pain.

Because I always come back from a run with severe sneezing and congestion.

Because a typical day in Wellington often involves 50km/h wind.

The list of excuses goes on, but the bottom line is—it’s hard.

More than anything, it’s a mental battle every time. My mind constantly tells me that this is a bad idea and I should stop torturing myself.

Today I went for a run for the first time in almost a year. It was as hard as I remember.

But the feeling after a run was also as satisfying as I remember.

It occurred to me that by choosing to do something difficult like going for a run today, I have proved to myself that I can do hard things. Suddenly, the presentation I have to do at work tomorrow doesn’t seem so scary anymore.

That still doesn't make me like running.

But I will choose to go out for a run again, whenever life gets hard, because it will always prove that I can do hard things.