Running Through the Hard Parts: How a Half Marathon Taught Me to Reframe Pain
This past Sunday, I ran my first half marathon—something I never thought I’d do. I used to joke that I’d only run if something was chasing me. But over the past few years, my perspective on physical fitness has transformed.
Growing up, I saw myself as the weak, non-competitive one. My cousins were the tough athletes, and I was the introspective theater nerd. I kept myself in that box for a long time.
A few years ago, a friend convinced me to sign up for a Spartan Race with her, and it turned out to be one of the best decisions I ever made. I was going through a rough breakup at the time, and there was something about strength training that helped me move and sweat through the grief—after all, “the body keeps the score” (Van der Kolk). I became more aware of how interconnected the body is: strengthening one part seems to empower others. Somehow, stronger biceps and hamstrings also strengthened my heart, both literally and figuratively. So when that same friend asked me to do a half marathon, I didn’t hesitate to say yes.
During training, I noticed a few things:
The first 3 miles are the hardest.
Some days, for no apparent reason, running just sucked, while other days it felt like a joy.
When doing interval training, slowing from a run to a speed walk often brought clarity, insights, and new ideas I couldn’t seem to access otherwise—not even in the shower.
Just as the Spartan Race had helped me heal through strength training, running helped me transform my relationship with pain.
Around the 10-mile mark of the marathon, the pain really started to kick in. A hot spot began to form on my toe—not too bad, I thought, manageable. Then, at mile 11, the joints on my left side started to stiffen and ache, which wasn’t pleasant to say the least. I braced myself for misery. But then I had this almost surreal moment of clarity—yes, this hurt, but it wasn’t dangerous. I could lean into the pain, not as a threat, but as proof of how far I’d come. I was hurting but not hurt. This shift in perspective freed me from worry, and I knew I would finish the race feeling proud for pushing through. I was in pain, but I was happy.
This idea reminds me of the "Window of Tolerance," a concept developed by Dr. Dan Siegel to describe the optimal range of arousal where a person can function effectively in everyday life. Essentially, everyone has a range of emotions they can tolerate—from joy and excitement to anger and grief. For many people, particularly those with a history of trauma, this window can be narrow. The goal is to widen that range through various strategies, allowing them to experience a broader spectrum of emotions.
Although not technically within the clinical definition, I could relate the "Window of Tolerance" to the physical pain I felt near the end of the marathon. The pain was hard but not harmful, and, in a way, even welcomed. The story I told myself about pain had changed, which has inspired me to take on another half marathon—and perhaps other hard, even painful challenges like it.
Learning to tolerate physical pain while running reminded me of what it feels like to stretch my emotional limits, to stay within that optimal zone of resilience even when things are tough. Just as my muscles had to adapt, my heart and mind grew stronger as I learned to embrace discomfort.
It was inspiring to watch the fastest runners circle back to the finish, passing us beginners and slower runners. But honestly, I was even more moved by those of us who were doing this for the first time, by the ultra-marathoners now in their 70s and 80s, by those walking most of it, and by those running in honor of someone they had lost. Each of us had a reason to be there, and all of us shared a certain resilience, determination, and growth mindset that inspired us to sign up, train, and show up on that chilly November morning.
To the strangers running alongside us who offered words of encouragement and high-fives, to our loved ones waiting at the finish line, to those who helped nurse our aching bodies back to life, and most of all to ourselves—for choosing self-compassion over self-criticism during our most painful stretches—thank you.