In my Chinese family, many of my older relatives are astounded when they discover my affinity for long-distance running. Initially, they assume that “long distance” refers to one or two miles. However, when I reveal that I actually run 26.2 miles, they gaze at me with a sense of disbelief, as if I have forgotten how to count. The more conventional family members often remark, “Girls should not engage in excessive running.”
Over time, however, their criticisms have diminished. In recent years, running has become more mainstream in China, particularly among the post-1980s generation. With the growth of the middle class and the influence of globalization, running clubs have gained popularity, as have recreational races. While traditional standards of beauty in China still prioritize fair, youthful, and slender figures, there is a movement towards more inclusive definitions that consider both physical and mental well-being rather than just thinness. For many of my friends who are runners, long-distance running represents more than just exercise. It symbolizes endurance, independence, and surpassing our perceived limitations. As a writer, it expands the realm of possibilities and allows me to push the boundaries of my imagination.
The reason I started running mirrors the reason I began writing. I have a penchant for delving into deep thoughts that transport me into a semi-trance-like state. Embarking on a new creative project feels akin to submerging myself underwater and losing myself in the murky depths. Long-distance running shares this surreal quality. Time becomes irrelevant, and pain and rational thoughts fade away. The only things that occupy my mind are the rhythm of my sneakers hitting the pavement, the pulsation of my heart, and the steady flow of my breaths, akin to meditation. And like meditation, long-distance running hones focus, not just on the end goal, but on the journey itself.
Initially, I discouraged friends from attending my races, fearing that I would not be able to complete them. When writing a novel, the process of creating something grand and intricate makes it impossible to envision the final outcome. Starting with that first page, I have no way of knowing how the finished novel will look like. This excitement is accompanied by a tinge of intimidation—how do I begin in the darkness and persevere without a clear end in sight?
Running has taught me the answer. First, trust the process. Second, trust your own progress. During my first marathon, I genuinely doubted my ability to finish. The thought of running 26.2 miles seemed nearly insurmountable. Before that race, I had never run more than 20 miles in one go. I instructed my friends and family not to attend the finish line, citing their convenience, when in truth, I wanted to spare them from witnessing my embarrassment if I failed to complete the race.
Race day arrived with a downpour. At 5 am, the sky was a dismal black, trees mournfully dripping rain, and the streets a mosaic of miniature puddles. Runners around me shivered in thin polyester shorts, their feet bouncing like wind-up toys. The cold was so intense that I could feel the numbness creeping into my toes. More than once, I questioned why I willingly paid to subject myself to this torture.
But when the race commenced, the rain gradually subsided. Sensation returned to my numb toes as adrenaline coursed through my veins, warming my blood. The first mile was unsteady and awkward, and the second mile showed minimal improvement. However, by the third mile, my feet recalled their purpose, and my brain forgot that this day was extraordinary—after all, I was just running. As I surrendered to the rhythmic cadence of my breaths, I entered a state of deep focus. It was the kind of zone where thoughts faded and doubts settled. I trusted my own feet against the ground, the distance I was creating with each stride. The creation was slow, yet tangible, much like crafting a novel or shaping a story. Running taught me to have faith, to persevere not because doubts are absent, but because I know I can conquer them.
After what feels like an eternity and a split second, you find yourself nearing the last three miles. Then two. Then one. Suddenly, cheers erupt, and spectators line the route. The atmosphere is electric, infecting you with an indomitable energy. Despite cramping legs, you are swept up by the fervor. You match the pace of other runners, extending your strides and propelling yourself forward. Crossing the finish line evokes an unparalleled sense of achievement. You feel invincible, capable of anything and everything. You have done it.
You have completed the race. You have finished the novel. It matters not the nature of the feat—what matters is that you have surmounted the obstacle you thought impossible.
Since my first race, I have continued running, and though nervousness still lingers, it has diminished with time. Pre-race jitters are inevitable, regardless of one’s experience. Personally, dwelling on the end result makes me uneasy and doubtful. However, by focusing solely on the present, on what lies directly ahead, one step after another, I can trust the process and my own progress. Even if the finish line is inconceivable now, even if it feels impossibly distant, I know that one day, I will reach it.
This does not mean that pain is absent. On the contrary, pain is ever-present—in the soles of my feet, in the side stitch, in the throbbing headache. However, I have a choice. I can either fixate on the pain, grow angry at it, wish for its cessation, or even stop running to eliminate it entirely. Or I can choose to let go of the pain, acknowledging that it will not conquer me and understanding that I can move beyond it. By not fixating on the discomfort, but instead letting it go, my thoughts find balance, simultaneously focused on everything and nothing at all.
Recently, I have discovered that this ability to endure discomfort extends beyond running. Freezing at an elevation of 4,500m while hiking 15 miles a day in Peru. Lying on a gurney, awaiting surgery with an anxious heart. Even while writing a novel, grappling with the visceral unease that arises when delving into character arcs that intimately resonate. As someone who used to tear up at the slightest stubbed toe, I am continuously amazed by my growth in this aspect. What I have discovered is that minimizing pain itself is not the key; rather, I can choose to minimize my own reaction to that pain, to detach and let go, rather than hyper-fixate on it.
A significant portion of the creative process involves letting go—of perfectionism, of the original vision or idea that brought you to the page. Even of your own hopes and dreams, which can hinder rather than propel creativity. Running revolves around the act of letting go. In fact, it was the lack of emphasis on technique and skill that first attracted me to running. Anyone can run. It does not require exceptional hand-eye coordination or mental agility. Instead, it necessitates focus and release—letting go of the present moment, of the countless moments to come, of the pain, sweat, and exhaustion that accompany every run, because the satisfaction is worth it.
For me, no completed manuscript concludes without tears. Despite the jubilation, there is a tinge of bittersweetness, even pain. What once existed solely within my mind now exists in the world, separate from me. When readers open my book, it is no longer mine alone—each person brings their own interpretations and experiences to the story.
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