I am a freaking runner!

I used to have a very toxic, on-and-off relationship with running. I always thought I was simply not built for it – turns out, no one had ever taught me how to do it properly.

I saw people jogging all the time, and almost every year there came a point where my brain tricked me into trying again. So I did.

I ran, and I almost blacked out before reaching 1km. A few times, it was so bad, I swear, Jesus himself was jogging by my side, and I don’t even believe in the guy... So I stopped and walked back home – defeated – fiercely promising never ever to do it again, only to go for another round a year later. Other times, I stopped a bit sooner, somewhere around when I started tasting blood in my throat.

Sounds fun, right?

As it turns out, I just did it wrong. So very wrong. Who knew you could run wrong!? No one – not one PE teacher – ever bothered to tell me that…

How I finally got from tasting blood in my throat before one-kilometre mark to the point where I ran 17k last weekend is a story for another day, but if you have similar struggles, then I’ll just quickly tell you that all the people you see jogging in parks are not masochists. It actually is possible to enjoy it.

I first started my healthy running journey a little over a year and a half ago. And since then, I battled with an annoying issue that unexpectedly came to an end this morning.

I know they say, "If you run, you’re a runner" but I always felt like an imposter. I was just someone who runs, if that makes sense.

I’d always felt that "a runner" is a title you have to somehow earn. Like there’s something extra, some secret milestone you have to reach before you can call yourself that.

For over a year, I was trying to figure out what that was.

Everyone I talked to about that was confused and said, "Girl, you run like three times a week, you are a runner," but that did not make me magically feel like it.

At the end of March, my sister-in-law texted me excitedly, telling me she’d signed up for a 7k race, and that if I needed any more motivation to join her, the medal the participants are getting has a lilac blossom design this year.

Why would that be extra motivation for me? My last name means "lilac" in translation. I clearly need that medal! So I signed up.

For a moment, I thought that was it – that registering for a race would make me feel like a runner.

I was wrong.

That actually made it worse. Now I felt like an imposter trying to infiltrate a group of actual runners. I imagined how everyone would stare and point fingers at me because they could clearly see I’m a fraud.

My plan was to dress appropriately and blend in so no one would notice.

Then, a couple of days later, a friend sent me a voice note asking if I’d be willing to join a local 10k race with her.

Not even two upcoming races helped me with my problem. Something was still missing – something I couldn't put my finger on.

As I said earlier, last weekend I completed my longest run to date.

Before starting, I was kind of hoping (actually, kind of sure) that finishing these 17 kilometres would be it. The magical milestone that would give me my runner's badge.

It was not.

I finished the 17k, enjoyed my victory ice cream, and continued racking my brain, wondering what method to try next. At that point I was still just a girl who runs.

The 10k race is in a couple of days, so this morning I went for my last run before it. The plan was solid – do an easy, slow 5k. Just to move my body a bit.

2km in and I had to pee. Badly! Something I'd never faced before.

I decided to hold it and finish my run.

For some reason, the Universe was not happy with my plan and made me choose then and there.

Legs tightly crossed, I was considering my options.

Option 1: get my boyfriend to come and pick me up.

Option 2: pee my pants.

Option 3: run for the bushes.

Option one felt like defeat. Especially because I'd just finished 17k without any help. My pride would not let me call him 2 kilometres from home, even if the call had nothing to do with the distance and everything to do with... well... wetting myself.

Let’s be honest, option number two was never really an option.

So, I went for the option number three – I uncrossed my legs, crossed my fingers instead, and hoped no one would see me.

Luckily, I’d packed tissues.

Running regularly for months – naahh, not good enough.

Running nearly a half-marathon – meh.

But you know what…? Getting my butt naked behind a tree, two freaking kilometres from home... I sensed it, I felt it – yep, call me a runner!

Otherwise I would just be a girl who jogged 2 kilometres to pee in a freaking bush, and that is so NOT the vibe.