007: Who Are You When You’re Not Running?

This might be earth-shattering for some of you... But you’re not just a pair of fancy trainers with a Garmin attached.

There’s a particular type of silence that creeps in when the training plan clears and the race is over. 

Or maybe you’re nursing a niggle, life’s gotten in the way, or you’re simply… tired. 

And for the first time in weeks, or months, you’re not running.

At first, it might be a welcome change. 

A lie-in. 

A morning coffee that isn’t followed by a gel at 8K. 

Your thighs stop burning when you walk downstairs. 

But then there’s this other feeling that starts to surface. Something quieter. Unsettling.

If I’m not running, who am I?

It’s easy for running to become not just what we do, but who we are. It offers structure, discipline, purpose. It gives us a sense of control when life feels anything but controllable. And let’s be honest, it feels good to be “the runner” in your group. The driven one. The one with early mornings, the foam rollers and a drawer full of medals.

But there’s a fine line between a passion and an identity trap.

Running can trick you into thinking you have to earn your worth in miles.

That you are only as strong as your latest long run, only as impressive as the next race you're training for.

Social media makes it worse. You scroll past people stacking up weeks of high mileage or racing every weekend, and you start wondering if you’re falling behind in some kind of unspoken competition.

Suddenly you find yourself feeling anxious when you miss a run.

You feel guilty for taking a rest.

Or you force yourself to run at a pace you deem impressive because, heaven forbid, you'd be seen logging an easy run.

Kudos kill contentment.

But let’s be honest, none of us took up running to compete with strangers on the internet, or people we know for that matter. And if you did, I assure you, you'll enjoy it far more if you don't. We started because we needed something. An outlet. A challenge. A way to cope. A way to grow. And that’s a deeply human thing. But so is the need to rest, to step back, to live beyond the run.

You’re still a runner when you’re not running

It sounds counterintuitive, but one of the most powerful lessons running can teach you happens when you’re not running. When you’re forced to sit with yourself, without the distraction of training blocks or finish lines, and ask:

What else is there?

And, hopefully, the answer is plenty.

You might enjoy a few drinks on a Saturday night. 

You might read weird fiction, dance badly in the kitchen, or spend entire afternoons watching Netflix with your dog. 

Those things don’t dilute your athleticism. If anything, they deepen it. They show that you’re a full person, not just a set of performance metrics.

Stillness doesn’t mean stagnation.

We live in a world obsessed with progress. But some growth happens in stillness. In letting go of the need to prove something. In finding joy in being, not just doing. You don’t need to constantly chase a new PB to be valid. You don’t need to train through burnout to prove your toughness. And you don't need to make every run “fast" to appease the perception of whoever's opinion you've decided matters, for whatever reason.

Sometimes, your strength is in stepping away, in showing restraint, and knowing you can return when you choose.

So the big question is... Who Are You?

Without the shoes laced up. 

Without the event booked. 

Without the Sunday long run planned to the minute and the mile.

For a while, I struggled with this question.

I got consumed by running, completely. I planned life around training, measured worth by distance, and wore exhaustion like a badge of honour. 

But somewhere along the way, through burnout, injury, and stillness, I came to realise something simple and freeing:

Yes, I’m a runner...But I’m also a writer.

A guitar player.

A gamer.

An artist.

A bookworm.

A beer brewer.

A chess player.

And, truth be told, a failed architect, but even that has its charm.

All of those parts of me deserve space. They feed different corners of my mind, and remind me that life isn’t confined to one lane. And when I do run now, I carry all of those pieces with me. 

They make me a better runner, and a more whole person.

And running makes me better at all of them as well. 

You’re not just miles. You’re meaning.

And the more you remember that, the more fully you can live, not just run.