Solitary and Shared

The value of company in running and recovery

I’ve learned more about myself in running shoes than I could ever have figured out sitting at a desk or looking in the mirror. It’s not the only practice that’s contributed to my growing understanding of myself and my place in the world, but it’s played a major role. In his book On Running, Sheehan reflects that the distance running he took up in his forties functioned as the key that unlocked deeper parts of his identity that he’d not yet discovered in his other life pursuits. I think this cultivation of self knowledge can be true of many passions, but running has a unique way of facilitating that growth and serves as a fitting echo of the kind of connection with self, others and a higher power that we develop in recovery. 

Sheehan writes that he was physically and mentally suited for running. He lists several of these distance runner qualifiers, including a quiet restlessness, solitary tendencies and a capacity for pain and endurance - a willingness to live in the uncomfort zone. I think these particular traits are true of people in active addiction as well as those of us who have made the step into a life in recovery, though they may surface in different forms. The solitary tendencies Sheehan notes are a quality that might make someone choose running for the extended solo time the practice offers, but there’s more to this trait than the preference or habit of choosing solitude over company. 

It’s important to emphasize that solitude isn’t always a desired mode of being; sometimes it’s just the comfortable, known way. Solitude - which can often breed loneliness and isolation - is a state that can be learned, sought out, brought on by extenuating circumstances or developed over time with or without conscious deliberation. We call these solitary persons a whole range of names - independent, self motivated, loners, free spirits, chronically single, unattached, awkward, individualists, antisocial, etc. Whatever the label given or reason for the solitary state, if we have these solitary tendencies, we can find ourselves alone more often than not, and we might turn to running in order to escape that loneliness, to figure it out, to deal with it, or to embrace it. It’s a lonely practice, but the solitude of running fosters a kind of growth that’s necessary to build fulfilling connections, and many of us find that we can have both the solitary experience of running and the connection of a running community when we’re able to access the part of our true selves that thrives in the company of others. 

There’s a certain loneliness in distance running; it not only involves the physical isolation of long runs, but also entails extensive time for solitary thought. The solo run is a journey we choose for ourselves, so it’s a loneliness we accept and have come to some sort of terms with before setting out. It’s different than the loneliness of wallowing in isolation though; running alone involves moving, struggling, and progressing - not fighting the solitude or mourning it, but making something of it. Even if we’ve chosen to lace up and set out for a certain length of minutes and miles, we can’t predict how this time on our feet will play out. We might feel stronger than we imagined at the onset of the run, bu we also might feel discouraged, achy and tired when we’d envisioned ourselves treading lightly and quickly through our planned route. We experience the highs and lows of the miles alone, and this can be a frustrating experience if we want someone else to know exactly how we’re feeling. So it can be difficult and sad if we go about it without sufficient connection to the communities whose support and connection we need to endure those extended periods of solitary trial. When we’re connected with other runners, we have people who will know what we mean when we say a run was hard or how we feel when a particular run had to be cut for injury or lack of preparation. We also have people who know the joy of getting through our goal miles and feeling as though we’re succeeding in the work we’ve set out to do via hill workouts and speed repeats.  

In this way, the solitary nature of distance running reflects the process of recovery. Recovery is a journey we have to choose for ourselves, and it’s often incredibly lonely, especially in the beginning. In active addiction, we chase the delusional feeling of connection that drinking promises, but we begin to feel intense feelings of isolation the further we fall under the influence of that cycle. We lose connection with the people in our lives, with our higher power and with ourselves to the point that our reflection in the mirror becomes the image of a stranger we can’t stand to look at. Usually by the time we’ve reached the point of needing to stop drinking, we’ve also reached a severe point of disconnect that doesn’t just heal overnight with sobriety. The work of recovery involves rebuilding the connection we’ve lost, and that can be lonely work. Even when we’ve regained the trust we’ve broken and begin to feel our lives coming back into place with old connections restructured and new ones gained, there lingers that sense of isolation that plagued us back in active addiction. It may not have the same weight it once had in our lives, but it’s still there. I still feel it most days, and I often turn to running when I feel it beginning to get its claws on me. I can’t alway just lace up and go, but when I can, running gives me a sense of direction and purpose that usually quiets the thoughts and feelings that accompany that loneliness. 

It’s a different kind of loneliness in running. Instead of the despairing drowning kind of isolation I felt in addiction, running gives me a sense of going somewhere even if it’s just the same loop I’ve done hundreds of times that leads back to the same driveway. Similarly, if I write inventory, I’m still doing the work alone, but I’m reflecting on situations that have the potential to cause resentment or fear and finding away to work through them that will result in stronger connections to the people in my life and greater reliance on God as well. Both these practices are lonely, but they’re a kind of lonely that puts me in a better position to return to my life as it is, accept it for what it is and be better equipped to connect with the people in my life as a result. Nothing about my circumstances change when I leave for a run or sit down to write inventory, but I change something in myself and am usually able to give up the things I found unacceptable prior to doing either one. Sometimes it doesn’t work. I’ve cried on plenty of runs and abandoned prayers or writing without reaching any sort of acceptance or shift in feeling. I still struggle with the practice of sitting with feelings that are uncomfortable. Running feels a lot simpler for me. If there are hills or it’s cold or I’m tired or sore, I just keep running. The discomfort is part of the process, and I get through it and am usually stronger for it. It’s a lonely kind of growth, but if I can get through a tough run on my own, I feel I’ve done something. Similarly, getting through hard feelings on our own in recovery allows us to grow in our ability to sit with self: something I definitely wasn’t comfortable with in active addiction. 

The solitude is real, but Sheehan notes the invaluable gift of community in running. He writes, “For me, no time passes faster than when running with a companion.” This is perhaps the most important thing I’ve learned about myself in the past couple years. I need and want my people in my life. In both running and recovery, the company of someone going through that journey with you means so much. Rarely will it feel exactly the same for both of us - one of us is bound to be fitter and more prepared for the run than the other; in recovery, someone may be going through a particularly difficult time or have more or less recovery time than the other. The important thing isn’t that we find people who are the exact same as us, but that we find people who are willing to run with us despite those differences that they could use as excuses to run on their own. 

I used to hate running with others because I’d notice my inadequacies more acutely in the presence of another person. I’d fixate on my belief that I wasn’t strong enough, fit enough, fast enough, etc. to run with anyone, so I chose to run alone. I didn’t want someone judging me if I needed to stop or slow down, so I decided that my headphones were the only fitting companion for running. In the past year or so, I’ve run with a friend or my running club most weeks (more often when it’s above freezing), and those runs have brought me more joy and calm than any solo run has in that time. It’s not always an option, and I still run alone most days; but I’m always grateful when I get to experience the alone-together feeling of running with company. Even on those days, I’ve found that connection comes in other forms.. I’ve come to view Strava more as a means of staying connected with runner friends I don’t get to see as often rather than a competitive platform stacking me up against other runners.  If a fellow runner braving the cold gives the head nod or a wave, it reminds me that I belong to a group bigger than myself just by being a runner. Races in particular - traditionally the most competitive kind of running - reveal the strength that comes from the connection in company. They’ve shown me that even complete strangers can be a source of connection; I’ve witnessed and experienced runners encouraging each other in the toughest miles of a race or sticking together if we happen to be running similar paces. I used to view that wordless company  as intrusive or competitive, and now I kind of love when it happens. Rather than taking it as a challenge or invasion of space, it feels like I just got a new race buddy for however long our paes align. I’ve even had runners tell me to keep going if they start to fall back or urge me to push the pace along with them if I’m the one who starts to fade. There’s never any taunting or celebration when our paces begin to diverge, only support and the shared understanding that we’re both doing our best on that particular span of mileage. 

And the support network in races isn’t limited to those on the course; the people who have chosen to come watch are a special crew. They could be doing just about anything else, but they’re there to witness and to support the runners for a variety of reasons. They may not be able to run but appreciate and encourage the effort out there; they may hate running for themselves but love a particular someone they know who was crazy enough to want to run those miles; or they may completely understand the joy and pain of running a race and also know the significance of just showing up and being there, whether they know the runners or not. Those people lining the course - faces familiar or unknown - complete the community that gets us through those runs. My people may not be at the finish line of every race I sign up for, but they show up in the ways it’s important. Whether they’re out there running that same course, cheering from the sidewalk or sending support when they can’t be there, they give me the strength and love I need during the hardest parts of the race. 

 It’s like that in recovery too. We go through so much of our day with only ourselves privy to the highs and lows of it all, and that can feel pretty lonely if we fail to remember that same belonging to something greater. It’s on us to show up and cultivate the connections we can find in our people, and we’ll know who our people are. When we work a program of recovery and engage in meetings and other recovery communities, we find that so many others share the feelings we might have thought were unique to us and that we felt made us monsters or other and thereby disqualified us for real connection. But our people are out there, even if we don’t see them every day or have the breath and time to tell them every little thing. The absence of people by our side doesn’t make our belonging any less. Even unfamiliar faces at meetings can be those people because they’re part of that same belonging that holds us. If we want to belong, we only have to show up; and we’ll find that even our solitary time is less alone when we take the risk of being vulnerable and honest about our recovery. I’ve been feeling more hopeful about things in my life recently, and I know that I owe that shifted perspective greatly to the people in my life who assure me that I belong, either by sharing their own relatable feelings or by listening or just being there as I try to be better about taking my internal walls down. I still have a lot of work to do on my part, but I’ve finally begun to trust that I belong to something. And once I can get past those walls, I trust I’ll find company rather than an abandoned space. 

There’s a time and place for the solitary runs, but running with company is invaluable. Most of my runs are solo, and while I think and learn a lot on these solitary excursions, I find myself preferring company to solitude more times than not these days. Even if it’s a slower or longer run than I would have opted for alone, running with a friend means we share that otherwise pretty lonely experience. I credit my running club with having taught me to value company in my runs. The Boston Bulldogs Running Club is a recovery based nonprofit with several chapters in the area. Until I started showing up to these weekly roundups, my only experience with community running was from my years on my high school cross country and track teams. I entertained the initial fears of failure, not being enough, criticism, etc., but I quickly learned that this was a group whose focus was wellness and recovery rather than speed and glory. We have a wide variety of running talent and experience, but no one feels more or less than the other. They say “just show up,” and that’s enough to belong. There have been many days when I don’t want to just show up, but because I’ve chosen to show up rather than run alone on days when I’m stressed or don’t feel like I’ll be good company, I’ve been able to see that seeking connection is always a more effective way to get through the hardest miles. 

Running and recovery are both solitary and shared. They’re something we have to do for ourselves and of our own volition, but in doing so we can let ourselves be part of something far greater than our solitary selves. It’s lonely if we keep the focus entirely on ourselves and perceive the challenge as something we alone have endeavored to grapple with. If we view ourselves as the only ones running in freezing temps or up impossibly steep hills, it may seem courageous for a minute, but that perspective takes away from the fulfillment and wholeness we feel in knowing we’ve done something in solidarity with something greater than ourselves. Likewise, nobody wants to be the only person in recovery. It can be amusing being the only sober one at a bar or make us feel good about our sobriety when we’re able to not take things personally at a large gathering or wake up refreshed when everyone else is dragging from a hangover. But it’s a far greater gift to know we’re doing these things because we have the support and love of others who have been through and are still going through the same difficulties and obstacles that we face in our own recovery journey. That shared quality of both running and recovery makes the solitude far less lonely and gives us the strength to endure as many miles or days as our journey entails.