I run, therefore I am (a runner)

Simple, right?

If you drive a car, you’re a driver. If you walk, you’re a walker. If you swim, you’re a swimmer.

So when did classification as a runner fall victim to so much vociferous gatekeeping?

I remember when I first started running, someone asked me if I jogged or ran. I’d never thought about the difference. They were synonyms to me: I run, I jog… it’s all the same, isn’t it? Apparently not.

Some define running as something faster and more intense than jogging. Some even attach a pace to what constitutes a run over a jog. Before the late 1960s, running outside “for fun” was considered a bit eccentric and often attracted suspicion. In 1966, track coach Bill Bowerman co-authored the book Jogging with cardiologist W.E. Harris, introducing the term to America to make running approachable for the masses. Arguably, it also created a class divide. “Running” remained elite, competitive, the territory of collegiate track athletes. “Jogging” became a casual, middle-class leisure activity. Purists quickly weaponised the term “jogger” to imply someone who wasn’t moving fast enough, training seriously enough, or suffering sufficiently to earn the title of “runner.” As mass-participation marathons took off in the 1970s and 80s, the goalposts shifted from pace to distance. Gatekeepers decided you weren’t a true runner unless you’d completed a marathon, disregarding shorter-distance athletes.

By the definition of speed, I am a jogger and will always firmly remain so, and quite frankly, I don’t give two hoots. Call it jogging, running or shuffling: the label isn’t the point. The point is that you’re out there doing it.

Others’ perceptions aside, isn’t it more often our own inner critics that take up the bulk of our headspace?

I must admit, I find it hard too. I spend a good chunk of time on Instagram and social media, and I can’t help but compare myself with other runners “out there.” When I started running, I was a good 20kg heavier than I am now. I used to tell myself that if I lost weight, I’d be more of a runner. So I lost the weight, and in the blink of an eye, I metamorphosed into a REAL runner! Did I heck! No, the same intrusive thoughts still rattled round my head. I know full well that others classify me as a runner because of my dedication to training. Others have noticed me more since I got slimmer, or faster, or ran further. But just because others see it in you doesn’t mean you allow yourself to see it too.

So why do we do this to ourselves? What’s at stake if we were to confidently proclaim, “I’m Jodi and I’m a runner!”? Well, this all harks back to our deep-rooted need to belong. As humans, we’re wired to seek out our “tribe,” and we’re just as wired to fear being cast out of it. Calling yourself a runner raises the stakes: someone, somewhere, might suss you out. What if you get asked your 10K time and it isn’t “good enough”? What if someone who runs further, faster or more often overhears you and rolls their eyes? Staying quiet feels safer than risking being “found out” and potentially ridiculed. We’ve rehearsed this rejection so often in our heads that it feels as real as the real thing.

Add social media to the mix and the problem gets worse. Instagram is a highlight reel of other people’s best moments: the mountainous long runs, the podiums, the perfectly coordinated kit and toned muscles. We’re comparing our messy, behind-the-scenes reality (the slow shuffles, the missed sessions, the mornings we sat on the stairs staring at our trainers) with everyone else’s edited greatest hits. It’s an unfair fight that was never ours to have, and we inevitably lose.

There’s also the trap I fell into myself: the idea that “runner” is a status you earn once you’ve hit a certain weight, speed or distance. But the goalposts have a sneaky habit of moving. Lose the weight and the goal becomes a faster 5K. Run a sub-something 5K and now it’s a sub-something half marathon. Finish the half and suddenly it’s an ultra: a 50K, a 100-miler… or further. If the finish line keeps moving, you never cross it, never celebrate your achievements, and never claim the title.

If you’re a runner and you’re reading this (yes, you!), here’s the good news: nobody has to give you permission. The dictionary definition is refreshingly simple: a runner is someone who runs. That’s it. Pace doesn’t come into it. Neither does distance, body shape, race medals or how many followers you have. If you lace up and head out the door, whether it’s for 30 minutes or 3 hours, at a jog or at a shuffle, you’re a runner. Full stop.

So how do we start believing it? Here’s the method that has helped me and my clients over the years.

Unhooking from the “not a real runner” story

I use Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) with a lot of my clients. ACT is an evidence-based approach built on a simple idea: the goal isn’t to silence difficult thoughts, it’s to stop being hooked by them. Fighting a thought (“Stop it, of course I’m a runner!”) just gives it more airtime. The method below draws on the work of Russ Harris, who brought ACT to a wide audience through his book The Happiness Trap (and is an all-out awesome guy…read his book!).

1. Notice you’ve been hooked.
The telltale signs are that your mood dips, you feel smaller, or you start scrolling and comparing. Harris calls this being “fused” with a thought, where it feels like an absolute truth rather than something your mind is producing. Just spotting it (“Ah, I’ve been hooked”) is half the battle.

2. Name the story.
Your mind has a few greatest hits, and mine has a well-worn playlist. Give it a title: “The Not-a-Real-Runner story,” “The Not-Fast-Enough story,” “The Comparison story.” Then say, “Ah, there’s the Not-a-Real-Runner story again.” Naming it reminds you it’s a familiar narrative, not breaking news.

3. Defuse from the thought.
Change your relationship with the words, not the words themselves:

  • Add a prefix: “I’m having the thought that I’m not a real runner.” It’s a small change, but it puts a little space between you and the thought.
  • Thank your mind: “Thanks, brain, I know you’re trying to protect me from rejection and humiliation.” Your mind is doing its evolutionary job, keeping you safe from being cast out of the tribe.
  • Sing it or say it in a cartoon voice. Silly, yes, but it’s hard to be crushed by a thought delivered in Donald Duck’s voice.

4. Make room for the feeling.
The thoughts come with sensations: a tight chest, a sinking stomach, a flush of embarrassment, the urge to avoid, retreat or hide away. Instead of pushing the feelings away, try Harris’s approach of “expansion”:

  • Observe where you feel it in your body.
  • Breathe into and around the sensation.
  • Make room for it, letting it be there without a fight. You don’t have to like it, just let it be.

Feelings that aren’t fought tend to rise, peak and pass much faster.

5. Come back to what matters and do it.
This is the “commitment” in ACT. Ask yourself:

  • Why do I run? (Maybe it’s freedom, energy, time to think, proving you can keep a promise to yourself, or feeling strong.)
  • What would I do right now if this thought had no power over me?

Then take one small step toward that value: lace up, head out, or share a run selfie because you’re proud of showing up, not to chase validation. Once you’re out there, tune into the present moment: your breath, the sound of your feet on the path, the rustle of the trees or the birdsong. Harris calls this “engaging,” and it works because you can’t ruminate and be fully present at the same time.

The steps in action

Picture this. You’ve just finished a slow, sweaty 5K you’re quietly pleased with. You sit on the sofa, open Instagram, and the first thing you see is someone’s 20-miler with a glowing sunrise behind them. Your chest tightens and the thought arrives: I’m not a real runner.

Now run through the steps. Notice: “I’ve been hooked.” Name it: “There’s the Comparison story again.” Defuse: “I’m having the thought that I’m not a real runner. Thanks, brain.” Make room: feel the tightness in your chest, breathe around it, and let it be there. Come back to what matters: you run because it clears your head and makes you feel strong. So close the app, drink your water, and plan tomorrow’s run.

The short version: ACE

If you only remember one thing, remember Harris’s ACE formula:

  • Acknowledge your thoughts and feelings (“I’m having the thought that…”).
  • Come back into your body (feet on the ground, deep breath).
  • Engage in what you’re doing (the run, the conversation, the nature, the moment).

A note on expectations

This isn’t a one-off fix. Your mind will keep producing the story, because that’s what our minds do. The aim isn’t to win the argument, it’s to notice, unhook and carry on running anyway. Some days I get hooked within seconds and it takes a mile or two to unhook, and that’s fine. The running still counts.

And if these thoughts feel persistent or overwhelming, or start spilling into other areas of your life, please consider talking to a therapist. Support is there, and using it is a strength.

So, here goes. I’m Jodi, and I’m a runner. Now it’s your turn. Tell me in the comments, or share it with #IAmARunner: what’s your name, and what’s stopping you from finishing that sentence?