“Are you a runner?”

“Are you a runner?”

“No!”

That was my instinctive response. Running was not my thing.

One morning in 9th grade we had selections for the inter-house races for the school’s upcoming annual Sports Day. I’d lined up on the tracks with the other girls in my category. An unsporty-seeming senior of mine in the next lane asked me, “Are you fast?”

“Haha, not really.”

“Then I’ll kill you.”

I was taken aback by her smug response. I was even more taken aback when she won that race. I wasn’t disappointed though; I hadn’t expected myself to win. Running was not my thing.

Cut to last year: my Krav Maga instructor would often lead us on a lap of our entire (large) apartment complex, interspersed with exercises like high-knees, butt-kicks, and lunge walks, and as we approached the last 50 metre stretch, he’d declare, “Now sprint till the end!”

I’d look at him with a mix of alarm, irritation, and exhaustion, but he would hear no protests or pleas. So I’d gather the last of my energy and somehow make it to the finish line.

“I said sprint! That was just a fast jog.”

I would be too out of breath to argue. I couldn’t have run any faster; I didn’t know how to. There were other morning walkers looking on, and it was embarrassing to run in front of them.

And running wasn’t my thing anyway.

We did the same end-sprint during a few more sessions. One day I really pushed myself and ran full pelt to the sound of my instructor’s approving cheers. “Now that was an actual sprint!”

Yayy!

And that’s when it hit me — there was no one else around that day who was really paying attention. More importantly, I wasn’t paying attention to them. I was able to run freely because I didn’t care about how I looked while I was running.

My self-consciousness was self-sabotage.

Sometimes you don’t know you have a mental block about something until you hit it headfirst. I’m not sure how or when I’d internalised that I couldn’t (or shouldn’t) run, but I realised that I was carrying this belief only when I proved it wrong.

I mentally riffled through my (accessible) childhood memories for answers. One snippet stood out: a shot of the ungainly movements of pubescent bodies careening down racetracks. I remember cringing at the sight and swearing to myself that I would never embarrass myself like this. As time passed I more or less stopped running; the increased focus on academics as we grew older presented a convenient escape.

A little over half a year ago, I started movement training. The trainer loved sprints and would often incorporate them in our sessions, all while extolling the health benefits of this full-body exercise. We’d also agreed to let him take videos of us doing drills during the sessions to make content for his Instagram page.

That was the first time I saw myself run.

I must have watched that video five times in one go. And then some more. I was fascinated. It felt so strange to watch myself run from another’s eyes.

I excitedly showed it to my family. “You run like a rabbit”, my dad commented, looking at my short, skittish, dainty steps.

Ah, well. Running wasn’t my thing anyway.

A few months later our apartment’s sports committee organised a 5k marathon. Participants were allowed to run, jog, or walk (most people did all three). I signed up hesitantly, at the last minute.

I’ll start with the first lap and see, I told myself. I finished the first. Let’s try one more, I told myself. Then I did another. And another. Come on, almost there!

That day I completed my first 5k! It marked the first time I received a medal for something running-related.

Last month I started strength training and was introduced to working out with weights. The last exercise of one particularly gruelling session was to pick up a kettlebell and sprint a full round of the volleyball court. We were going one at a time, and my turn was last.

I picked up the kettlebell, and flew.

The lap ended unexpectedly soon, and the others broke into cheers and praise.

“You ran so well, are you a runner?”

“No!” Was my instinctive response.

I’d shocked myself. I hadn’t thought I could do it, forget about doing it well. I’d never been complimented for my running before. I couldn’t believe it. My super sweet workout homies were probably just being their super sweet selves.

The trainer made me run another round to take a video, so I could see for myself. “See, your stride is perfect. Your heels are going all the way up to your bum. You’re only using the front part of your foot. Athletes train for years to run like this, and you just naturally run this way.”

So, am I a runner?

Maybe.

And that right there is delicious, hard-won growth.