The Journey of Running: How It Rebuilt My Mental Health

Trail running in Cape Town, SA

Mental health has been a lifelong challenge for me, something I’ve wrestled with throughout most of my adult life. Ironically—or perhaps predictably—I’ve built my career around supporting others with their mental health. My journey began with a degree in psychology, born out of a desire to better understand myself. That path led me to work in health and social care, pursue a master’s degree, conduct mental health research, and, most recently, work for a mental health charity. In helping others find their footing, I’ve often found my own. Giving to others has always been a cornerstone of my own wellbeing—a way to bring meaning and balance to my life.

But my story isn’t just about helping others. Like many others who find solace in physical pursuits, my story with running began at a moment of loss. For some, their running journey starts at rock bottom. For me, it began with a life-changing injury, two surgeries, and the shattering news that I would never be able to run again. To make matters worse, it also marked the end of rugby—a sport I loved deeply and one that had long been the glue holding my mental health together.

Losing rugby was devastating, but being told I couldn’t run at all? That was something I refused to accept. I had to find a way, not just for my physical health but for my mental wellbeing. That refusal was the seed of my running journey. I accepted that I might never play rugby again, but I wasn’t going to let go of running. And so, I began. Slowly, carefully, and with the determination to prove that even with an injury, I could reclaim movement and joy.

Sure, my injury affects my ability to run. I can’t run fast, but I’ve learned that I can run far. The challenge of pushing my body in ways I once thought impossible is what fuels my passion. Every run is a victory. Every mile is proof that I’ve turned what could have been a story of defeat into a story of resilience.

Running has transformed my mental health in ways I never anticipated. But before I delve into that, I want to be clear: I’m not speaking from the perspective of a mental health professional, despite my background. This is my lived experience—a raw, honest account of how running became my lifeline and my anchor.

The Power of Routine and Structure

One of the greatest gifts running has given me is structure. Training for a race or simply lacing up my shoes in the morning provides a rhythm to my days. That rhythm becomes the foundation for other habits that nurture my mental health—eating well, sleeping soundly, and staying hydrated.

As an autistic adult, that structure is even more vital. The world can feel chaotic and overwhelming, but running offers a sense of order. A training plan, a scheduled long run, or even the simple act of planning my route gives me a framework that calms my anxiety and helps me feel in control of my life. It’s a roadmap I can trust, even when everything else feels uncertain.

Forced Meditation: Finding Presence in Every Step

Running also provides something I’ve struggled to find in other areas of my life—presence. Like many people, I’ve tried meditation. I’ve sat in silence, focused on my breath, and tried to quiet my mind, but it’s never come easily to me. My thoughts wander, my body fidgets, and I struggle to stay grounded in the moment.

But when I run, something remarkable happens. The rhythm of my breathing, the ache in my legs, the burn in my lungs—these sensations pull me into the present moment in a way nothing else can. On a challenging run, there’s no choice but to focus on the here and now. The pain and effort demand your full attention, and in doing so, they clear your mind of distractions.

Running on trails amplifies this experience. The crunch of dirt beneath my shoes, the rustling of leaves, the sight of a winding path or an open horizon—it’s as if nature conspires to pull me back to the present. In those moments, I feel grounded, connected, and whole.

Space to Think and Reflect

Paradoxically, running also provides space for my mind to wander. While tough runs demand focus, easier runs allow my thoughts to flow freely. Without the noise of daily life, I can work through problems, process emotions, or simply let my mind drift. It’s a form of mental clarity that I rarely find elsewhere.

When I run, I often find myself having conversations in my head—sometimes with myself, sometimes with people I wish I could speak to in real life. These moments are safe, private, and cathartic. They give me the mental space to untangle knots that might otherwise overwhelm me.

From Struggle to Strength

Looking back, I can see how much running has transformed me—not just physically but emotionally and mentally. It has become more than a hobby or a coping mechanism; it’s a lifeline. Every step I take is a reminder of what I’ve overcome and what I’m still capable of achieving.

Running taught me that I could rise after falling, that I could rebuild after breaking. It’s a journey I’m still on, one that continues to teach me patience, resilience, and the beauty of simply moving forward.

If you’re struggling—whether it’s with mental health, loss, or the weight of life—I encourage you to take that first step. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to be far or fast. Just start. You might be surprised by where it takes you.