I ran so fast I lost you: Returning home after a lifetime of ‘flight’

Running has always been in my blood.

My mother, Anna, was a runner. Not the kind who chased records or medals, but the kind who showed up at community races, wherever her "spunk" and fighting spirit took her. She was a "bok vir sports," as we'd say in Afrikaans. Ready for anything.

I think I inherited that from her (more nature vs nurture in my case). The drive. The perseverance. The refusal to quit and to do better.

But somewhere between childhood and adulthood, running stopped being something I did and became something I was.

When standing still felt dangerous

Long before I learned to run with my legs, I was already running with my mind to far-away places that didn't exist. I was escaping unpleasant feelings in my body.

At school, I'd stare at those four grey walls and disappear. Not anywhere in particular… just… away. Away from the heaviness at home. Away from the black hole of loss that had already carved out too much space inside me. Daydreaming became my first marathon, a mental flight from a reality I couldn't yet name or navigate.

From the age of 10, I discovered a new kind of running: achievement. The playful girl I was, quietly disappeared. She was replaced by someone who worked harder, got straight A's, and learned that stillness invited danger whilst movement brought safety. If I kept moving, kept achieving, kept performing, kept being good—maybe I could outrun the emptiness.

It worked. For a while. A pretty long while, I have to add. Well, maybe I thought it worked…

The human doing

In my twenties and early thirties, it became apparent that I'd become what Pete Walker calls a "Flight Type"—someone who uses constant motion to avoid feeling. I ran through countries (from Pretoria to Johannesburg to Sweden and to the Netherlands in little under two years). I ran through jobs and projects and so much admin as a consequence (I’m doing taxes in three countries now). I ran on pavements and through gravel paths, chasing the adrenaline high that made me feel alive, even as it masked my exhaustion and resentment towards others for not sensing that I was tired and needed rest.

I was a workaholic and a hyper-independent perfectionist with my starter button stuck in the ON position. I pushed past every boundary, hid my true self and my needs, and sprinted towards the next achievement, the next validation, the next proof that I was okay or worthy.

But no matter how fast I ran, she was still there. The resentful little girl who needed to be seen for all the pain she'd endured over the years. The hard work she'd put in to becoming safe. The wants and needs for fun. Play, that she had to push aside to work, work, work. This made her a dull little girl. There was so much resentment I wasn't facing, just running away from, hoping the next opportunity would be better, and someone would see me for who I really was and give me a break without me asking for it.

The crash

My burnout didn't happen overnight. It was a slow burn that I couldn't name until the house was on fire.

My first symptoms started in 2016 in South Africa. I was navigating getting married, studying, buying our first house, my husband's new career shift that had an economic impact, a looming merger at work that would change everything, and my mother-in-law's breast cancer diagnosis. I started feeling the anxiety in my chest and stomach. The anxiety I still feel today. I was feeling rushed. I needed to show everyone that I was fine, could handle all the pressure and kept performing, without complaining. If it got too much, I would get another flashy job where I would hope again that someone would see that boundaries are hard for me, and they need to help me.

Fast forward three to four positions and two emigrations later, we get to 2024, where I didn't listen to my needs once again and took a job working Pacific Time whilst I was in Amsterdam.

My body, which had carried me through every self-imposed marathon, finally refused to run any more. The emptiness I'd been outrunning for decades caught up, and I had no choice but to face it. My eyes started getting starry, my ears started popping, I had night sweats, panic attacks, and my capacity for any uncomfortable conversations became zero. I was highly dissociative. I was sad and depressed.

That's when I saw the little girl: I ran so fast and so hard that I lost you somewhere along the way. I left you behind.

I had to reconnect with the playful girl. The one who knew how to exist without performing, how to be without achieving, how to rest without thinking I had to earn it first.

I'd been running so long I'd forgotten she was the one I was supposed to be protecting. I think I was a bit ashamed of her and her neediness.

I was pushing her away because she wouldn't provide me with economic, political, and social safety. I needed to work hard to achieve this feeling... but, ironically, it was only when I felt this material or external safety that I could see her and what she needed. I suppose if I'd still been in survival mode in South Africa, this moment might never have come, or might have come much later.

Running free

I still run. I still cycle. I'm so serious about this being a part of who I am that they're even listed right there on my CV under "hobbies."

But something has changed.

Now when I move, it's not to escape, it's to feel. When I'm active, sometimes I catch a glimpse of her again. That strong, capable version of myself who doesn't need to prove anything. Who moves because movement feels good, not because stillness feels dangerous.

I sometimes still dissociate whilst I run. I ran so hard away from my anxiety last year that I fell and broke my hand, all whilst still running my best PB on a half-marathon. I really try to now listen to my body and its cues, to know when to slow down and when to speed up.

I'm learning to offer myself what I needed all along: permission to stop. Permission to rest. Permission to exist without earning it.

I used to run every day, which resulted in an injury right before everything unravelled for me in 2024. I now run two to three times a week, whilst also doing more intentional exercise like yoga and barre. So far it's worked out well. I did my first 30km race this weekend on my way to a full marathon. It's ironic how now I can move further than ever by pushing a bit less and offering my body the rest and fuel it desires instead of controlling it.

You don't have to keep running. You don't have to prove to anyone that you're okay.

The running that once fragmented me is slowly becoming the practice that integrates me. From running away to running free. From flight to embodiment. From human doing back to human being.

Running has also become more of a social endeavour for me. I run with the Haarlem Hobblers every Friday morning (people think I'm crazy for running at 07:00, but again I'm South African and the kick is better than coffee, I promise). I also have a cycling group, which pushes me to be better and rewards me with laughs and lovely croissants. Barre and yoga give me community-based breathing, meditation, and sometimes suffering, which is deeply connecting for me.

My mother gave me running. Trauma transformed it into escape. And now, finally, I'm reclaiming it as my own, one conscious, grounded step at a time.

This is part of an ongoing journey of healing and self-discovery. If you're also learning to slow down after a lifetime of flight, know you're not alone.