I crossed the finish line of the Brooklyn Half Marathon. I’m proud. And I can say this with certainty now: everyone struggles, but it’s part of the journey.
Let’s start with the simple question: Why do we run? There’s a compelling essay in The Conversation that describes running as punk, political, and profoundly good for your health. My 15-year-old self, who grew up in Paris, wouldn’t have bought any of it. But today, as a New Yorker (an adopted one, at least), it makes all the sense in the world.
I’ve been running for two decades, through streets and parks across France, China, Australia, Singapore, and now the U.S. Running supercharges my brain (well, as much as it can). I problem-solve, strategize, and spark new ideas on the move. I’ve had some of my most creative professional insights while putting one foot in front of the other.
More importantly, running in New York is a survival tool. The city is an exhilarating machine, but for those of us who have navigated its corporate gears, the stress can be relentless. Running is the valve. It releases tension. It sharpens clarity. And perhaps, it connects us briefly with strangers through a shared act of movement. These “non-virtual” microsocial moments, often silent and sweaty, fulfill a basic human need: to belong.
Running in Central Park at 7 a.m. is a particular kind of magic. That early, the world feels like it has evolved since covid, full of people chasing endorphins and sunrises instead of parties and sleepless nights. And I often wonder, can we please not go back?
A researcher at La Sorbonne once wrote a book listing 20 reasons to run, ranging from reclaiming public space to fostering inner peace and developing discipline. It resonated. In mature, urban societies, running has become a quiet act of rebellion and resilience. Sport, after all, is inclusive by design. My mother, who is French and once lived in D.C., often told me about watching the first woman finish the Boston Marathon in 1967. She was 17 at the time. That moment, she said, meant as much to her as the moon landing.
But back to the struggle. Why do so many runners hit the wall in a race? Because they’ve made a commitment to themselves. And few things drive human behavior more than that.
I trained for the Brooklyn Half. But the night before the race? Terrible sleep. Then, just after the start, my watch cut off my music. I fumbled with my phone, lost rhythm, and hit an unexpected hill. My heart pounded. I got a stitch. That was mile one. I had twelve more to go.
My body and my AI on my watch begged me to stop. I could have. I could have crafted a thousand excuses, explaining it away to friends, family, colleagues, or even online. But I knew better. I can’t lie to myself.
At that moment, at mile 2 of the Brooklyn Half, I had to choose: give in, or switch to survival mode. I chose the latter. One painful step at a time.
Yes, I finished. But finishing wasn’t the point. The point is, I didn’t give up on myself.
Now that I’ve done it, I’ve been thinking about that kind of commitment again. What if I redirected that same stubborn energy into something good? For my family. For my friends. And maybe, just maybe, I’m naïve enough to hope, for society.
Olivier
