Chasing the Runner I Used to Be

Why it feels impossible to imagine a life where running isn’t the center of everything

Jeez, this injury is taking forever to heal

There is a specific kind of injury that doesn’t just hurt in the body. It hurts in the identity. And that is the kind I am dealing with right now.

I have come to terms with the truth: this isn’t a minor niggle or a short detour. It’s a serious, stubborn injury with a long rehab horizon. On paper, however, I can do quite a lot. I can even run in a limited, controlled way. But everything happens inside a narrow corridor. Every session is negotiation.

Too much? Too little? Again?

My injury is not dramatic in the sense of crutches, surgery or being completely sidelined. It’s dramatic because it won’t leave. It has moved in, rearranged my routines, and quietly claimed a huge share of mental and emotional space. I live in this strange in-between: not healthy, not broken, just endlessly managing.

[+] The Liminality of Being Injured

And that’s what forces me into a conversation I never wanted to have with myself.

Why do I want so desperately to become the runner I used to be?

I don’t mean “back in shape.” I mean the full version.

• The one who ran six days a week.

• The one who logged ten to twelve hours.

• The one who raced five times before mid-season.

• The one whose entire life rhythm pulsed around training.

Back then I never questioned it. I only asked myself one thing: how much more is possible, while ‘more’ also meant ‘faster’ and ‘further’.

Now the question has shifted into something more uncomfortable.

What exactly is it that I want back?

Is it the running itself? Or the person I was when running filled every corner of my life?

(This is what I look like when I ask myself uncomfortable questions, Photo by Chris Drüke)

The part of me that refuses to move on

The truth is simple and a little frightening. I want that version of myself back because he felt stable. Not necessarily calm or balanced, but stable.

He knew what to do every day. He had structure. He had direction. He had a purpose that required no thinking.

When I was training fully, I didn’t need to negotiate with myself. The running decided everything for me. It shaped my moods, my days, my energy, yes, even my sense of worth. At least to a certain degree. It was predictable in a way nothing else in life is.

Now, without it, I can feel how much I relied on that predictability. Running wasn’t just exercise or a hobby. It was the internal architecture that held the rest of me upright. And I mean that literally, as my basic functions are compromised these days: sleep, eating, focus, mood.

I am not proud of that. But I’m also not ashamed. It just is what it is.

The fear underneath

What I am really afraid of is not losing fitness. It is the possibility of having to let go. That the runner I used to be was, in some strange way, my most complete form.

And if that is true, what does it mean now?

What if I never return to that level of intensity? What if I can’t? What if my injury won’t allow me to? Or something in me has changed and the old blueprint no longer fits the person I am becoming?

There is a thin line between longing and fear. Right now I am walking on that very line.

(Not much help, but at the same time the greatest help)

Why not change the way I run?

Yes, people have suggested it. A gentler approach. A new philosophy. More balance. More patience. More variety. Why not let running become a smaller part of life?

Because I don’t want running to be smaller.
I don’t want running to be casual.
I don’t want to be someone who “jogs sometimes.”

Running has never been a hobby for me. It has always been the central thing. Not in a toxic way (at least I hope so), but in the way that real passion naturally reorganizes a life around itself.

What is this "passion" thing actually?

This is beautiful and fulfilling. But it is also frightening, because passion is a double-edged thing. It gives meaning but also narrows focus. It creates identity but also creates dependency.

I know this pattern very well from my time as a musician.

Is another version even possible?

Honestly, I don’t know.

I don’t know if it could be different. I don’t know if I want it to be different. Because running only becomes a problem when it is taken away. When I am healthy and training and tired for the right reasons, everything feels aligned.
When I am injured, everything feels unbalanced.

It makes the whole situation confusing. Because the problem doesn’t lie in loving something too much. It lies in not being able to do it.

The real question

• How do you live a life where running can still be the center?

• Without letting it become the main pillar holding everything together?

• How do you hold passion with devotion but not with desperation?

• How do you let running define you without letting it imprison you?

I do not have a clean answer. I am learning this in real time, in a slow recovery, in a strange emotional fog where everything feels the same and nothing is clear.

What I am hoping for now is not the old version of myself.

I would love to become the runner I can be next. Someone who still cares deeply, still trains seriously, still loves this thing fully — but doesn’t feel like his entire sense of self collapses when running is not possible. A runner who can hold the sport close without clinging to it for stability.

Maybe that is the real challenge for all of us who build our lives around something we love. Not to return, but to evolve more grounded.

To become the kind of runner who can stay whole, even when the running stops.

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Everything Not Running

The last few weeks have been really exhausting. Other people may be more resilient, but the end-of-year rush always takes a lot out of me. I find the combination of endless to-do lists, “I still want to get done” tasks, and extremely frequent social interactions (how many Christmas and end-of-year parties can you handle?) extremely stressful.

That’s why I’m taking a short break and going on a Writecation. Sure, to write, but also to take a breather. I’m settling in for a few days in Trento, Italy, drinking espresso, eating pizza, and letting the many explosions in my head and heart calm down a bit.

I feel that 2026 can be a good year despite all the adversity, and I’m ready to do my part. But therefore, I need a cool head, a calm mind, and the focus I’ve lost over the last few weeks.

Off to Writecation.

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On Repeat

Remember when I featured MOST PRECIOUS BLOOD on On Repeat last week? Well, TURMOIL have a very similar story and hold a similar place in my heart.

They were a tad earlier and are still considered one of the classic 90s new school hardcore bands. The directness, the power, the message, the intensity, the anger. Everything was on point with TURMOIL.

“Let it Die” is from their 1999 album “The Process Of...” and leaves no questions unanswered.