Run Your Own Race
Just a Guy Trying (and Failing) to Outrun His Problems.
Introduction
Some problems can’t be solved by running—but that doesn’t mean I won’t try. When life feels like it’s unraveling, when fear and uncertainty tighten their grip, sometimes the only thing left to do is move forward, one step at a time. This is a story about racing, resilience, and what it means to keep going when everything in you wants to stop.
I awoke to slivers of predawn light creeping through gaps in the tightly drawn curtains. Outside, the wind blew steadily, creating a low, mournful howl as it curled around the eaves and rattled the windowpanes. It pressed in rhythmic gusts against the sides of the house, sighing through the cracks like a restless spirit searching for a way in. I heard the patter of cat paws on the hardwood floor echo outside my bedroom door, signaling the presence of pacing animals who stood ready to pounce as soon as I emerged. Almost as soon as I became consciously aware, came the familiar disturbing thoughts that have dominated my consciousness in recent months. Stress, that familiar tightness in my chest, that cold pang in my stomach that stutters my heart, was lying in wait to greet me this morning. I closed my eyes and listened to the cadence of my own breath and became aware of the rise and fall of my chest; a function that had continued all night beyond my consciousness, but which now I controlled with intention.
Rising quickly and turning toward the morning’s purpose, I dressed in athletic clothes and crept out of the room and down the staircase, accompanied by the creaks and groans of its hardwood planks. The twin meows of hungry cats eager for their morning meal followed my descent. A dark, hazy glow welcomed me through bay windows as I entered the kitchen. Outside, tempestuous clouds extended across a slate-gray horizon, moving in unison like waves of charcoal and ink. Treetops danced and swayed in long, arcing throes, their leafless branches extending upwards toward troubled skies like a sea of fingers grasping for salvation—mirroring my own silent plea for steadiness in the storm.
This morning marked the start of another season of running races—one that would normally run between March and November every year for me. Last year that season was interrupted first by commitments, and then by injuries. As I drove down empty highways toward the race location, I reflected back on this same race last year and remembered bold ambitions and intentions for the year; visions of how I imagined the season would go. Little did I know that last March would be the only race I would run for the entire year. How would this year look in retrospect? I thought to myself as my tires rolled across a parking lot made from crumbled oyster shells and gravel, their pops and crunches echoing through the silent cab of my vehicle.
At the race area, I was greeted by a familiar scene: throngs of runners dressed in a mix of funny costumes and athletic attire, studying maps, pinning race bibs to their shirts, stretching in parking lots, or huddling together against the chilly predawn winds. A digital timer counted down from 30 minutes. Lacking a running partner this time, I stood alone for a while, letting my thoughts wander. My watch read a heart rate of 90 beats per minute—whether in anticipation of the race or due to the constant stress of life, I wasn’t sure.
I don’t know why the new year had to begin with such a crash, but for me, it did. One thing after another came at me, and within weeks, any certainty I had about the future had been torn apart. My 20-year military career is ending in nine short months, and I don’t know what’s next. My son, once bright-eyed and full of curiosity, is now shrouded in depression, his once easy smiles replaced by vacant eyes and monosyllabic answers. My business, a long-held dream, is failing and must be closed before it drags my family’s finances down with it. The future—once something I could shape through careful planning and decisive action—now feels like shifting sand beneath my feet. Every time I reach for stability, another wave crashes in, washing away what little ground I thought I had gained.
I have spent years training for battles I could see coming, for missions with defined objectives and measurable success. But this—this is different. This is a fight without a clear enemy, a struggle against uncertainty itself.
Determined to clear my head, I jogged a quarter mile down the road as a signal to my body: I expect effort from you today. A trail of runners fell in behind me, following suit, and we soon stood together at the starting line, stretching like old friends, bound by the shared anticipation of what lay ahead.
The Race
Every race, like every challenge in life, unfolds in three uneven phases. First comes the chaotic beginning—crowded, unpredictable, and tense. Runners jostle for space, feet striking the pavement at erratic angles, minds filled with noise. Survival mode. In this phase, it’s easy to be consumed by the chaos, to react instead of respond. The key is trust—trust in training, trust in preparation, trust that you can push through without being swallowed by the uncertainty.
Then comes the middle stretch—the settling in. The chaos fades, the initial adrenaline burns off, and the real work begins. This is where the pack separates, where those who trained with intention begin to pull ahead. Here, distractions fall away, leaving only breath, stride, and the quiet battle between effort and exhaustion. Much like navigating life’s hardest stretches, I find the key here is focus—learning to silence the noise, to lean into discomfort rather than run from it, to trust that endurance is built in these very moments.
Then comes the closing stretch—the moment where everything hurts, where the body pleads for relief, and the mind wages war against willpower. The finish line looms—sometimes a beacon, sometimes a mirage. This is where the choice is made: to surrender to exhaustion or to dig deeper, to pull from reserves that may not even exist yet. It’s in this moment that a runner discovers what they’re truly made of—not in the training, not in the start, but in the refusal to let go of hard-earned progress.
The crowd separated with predictable inevitability, and the impatience of the sprinters began to take its toll as they slowed. One by one, I regained my prominence toward the front of the pack. Ahead of me, I watched the front-runner—a 16-year-old—further his lead as the rest of us fell into a staggered line that stretched for several hundred yards. I ran alongside a young man for a quarter of a mile but pulled away from him as we climbed another hill. A few others raced to catch up to me, but then fell away. Soon I was completely alone, isolated by 100+ yards in front and behind me—space to run, to focus, to think.
I listened to my breath as it ebbed and flowed in tandem with my steps. I glanced at the trees and noticed familiar colors of red and green from buds that had begun to emerge. I felt my heart beat in my chest and said a prayer of gratitude for its sturdy and reliable presence in my life. My joints may ache from years of punishment, but my heart has never failed me—except when I have been reluctant to listen to its voice. I tasted the copper tang of lactic acid and exertion, that sharp, metallic bite that rises from deep in the lungs when the body is pushed to its limits, and before I knew it, I was rounding the halfway mark and turning back towards the finish line.
Immediately I wrestled with negative thoughts—only half way, I’m already falling off my pace; I don’t think I can sustain, I’m never going to meet last year’s performance; I am so tired… so very tired. Then, with a ferocity of a man sick and tired of being thrown around by circumstances, I pushed those thoughts far from my head and engaged a new gear. Two runners ahead of me had begun to fall off their pace. I saw the opportunity to gain another position, and I steadily began working my way towards them over the next mile. Step after step, I fell into a rhythm—not just of movement, but of words. A mantra pulsed in my mind, in sync with my strides: One step at a time. Clear mind, full heart. Run your own race. With every repetition, the pain dulled, the doubt quieted, and something primal took over. I was no longer just running—I was proving something to myself.
The Finish
I rounded the final turn and I kicked my pace into its peak, knowing I would hurt terribly once across the finish line, and may even vomit. I didn’t care. Now was the last chance, and I was determined to leave nothing on the field today. I may have struggled these past few months, but I was determined to run my race today. I repeated the following under my breath like a feverish chant of a warrior on the battlefield, refusing to surrender:
THIS is my race.
This IS my race.
This is MY RACE!
I passed the two runners in front of me with 200 yards to go, then determined in my mind that no one would pass me before I crossed the finish line. Like a panicked animal fighting for its life, I ran with reckless abandon, sprinting with all the energy I had left, pumping my arms to propel my tiny body forward. I imagined death itself chasing me, pursuing me with the dark clouds that had dominated all morning, feeling like I had been dominated by such bleakness and bitterness for so long that to run any slower was to be consumed by its horrid nightmare. The finish line grew closer, and through burning lungs, a deafening pounding in my ears, and aching legs, I did what I came to do. I held my own. I set and kept my pace.
I ran my race.
Crossing the finish line, I staggered into a walk, my legs wobbling under the weight of exhaustion. Instinctively, I scanned for soft ground—just in case. The traumatic brain injury I suffered years ago has left its mark in ways I can’t always predict. Sometimes, it’s nothing. Other times, without warning, I lose consciousness and drop where I stand. The unpredictability of it is its own kind of burden, an invisible weight I carry. Some days, I can almost forget. Other days, like now, I am reminded—no matter how strong my will, there are forces within me I cannot fully control. Another uncertainty to navigate. Another reality I have to accept.
Back at the finish line, I clapped for others as they crossed—some triumphant, some barely holding themselves together, all of them victorious in their own way. There was something deeply human in it, something raw and unfiltered—a reminder that the only way through struggle is to keep moving, to keep showing up, to keep running the race in front of you.
And maybe that was the lesson I needed. In a world where so much feels uncertain, where the ground shifts beneath me faster than I can steady myself, here was something solid.
Out there, beneath the grey sky and howling wind, I wasn’t just a man grappling with an uncertain future. Today, I wasn’t defined by my fears, my failures, or the weight of what I couldn’t control.
I was a runner.
I was moving forward.
And maybe, in a world that offers no certainties, movement itself is enough.
Author Bio
ES Vorm, PhD is a 20-year combat veteran, a PTSD/TBI survivor, recovering alcoholic, and the owner of a service dog named Spirit. Once a scientist in human-machine teaming and artificial intelligence, he left that world behind to embrace something entirely different: homeschooling his gifted daughter, rediscovering purpose outside of achievement, and learning to live in the present. He writes about healing, resilience, and the messy, nonlinear journey of becoming whole.