There’s something about running that never really gets easier—you just learn how to suffer better.

That sounds dramatic, I know, but hear me out. Running has always been the one thing that forces my brain to quiet down, even when it doesn’t want to. It’s where I do my best thinking (and sometimes my worst). And the more I learn about neuroscience, the more it makes sense why.

The First Mile Lies to You

The first mile is never fun. It’s that awkward phase where your legs feel heavy, your breathing’s uneven, and your brain is loudly reminding you that you could’ve stayed in bed. Every runner knows the mental negotiation that happens here: “If I make it to the next stop sign, I can stop. Okay, maybe the next one.”

What’s wild is that this exact moment—when you want to stop the most—is when your brain is recalibrating. The prefrontal cortex (the part responsible for motivation and decision-making) is trying to override your limbic system, which is screaming, “We’re tired. Quit.” It’s a literal tug-of-war between logic and emotion, and the only way out is through.

Somewhere Between Mile Two and Zen

At some point, though, something shifts. Your breathing evens out. The noise in your head starts to fade. You’re not fighting the run anymore—you’re just in it. That’s the flow state everyone talks about, when the brain starts releasing endorphins, dopamine, and serotonin like a chemical pep rally.

It’s kind of beautiful, actually. The same neurotransmitters that flood your brain when you’re laughing with friends or accomplishing something big show up mid-run—no audience, no applause, just your feet hitting the pavement.

That’s why runners talk about clarity. It’s not because we suddenly solve life’s mysteries between miles three and four—it’s because, for a little while, our brains are quiet enough to hear ourselves think.

The Post-Run High (and the Crash)

By the time I finish a long run, I’m usually somewhere between euphoric and slightly delusional. Neuroscientists call it “transient hypofrontality,” which basically means your brain temporarily powers down some of its overthinking regions. You stop worrying about what’s next or what went wrong earlier that day.

But here’s the catch: it doesn’t last forever. The high fades, the soreness kicks in, and reality comes back—usually with a side of dehydration and a desperate need for carbs. Still, it’s worth it every time.

Running as a Reset

People ask why I run when I could just go to the gym or take a walk. The short answer? Running forces honesty. There’s no music loud enough or pace slow enough to fake your way through it. Every step is feedback. Your body tells you when you’re tired. Your brain tells you when you’re making excuses.

It’s the most straightforward kind of self-discipline I know: you show up, you move forward, you finish. Even when you don’t want to. Especially when you don’t want to.

And every time I run, I remember that my brain and my body aren’t working against each other—they’re learning to work together.

Why It Matters

I think that’s what keeps me running. It’s not the miles or the times or even the medals. It’s the reminder that discomfort isn’t always bad. Sometimes it’s the brain’s way of saying, “Hey, this is where growth happens.”

Neuroscience has all the fancy explanations—neuroplasticity, endorphin release, adaptive stress—but the feeling is simple: movement brings clarity. When everything else feels loud, running makes it quiet again.

So yeah, running might technically be exercise, but to me, it’s more like a reset button. A moving meditation. A reminder that the brain, just like the body, gets stronger every time you decide to keep going.

Even when the first mile lies to you.