This week marked the start of my school’s two-week Easter holiday, and I returned home to Hanoi, Vietnam. The first thing I did after arriving? Tie my shoelaces and go for a quick late-night run. I was excited — not just to stretch my legs, but to see how my neighborhood had changed in the past few months, to breathe the air of home again, to feel it. I paid attention to everything: the lights of the small shops still open, the cool breeze coming off the lake, the rhythmic sound of my feet on familiar pavement.
It’s funny, because I didn’t even come to running by choice. Back in sixth grade, my parents started nudging me to jog a couple of kilometers every day. Just short loops around the neighborhood. I think they hoped I’d build discipline or resilience—or maybe they just wanted me off screens and outside for once. I hated it. I whined. I dragged my feet, walked half of it, and sighed dramatically every few minutes like I was doing them some grand favor. Back then, I ran for one reason: because I was told to. And I couldn’t have cared less about the world outside of myself. I didn’t notice the trees, the streets, or the sky. It was all just background noise to my discomfort.
And yet… I kept doing it. First out of obligation, then out of routine, and eventually—quietly—out of choice.
Somewhere along the way, the resistance wore off. I stopped resenting the act of running and started noticing the strange way it made me feel — clear-headed, kind of accomplished, like I’d done something for myself before the day even really started. And with that shift in attitude came another shift, one I didn’t expect: I began to see the world around me.
I remember the first time I noticed a sunrise — like actually noticed it — on a run. The sky wasn’t just getting lighter. It was streaked in orange and lavender, with clouds that floated like brushstrokes. I don’t know why it hit me so hard that morning, but I stopped mid-run, sweaty and breathless, and just stared. That moment changed something.
Over the next couple of years, running became more than a habit. It became a way I moved through the world. And the more I ran, the more I noticed. I began to recognize the trees that bloomed first each season. I could smell a storm before it came. I learned the different textures of wind — the warm, heavy kind that wraps around you in summer, and the sharp, biting kind that slices through your sleeves in winter. Even the ground beneath me spoke in different tones: damp and slippery after rain, cracked and hard under dry heat.
It was like I’d developed a new sense. Or maybe not a new sense — maybe just presence. My runs became rituals of noticing. I started to crave the quiet of early morning sidewalks, the rustle of wind in the trees, the flick of a bird’s wings as it darted from a branch. I ran past gardens and began to recognize plants — not by name, but by face. I moved through parks and could feel the slow rhythm of life pulsing through them: buds becoming blooms, shadows deepening with the seasons, the return of birds I’d seen the year before. Running didn’t just make me look. It made me care.
And then, like all love stories, the care deepened into responsibility.
I started to notice the trash. Chip bags stuffed under bushes, plastic bottles floating in gutters, face masks tangled in fences. These weren’t just “places I ran.” These were living, breathing spaces I passed through daily. And suddenly, I had a choice: pass through indifferently, or run with awareness.
So I started picking things up. I learned about “plogging.” I ditched single-use bottles. I stayed local for races to cut down on shipping emissions. I started reading about the land I ran on—not just the trails, but the ecosystems they were part of. I realized how little I knew about the native trees, the birds that passed overhead, the insects that pollinated wildflowers beneath my feet. What started as curiosity became reverence. And reverence became care.
I’m still learning. Still flawed. Still figuring out the balance between joy and responsibility, between lighthearted movement and deeper meaning. But one thing is clear to me now: running didn’t just make me healthier or more disciplined. It gave me a whole new relationship with the world I live in — not as scenery, but as something sacred. As something alive.
The planet isn’t just out there anymore. It’s under my feet. It’s in my lungs. It’s the rhythm of my steps, the trail that winds ahead of me, the silence I’ve come to cherish.
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