Running Lessons: Finding Your Pace in Work and Life

I used to hate running. I really struggled to complete 5 kilometers. But something changed when I lived in Copenhagen—I decided to give it another shot, forced myself to run a longer distance than felt comfortable, and suddenly, I caught the bug. What started as a reluctant experiment has become one of the most meaningful ways I push my boundaries and, perhaps more importantly, get to know myself better.

I aimed to break 4 hours. For 32 kilometers, I was right on pace. Then I hit the wall—that infamous moment every marathoner knows, when your body seems to forget how to run and every step feels like you're moving through concrete.

Three Marathons, Three Different Lessons

This year, I set out to challenge myself in new ways. Not just to run marathons, but to run them differently, to test myself across varying conditions and distances. Three marathon distances in 2025, each one teaching me something different about perseverance, adaptation, and knowing my limits.

The Paradox of Going Slow to Go Far

Here's the biggest lesson running has taught me, and it applies to virtually everything in work and life:

If you want to go farther, you have to slow down.

It sounds counterintuitive. We're conditioned to believe that speed equals success, that intensity equals achievement. But in running—and in life—sustainability beats speed when you're playing the long game.

When I ran that first Copenhagen half marathon, I went out too fast and paid for it dearly in the final kilometers. When I ran the solo marathon, I pushed too hard for too long and hit the wall. But with each training run, with each race where experience taught me to trust my pace, I learned that pace management isn't about holding yourself back—it's about optimizing for the full distance, not just the next kilometer.

In work, we see this all the time. The person who sprints at 110% intensity might look impressive for a quarter, but they're also the one who burns out or produces unsustainable results. The team that rushes to ship without proper testing might launch first, but they'll spend months fixing what they broke. The entrepreneur who grows too fast without building proper foundations often watches their business collapse under its own weight.

Going slow enough to go far isn't about lack of ambition—it's about having enough ambition to want to still be in the game years from now.

The Harder Challenge: Learning to Run Slow

Here's another paradox: it's actually much more challenging to run slow than to run fast.

When you run fast, your body does what it naturally wants to do when excited—it speeds up, it pushes, it performs. Running slow requires discipline, patience, and the willingness to look like you're not trying hard (even though you are). It requires you to ignore your ego, to let other runners pass you, to trust the process even when it feels like you're not doing enough.

The same is true in professional settings. It's easy to say yes to every opportunity, to work 80-hour weeks, to constantly be in motion. What's hard is saying no, setting boundaries, deliberately choosing to do less so you can do what matters more deeply. It's hard to resist the temptation to show everyone how busy you are, how much you're doing, how fast you're moving. And I do know it is hard to resist—believe me, I do!

But just as ultramarathon runners who conquer 100-mile races do so by running at paces that look almost leisurely, the most sustainable success often comes from people who've mastered the art of going slow enough to go far.

The Mental Game: Believing When Your Body Doubts

Running is at least 50% mental, maybe more. Your legs might carry you, but it's your mind that determines how far you'll go.

One of the most important things I've learned is the power of believing in yourself while simultaneously knowing your limits. These aren't contradictory—they're complementary. Believing in yourself means trusting that you can handle the discomfort, that you've done the training, that you're capable of more than you think. Knowing your limits means understanding when you're pushing productively versus when you're edging toward injury or burnout.

I've developed a practice of visualizing races before I run them. I mentally walk through the course, imagine how I'll feel at different mile markers, prepare myself for the difficult moments I know are coming. When will the doubt creep in? Around kilometer 30? What will I tell myself when it does? I rehearse different scenarios: What if it's hotter than expected? What if I feel great and want to speed up? What if I need to slow down?

This mental preparation isn't about eliminating uncertainty—it's about being ready to adapt to it. When race day arrives and I hit that tough patch I visualized, it feels familiar rather than frightening. I've already been here in my mind; I already know I can get through it.

The negative self-talk that appears in the second half is real and relentless. "Why are you doing this?" "You can't maintain this." "Just walk for a bit." Learning to recognize these thoughts as normal, not truth, is crucial. In work and research, the same voices appear: "This paper will never get accepted." "You're not as good as your colleagues." "You should just give up on this project."

The key is acknowledging the voice without letting it steer. Yes, this is hard. Yes, I'm uncomfortable. And yes, I'm continuing anyway.

Running Your Own Race: The Trap of Comparison

Here's a truth that took me too long to learn: there will always be someone faster than you.

Always. In every race, there are runners who finish (very) well ahead of me. In my research field, there are colleagues with more publications, more citations, more prestigious positions. If I make comparison my measuring stick, I will always come up short.

This is perhaps one of running's most valuable lessons for modern life, where social media and professional networks make comparison easier—and potentially more toxic—than ever. You see someone's race results, someone's promotion, someone's paper in a top journal, and suddenly your own progress feels inadequate.

But here's what I've learned on those long solo training runs: the only race that matters is against the person you were yesterday. The only things you can control are your effort, your consistency, your attitude, and your willingness to learn.

When I ran that 50K solo in March, no one was watching. No one cared about my time. There was no podium, no ranking, no one to beat. It was just me, choosing to push my own boundaries for my own reasons. And paradoxically, it was one of my most meaningful running experiences precisely because it had nothing to do with anyone else.

In research, this means focusing on the questions that fascinate me, the work that aligns with my values, the incremental progress I'm making in my own understanding—rather than obsessing over citation counts or comparing my CV to my peers'. In work more broadly, it means defining success on my own terms rather than constantly measuring myself against others' highlight reels.

The moment you stop running someone else's race and start running your own, everything changes. The anxiety lessens. The joy increases. And ironically, you often perform better because you're no longer carrying the weight of constant comparison.

The Wisdom of Recovery: Building Strength in Rest

One of the hardest lessons for ambitious people to learn—whether in running or in work—is that recovery is not the opposite of progress; it's part of it.

You don't actually build fitness during the run. You build it during the recovery, when your body repairs the micro-damage and comes back stronger. Push too hard without adequate recovery, and you don't get fitter—you get injured. The concept of "junk miles"—running too much at moderate effort without proper rest—leads to chronic fatigue rather than improvement.

I learned this the hard way. Early in my running journey, I thought more was always better. More miles, more intensity, more running days per week. What I got was persistent fatigue and eventually forced rest due to minor injuries.

Now I understand that strategic recovery is as important as the hard training sessions. Easy days need to be truly easy. Rest days need to actually involve rest. The taper before a marathon—when you reduce mileage to let your body fully recover—is not lost training time; it's the period when all that training finally consolidates into race-day fitness.

The parallel to work is obvious but often ignored. We glorify the hustle, the all-nighters, the "I haven't taken a vacation in two years" mentality. But just like in running, this approach doesn't lead to peak performance—it leads to burnout. The most productive people I know are those who have mastered the art of strategic recovery: real weekends, actual vacations, evenings without email, time for life outside of work.

Recovery isn't laziness. It's intelligent optimization. It's understanding that sustainable high performance requires rhythms of effort and rest, not constant grinding.

Adapting to Conditions You Can't Control

Every runner has their preferred conditions. Mine are cold, early morning runs when the air is crisp and the world is still waking up. There's something magical about running at dawn, watching the sky change colors, having the roads mostly to yourself.

But here's the thing about races: they don't care about your preferences. They happen at scheduled times, in whatever weather shows up that day. And if you've only trained in ideal conditions, you're in for a rude awakening.

Running in warmer conditions has been particularly challenging for me. Temperature affects everything—your pace, your energy, your hydration needs, even your mental state. A pace that feels comfortable at 10°C can feel brutal at 25°C. What I've learned is that adaptation is a skill, not a given. You can't control the weather, but you can train your body and mind to perform across a wider range of conditions.

This means deliberately practicing in less-than-ideal circumstances. Running when it's warmer than I'd like. Running when I'm tired. Running when it's raining or windy. Each of these experiences expands my range, making me more resilient and versatile.

The work parallel is clear: you can't always choose your conditions. Deadlines don't move because you're not feeling inspired. Presentations happen even when you're fighting a cold. Projects launch in tough market conditions. The ability to adapt and still perform—maybe not at your absolute peak, but at a solid, respectable level—is often more valuable than being brilliant in perfect conditions but falling apart when things get difficult.

Learning to adapt isn't about accepting mediocrity. It's about building robustness. It's about having a wider operational range. It's about being the person who can deliver even when circumstances aren't ideal.

Listening to Your Body: The Art of Discernment

Perhaps the most crucial skill running has taught me is the ability to distinguish between different types of discomfort and to know when to push through versus when to back off.

Not all pain is the same. There's the discomfort of effort—the burning in your lungs, the fatigue in your legs, the voice saying "this is hard." That discomfort is normal, expected, and something you can push through. It's the sensation of growth, of pushing boundaries.

Then there's the pain of potential injury—the sharp twinge in your knee, the unusual ache in your achilles, the feeling that something is structurally wrong. This pain is your body sending a clear signal: stop, or you'll do damage that requires much more than a rest day to heal.

Learning to tell these apart is an art that comes with experience and honest self-reflection. It requires you to listen to your body without being overly dramatic about normal discomfort, but also without ignoring legitimate warning signs because of ego or stubbornness.

The same discernment is crucial in work and life. Is this work stress the normal challenge of tackling something difficult, or is it the warning sign of burnout? Is this relationship rough patch a normal part of growth, or a fundamental incompatibility? Is this fatigue just from a busy week, or a deeper health issue that needs attention?

We live in a culture that often preaches "push through the pain" and "mind over matter." Sometimes that's exactly right. But sometimes it's a recipe for lasting damage. The wisdom is knowing which is which.

Running has taught me to check in with myself regularly. How do I feel? Not just physically, but mentally and emotionally? What is this sensation telling me? Am I being appropriately challenged, or am I crossing into territory that's unsustainable?

This self-awareness, this ability to listen and respond appropriately, might be the most transferable skill running has given me.

What Running Teaches Us About Ourselves

Running has become a part of who I am, not just something I do. Every run is a conversation with myself, a negotiation between what my mind wants to do and what my body can actually deliver. It's where I work through problems, process emotions, and discover what I'm truly capable of when I'm willing to challenge my own limits.

Through running, I've learned:

The importance of showing up consistently. Missing one run doesn't derail your training, but missing the habit does. In work and life, consistency compounds in ways that intensity never can.

That you're mentally tougher than you think. The moment you think you need to stop is almost never the moment you actually need to stop. There's usually more in the tank than you believe.

The value of celebrating the journey, not just the destination. Yes, crossing a finish line feels amazing. But most of running is the long solo runs, the early morning wake-ups, the training days when no one is watching. That's where the real transformation happens.

That preparation builds confidence. When you've put in the work, when you've visualized the challenge, when you've trained for the distance—you show up at the starting line different. Preparation isn't just physical; it's mental armor.

The power of small, incremental progress. You don't go from couch to marathon overnight. You build, week by week, kilometer by kilometer. The same principle applies to any meaningful goal.

It's Not About the Achievements

I want to be clear about something: I'm not sharing these running experiences because I think running three marathon distances in a year is particularly impressive (plenty of people do far more). I'm sharing them because the process of challenging myself in this way has taught me things I couldn't have learned any other way.

It's not about the medals or the Strava screenshots or the race photos. It's about discovering that you can do hard things, that you can push past the point where you thought you'd break, that you can pace yourself for challenges that require sustained effort over time.

These lessons show up everywhere:

• In the project that requires months of patient work with no visible progress
• In the relationships that need consistent showing up, not heroic gestures
• In the personal growth that happens slowly, almost imperceptibly, until one day you look back and realize how far you've come
• In the career that's built through decades of sustainable effort, not through burning yourself out for short-term gains
• In the research that demands persistence through failed experiments and rejected papers

Finding Your Own Marathon

You don't need to run marathons to benefit from these lessons. Maybe your marathon is:

• Learning a new skill that requires years of practice
• Building a business from the ground up
• Raising children through all their developmental stages
• Creating something meaningful that demands your sustained attention
• Recovering from setback or hardship that requires long-term resilience
• Pursuing research questions that won't yield answers quickly

Whatever your marathon is, the principles remain:

1. Pace yourself for the full distance - Sustainability beats intensity
2. Going slow is often harder than going fast - But it's what gets you to the finish
3. Train your mind as much as your body - Believe in yourself while knowing your limits
4. Run your own race - Comparison is the thief of joy and the enemy of progress
5. Recovery is part of the process - Rest is where growth actually happens
6. Adapt to conditions you can't control - Resilience comes from range
7. Listen to your body and mind - Learn to distinguish discomfort from damage
8. Show up consistently - Even when it's unglamorous
9. Celebrate the process, not just the outcome - Most of life happens in the part between start and finish

Running, like life itself, brings you to beautiful places, such as in this case when enjoying the sunrise in Honolulu (January 10, 2023)