My hands were sweaty, and I wasn’t even running. I wasn’t even out of the car.

I wiped my palms against the fabric of my athletic leggings, then reached for my phone in the center console. Within seconds, a pastel-colored Instagram profile illuminated my screen, featuring groups of girls posing in their matching workout sets. Girls holding up peace signs mid-sprint. Girls laughing with each other, their faces shining in that glorious post-run glow.

Today would be my first time among them, joining an all-girls’ run club.

Before I moved away from my college town, I told my friends how nervous I was about building a new social life. All my closest friends had been introduced through school, and I didn’t know how else to socialize.

“I heard run clubs are great for that sort of thing,” one friend suggested, laughing. I rolled my eyes.

Sure, I’d seen run clubs getting popular among people my age. Every time I went outside, it seemed like I’d be trampled by one if I lingered too long on the sidewalk. But I, someone so unathletic and introverted, could never take part.

Until the reality of my move kicked in. I cycled between my work-from-home desk and the kitchen for weeks. I grew restless, looking for reasons to move my body more than its minimal required routine.

Even worse, I became lonely. I habitually scrolled through my long-distance friends’ stories every night. I’d watch them go to concerts together and roast marshmallows over beach bonfires, fueling an indomitable sadness. I yearned to connect with others face-to-face. If joining a run club was what it took, then what the hell.

For a moment, my hand lingered on the car door. Then I swung it open.

As the ground beneath my feet changed from concrete to grass, the girls became clearer in my vision. They hovered around the picnic tables, their bodies flowing through complicated stretches while they chatted excitedly with one another. They spoke with familiarity as they cracked jokes and discussed life updates.

My lungs constricted the longer I watched. The way they conversed and laughed and smiled with each other was effortless. I thought it would never be as easy for me.
My thoughts raced. Should I start by introducing myself? Stretch like I know what I’m doing? Eavesdrop until I hear something I can relate to?

A nearby voice interrupted my worries.

“Is this your first time?” she asked, almost whispering. I turned my head to see a girl, flashing an awkward grin. She held her water bottle in crossed, closed-off arms, looking as nervous as I imagined I did.

“Yeah, it is,” I said, my voice higher than usual. “Is it obvious?”

She shook her head. “It’s my first time here too. Nice to know I’m not alone.”

The group ballooned from twelve to thirty in minutes. The chatter crescendoed, and we traveled from the picnic tables to the trailhead.

“Which pace group do you think you’ll join?” My new acquaintance asked.

The club’s leaders explained the concept of “pace groups” — splitting the group based on speed, with all the fastest runners first, and slower folk last. As unathletic as I was, I knew my place.

“Probably the slowest one,” I responded. I held my breath, waiting for her judgment. I reassured myself that my athletic capabilities (or lack thereof) were not shameful, but admitting it to my potential new friend triggered embarrassment.

“Cool!” She smiled. She explained that she was aiming to complete a 5K soon, so she’d aim for the second-fastest group. She waved back at me as she ran ahead. She flashed a smile my way, saying, See you later!

Witnessing her flight forward made me want to do the same. For the first time ever, I was excited to run, if only to meet her at the finish line.

At the count, the “slow” group moved forward. Some girls began sprinting while the rest jogged leisurely. I considered how fast I would attempt the route ahead.

I’m here to run, right?

I picked up the pace. It felt amazing, the rhythm of my shoes against the ground while a breeze cooled my sweating forehead. I felt like, maybe, run club was a place that could foster some new athletic and social version of myself.

Then the pain started.

My shins began to ache, as if my bones tried to tear through the surrounding muscle and skin. Each step reverberated like a hammer to my ankles. 

I had no choice but to slow down. I tried moving down to a jogging pace, but the pain persisted until I succumbed to a careful walk. I trudged the rest of the way, disappointed in myself. 

I was the last person to cross the finish line.

My entire body felt distressed, and my thoughts lay heavy enough to threaten tears. I wanted to go home, where nobody had seen my sorry attempt of a run.

My new acquaintance leapt toward me, breathless but smiling. “How was it?” She asked. With an upbeat tone, it seemed like her run went well. 

“I think I went too fast,” I replied, attempting to rein myself in. “My legs couldn’t handle it.” 

I really thought I would cry then. The day seemed so promising, with my conversational success and athletic hopefulness. But in admitting defeat aloud, I felt like a failure. Since I failed my run, I thought I would undoubtedly fail at making run club friendships.

“You made it, though!” She responded with enthusiasm. “And now you know for next time. If you go too hard too fast, you’ll get shin splints.”

(I looked it up later. Indeed, I experienced shin splints.)

I blinked at her. “Next time” seemed unthinkable just a moment prior. But now, with a friend encouraging me, it didn’t seem so impossible.

We continued chatting, and she told me about her own painful or disappointing runs. I came to realize that everyone had bad runs, like everyone had bad days.

Eventually, we moved from the park into a nearby cafe, where the club hosted a post-run social. I didn’t know if I’d go at first, but I didn’t want our conversation to end. God knows my social life needed it.

And it actually went well! My new friend and I clung to each other at first, then other girls started asking if they could join us. We claimed extra tables to include everyone in the conversation.

Nobody asked about how fast we each ran. Instead, we discussed our lives outside the sport. Some girls were in graduate school, while others were raising young children. One girl was writing a romance novel, which was cool to learn as a fellow writer. I bonded with another girl over our passions for traveling and happy hour appetizers.

I even felt a bit sad when people began to go home. I desperately missed face-to-face interaction, and I wanted more.

So, I showed up to run club again. Then another time. Eventually, I was fully in it.

My new friend helped me realize that everyone just aimed to have a good time and reach the finish line. I couldn’t do that if I spent the entire run berating my body for what it couldn’t do.

My goal was no longer being “fast.” I aimed, rather, to meet my body where it was at. Instead of restricting myself with expectations and insecurity, I celebrated my best efforts. Even if it wasn’t much, I acknowledged that I was moving toward the finish line. That was a success.

(Over time, I actually did become faster. Nowhere near the higher pace groups, but I was still proud!)

I grew more sure of myself not only about running, but about my life post-move. I wouldn’t stay in the house all day anymore. Moreover, I wouldn’t be bound to the loneliness I once felt I deserved.

I became eager to attend the post-run coffee meetups and make new friends. While my nerves hadn’t fully dissipated, I pushed myself to make conversation.

After a few weeks, I gathered the courage to ask for my new friends’ Instagram handles. We started to chat outside the run club environment, connecting over movies, travel destinations, and Insta-worthy restaurants. Conversations became comfortable, a vast improvement from my first strained “hello’s.”

While I’m far from being a “fast” runner by any means, I’ve learned to enjoy moving forward at my own literal pace. And while I still overthink in social environments, I’ve learned how much happiness there is to gain when I give new friendships a chance. 

Even more than that, I’ve learned that not everything will, or should, come quickly. It’s taken me many painful runs and awkward conversations to stray this far from my comfort zone. Some days, I feel like I’ve gone backwards rather than rolling ahead. But a bout of shin splints or less-than-ideal chats don’t justify totally denying myself celebration and connection. It’s just another step toward my own progress: slow, sweaty, and as uncomfortable as it was meant to be.