notes on trail running

you people were right. running is far more than it seems

I grew up playing soccer—I grew up a sprinter. Neither a polished nor form-focused sprinter with shoulders down and arms flush to her sides; but an explosive sprinter with busted hip flexers and mist in her eyes.

Sprinting has always filled me with a feeling of everything. I run fast and come to a screeching halt, folding over myself like a zine.

Going on “runs,” from post-soccer age up until about—say, two weeks ago—has always looked something like this:

Stretch, but probably not enough. Methodically queue my music. Maybe it’s Drumming Song by Florence + The Machine. Start walking down the sidewalk with a bounce in my step. Pick up my speed as the song carries on. Then, when the song breaks [2:18, in this example], I take off as fast as my legs can carry me.

I love this feeling. It’s awesome. I’ve become an expert mixologist, churching up my own adrenaline to yield a very pointed and cathartic emotional high. On the rocks always, garnished with mint.

me when i sprint

There are two reasons this hasn’t remained a regular practice in my life:

1. I end up hurt. My twice-broken ankle starts to remind me of its gnarly past. My arches scream at me. My knees beg, girl please, anything other than pavement, this is hell????

2. I thrive when I have a goal, yet there is no clear progression when you sprint and stop and sprint and stop. As much as I enjoy pushing until I can’t push anymore, I also value my own self-improvement. There is no metric when taking off for the hills, full speed ahead.

But hey, I’ve never been a distance runner. I’m no good at it, and I don’t like it.

Right?

I’m twenty seven. My soccer world stopped spinning ten years ago, but movement has remained the axis on which my world turns. Dance, so much dance! Yoga holds me in mornings, and in seasons. Shapeshifting into your local douchebag every time I enter a gym fills me with pure masculine bliss. And yeah, some sprints when I’m feeling juicy. A mosaic of movement. Yet I’m not satisfied with leaving a piece of the art unexplored if my body and soul yearn for it.

My body and soul have started to yearn for distance running. There may have been a ripple effect, watching my friend Kali joyfully run her first half-marathon in Brooklyn. Or maybe the energy of the annual New York City marathon seeped into my bones during my three city-girl years.

It could be that 2026 seems to be the year of Strava. Those little orange squiggly lines often flood my feed, paired with sweaty, accomplished selfies. I see folks flex 9-mile runs on their Instagram stories and I get the itch. It might just be pure movement-FOMO.

My heart beats and my legs move and I want to do that, too! My body is strong and I can do that, too, god damn it!

So I’ve shuffled my feet off the pavement and into the woods.

Shocker, Seattle-transplant is getting into trail running. Alert the press!

it's me and this damn vest vs. the world! also yes i realize some of these are on pavement leave me alone

It’s been good. I started a few months ago. It’s exciting, it’s kinder to my knees and ankles, and I now know the Discovery Park loop like One Direction’s discography.

But in my first few months, I still sprinted the uphills. I picked up the pace when Florence’s roar kicked in. Paris Paloma’s, too. Adrenaline-mining movement fueled me, subconsciously. I even gushed about it in my 2026 dream board manifesto.

“i’ve found great joy in these solo animalistic adventure sessions, especially when i remind myself that it’s for fun and for strength, not for external optics or a time/distance-based goal”

Fun, yes. But as a result, I wasn’t running very far or with much consistency. Sprint and stop, sprint and dance, sprint and stop.

Up until a few weeks ago, when something clicked.

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I got my feelings a little hurt. Or maybe I hurt them all on my own.

My way, is this: I jump in with both feet. I get really, really excited about something, someone, somewhere. I leap, I move across the country. I stay up late, I answer the call, I lace my leather boots tight and (Jo) march, toe-heeling it onward with no safety net below.

That’s your way, and you will.

On a random Thursday trail run, carrying the weight of sore heart, I realized something: Not only am I a physical sprinter, I’m an emotional one, too.

This has been a regular practice in my life. And I often yield the same result as I do sprinting up a hill.

1. I end up hurt. No, I have no shortage of love to give. Yes, my heart can withstand. But I don’t want to keep collapsing. I want to run for 9 miles.

And, knowing myself,

2. I thrive when I have a goal. Fuck 9 miles, I want to run the full marathon.

As I ran that day, I decided to try something new.

I slowed down. I breathed deep into my belly and held it there. I exhaled at half-speed. And I set a goal to finish the entire loop without stopping. No high highs and low lows, but a pace gentle and unwavering.

What I often hear runners preach began to ring true: Running is more than just running. It’s mental. It’s meditative. When consciously, thoughtfully, and intentionally running, your whole soul will bubble to the surface. Your very being and your very way will glisten through the branches overhead, and you must learn how to keep going.

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Sprinting is a release. It’s an emotional getaway train. And there will always be plenty of room for this in my life—plenty of wide open spaces to dance in and doors to run through.

But steady, distance trail running is something entirely different. It’s a practice in remaining calm, even when—especially when—calm is the last thing you want to be.

Since that random Thursday, my approach to trail running has reflected this. I’ve been tackling uphills slowly. Once I reach to the top of the hill, I don’t fold over and stop. I just keep moving.

I’m (at the beginning of my journey in) learning to resist the adrenaline spikes. To breathe through cramps. To control my lungs. To scamper around roots and stumps with a keen eye.

And since that random Thursday, I’m (at the beginning of my journey in) learning to breathe through my emotional sprints, too.

me when i trail run

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I don’t plan on dimming. I feel deep resistance when my dear friend Vanessa, the yin to my yang, (lovingly) hollers at me over the phone about being more cautious, about protecting my heart, being a touch more cynical, not always, relentlessly and naively, seeing the good, and the good only.

Despite, despite, despite, I will continue to see the good every time my eyes open to a new morning.

And I will continue to honor 17-year old me. I will always find time to sprint, to churn up the fire, to feel free and untethered, because simply, I love it.

But I do care for myself enough to recognize that my breath has the capacity to deepen. My shoulders have room to untangle. My feet could, and should, be on sturdier ground before I relinquish emotional control. My heart can be open yet resting in the palm of my own two hands, rather than another’s.

Sometimes, my heartache is inflicted not by the something, someone, somewhere—but by my own self, emotionally sprinting forward.

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January Emma started trail running for the joy of it—the joy in the feral, the ferocious, the animalistic.

March and onward Emma will keep trail running for the joy of it—the joy in the unexpected, the calm, the needed.

If distance running through the woods is the place where I’m reminded to settle down, to move slowly, and to bring what I learn on the trail into my every day, then what the hell, sure!

This wasn’t something I was expecting, but I guess that’s the magic of movement.

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P.s. I write this with my calf on ice. No journey is linear.

Thanks for reading <3