Complaining is irresistible. It’s like a bittersweet treat we consume when things don’t go our way. It has extraordinary power: it shifts responsibility away from us. The problem is the weather. The problem is traffic. The problem is your childhood, your ex, your boss. Complaining is the refined art of deflection.
Personally, I don’t like to complain, and if I catch myself doing it thoughtlessly, I stop immediately. Complaining whispers in your ear that it’s always someone else’s fault, something beyond your control. Is your job stressing you out? It’s the boss. No time to work out? It’s the family, or maybe a sudden commitment. Your run sucks? It’s the wind, the humidity, the wrong shoe, the alignment of the planets. Everything but you, of course. But running, when you take it seriously, is merciless. You can’t lie to it. You can’t bluff. If you don’t train, you don’t improve. If you eat poorly, your body presents you with the bill. There, on the road, you are naked, in your purest essence. And there you learn that it all depends on you.
The Universal Trauma
Then there’s another type of complaint, more subtle, more insidious. It’s the one that has taken contemporary language hostage: everything is trauma. Everything is a wound. Every stumble is a “red flag,” every difficulty is a sign that perhaps you should stop, protect yourself, not take risks. Traumas exist, there’s no arguing that. They are real, deep, complex. But their misuse empties them of meaning. If every obstacle, every disappointment, every failure is labeled as “trauma,” we lose sight of our capacity for reaction and adaptation. We become victims of a narrative that immobilizes us, takes away our power to act. Running, on the other hand, is the opposite. It’s exposure. It’s choosing discomfort. It’s putting yourself in a position to face your limit, and—above all—to overcome it. There’s nothing traumatic about deciding to work hard. In fact: in an era that sanctifies the comfort zone, running is a revolutionary act.
The Body Doesn’t Lie
The body has a gift: it’s honest. It knows no alibis. If you truly listen to it, it doesn’t tell you fairy tales. It knows when it’s tired, it knows when it’s lazy, it knows when it’s ready. And it’s there, every day, to remind you that you can decide. When you run, you can’t cheat. If you’re slow, you’re slow. If you’re tired, you’re tired. You can’t blame your coach, you can’t blame the course. It depends on how much you’ve slept, what you’ve eaten, how you’ve trained, how consistent you’ve been. The body teaches you the most trivial and most forgotten truth: if you move, something happens. If you don’t, nothing does.
Responsibility Is Freedom
Running is one of the few areas left where no one can run for you. And that’s a blessing, not a curse. Because in a world where everything is mediated, delegated, automated, running is pure. It’s yours. Taking responsibility is not just a moral duty; it’s an act of freedom. It means saying: I don’t control everything, but I control myself. And that’s enough. It pushes you to identify the true causes of what isn’t working, not the comfortable and reassuring excuses. It makes you understand that if you want to improve, if you want to overcome a limit, you have to roll up your sleeves and not wait for the world to help you overcome it, because it won’t. This is the great lesson of running, the one you then carry with you into everyday life. It teaches you to stop looking at the finger and start looking at the moon. And every step is a declaration: “I can.”
Stop Fooling Yourself
Perhaps this is what running truly teaches: to stop fooling yourself. To step out of the narrative where you are always a victim, never a protagonist. Because there are things that don’t depend on you, but everything else—the way you react, the way you cope, the way you get back up—that, yes, is in your hands. And perhaps the next time you’re about to complain, you can take a deep breath and ask yourself: “Does this help?” If the answer is no, put on your shoes. One more time. The rest will follow.