What Running Taught Me: How to Fail and How to Grow Old

Starting Over

In early 2020, I took up running seriously. Before that, I had been a martial arts enthusiast—training in Taekwondo and Wushu at Berkeley—and a regular at the gym. But once my first child was born, those habits quietly slipped away. I didn’t have the time, energy, or flexibility anymore.

Then the pandemic hit. Like many others, I suddenly found myself with a new rhythm of life. My long commutes disappeared, and I decided to reclaim that time by lacing up my shoes and heading out for a run.

At first, I approached running the way I approached my work: with structure, intensity, and goal-setting. I tracked my pace, set mileage targets, and pushed myself to improve. But over time, and with many sore muscles and unmet goals, I began to let go of that mindset. I stopped chasing numbers. I started running for how it made me feel.

Running as Meditation

These days, I run four to five times a week, usually covering 10 to 15 kilometers (around 6 to 9 miles). I’m not fast, and my form isn’t graceful. But I run anyway. Because I’ve learned that none of that matters.

Running calms my mind. It gives my thoughts a place to go. When I focus on my breath, the rhythm of my steps, and the steady beat of my heart, I find something rare: quiet. A kind of stillness I don’t often experience in the rest of my day. What began as a form of exercise has become something else entirely: a moving meditation.

And in that meditative space, I’ve learned how to fail. And how to grow old.

Learning How to Fail

Research, especially academic research, is built on failure. Every researcher knows this, but that doesn’t make it easier. From the first days of graduate school, I’ve faced rejection: papers, grants, jobs. Each one stings. But over time, I’ve learned something that running helped crystallize: to grow, you have to take risks. And to take risks, you have to accept failure.

When I first started running, I set goals that mimicked the metrics of success in my professional life—speed, distance, consistency. But the more I pushed myself to meet those metrics, the less joy I found.

Now, when I run, I don’t worry about how fast or far I go. I focus on the experience: breathing well, landing lightly, staying present. If I run slower today than yesterday, that’s okay. I’ll run again tomorrow. The same lesson applies to work. I still set goals. But once I’m working, I don’t obsess over outcomes. I focus on process, on learning, on flow.

As Haruki Murakami wrote in his running memoir, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, the goal is to keep going—day after day, with purpose and humility. That’s how I’ve learned to fail. And to keep moving.

Learning How to Grow Old

The other lesson running has taught me is how to age—not passively, but deliberately.

As much as I loved martial arts, it started taking a toll. I got injured more easily. Recovery took longer. I found myself wondering if I could keep pushing my body the same way I had in my twenties. The honest answer was no.

But instead of resisting the inevitable, I started adapting. Running became a new kind of practice—one that matched the season of life I was entering. I don’t train to compete. I run to stay connected to my body. To feel my lungs expand and my feet lift off the ground. To remind myself that I’m still here, still learning, still alive.

I ran my first official half marathon at the San Francisco Marathon in 2021. In 2024, I ran the Berkeley Half Marathon—during the academic job market, no less. In 2025, I’ll run my first full marathon, back where it started: San Francisco.

Since 2020, I’ve run nearly everywhere I’ve lived or traveled: San Francisco, Los Angeles, Lake Tahoe, Honolulu, Chicago, Boston, Washington DC, Philadelphia, and in South Korea—Seoul, Sejong, and Daejeon. In Canada, I’ve run in both Montreal, Quebec and Vancouver, British Columbia—on opposite coasts.

Each run etched something into my memory and left something in my body. Between official races, I’ve kept going: many self-paced half marathons, and more than a few beyond the half mark.

The Road Ahead

Running didn’t just give me a new habit. I’ve learned to let go of perfection. I’ve learned that failure isn’t a detour; It’s part of the path. I’ve learned that aging isn’t something to fight, but something to navigate with care.

As long as my legs can carry me, I’ll keep running. I’ll keep working. I’ll keep finding joy in the rhythm of small, deliberate steps—on the road and in life.