In October last year, when my Achilles tendon had finally made its opinion known, I found myself in a park in Cologne. I wasn’t running. I was jogging, slowly, with my eyes covered and one hand lightly resting on the arm of someone guiding me. We were part of a workshop for sighted running guides—learning how to help blind and visually impaired runners move safely, confidently, freely. It was humbling. I was there to learn how to guide. But at that moment, I needed guidance myself.
What I assumed would be a short break turned into a long pause. The tendon trouble became bursitis, and then a months-long journey of adaptation. Orthotic insoles helped, to some degree. The pain is manageable now, but not entirely gone. Some runs feel light. Others feel like work. I run maybe once a week. Slowly. With no expectation other than showing up.
And yet, I’ve signed up for two half marathons—Cologne in autumn, Hamburg next spring. Not to race. Not to chase times. But because friends of mine are running them. One is preparing for her first ever race. Another just wants to experience the atmosphere. These events are no longer benchmarks. They’re markers. Not measures of performance, but points on a map—keeping me on course, giving shape to a recovery that doesn’t always feel like progress.
From Solitary Performance to Shared Experience
The truth is, this winter was hard. Not just physically, but mentally. Running had been a way to reset, to focus, to move through things. Without it, I had to find new rhythms. I turned to cycling—gravel rides with friends, long weekends, quiet roads. I added Pilates to the mix, which I’d always underestimated. And maybe most importantly, I stopped doing everything alone.
That shift—from solitary performance to shared experience—changed something fundamental in me. I used to think of sports as something I did for myself. Now I’m more interested in what it means to do it with others. The running guide workshop planted that seed. These races with friends let it grow. Maybe I’m not fully back yet. But I’m not stuck either. I’m moving. Just differently.
I still want to act as a running guide someday. But first, I need to become a steadier companion to myself. Less impatient. More attentive. It’s not about getting back to where I was. It’s about becoming someone who can run—not fastest, not farthest, but with care. With presence. With others.
Maybe that’s what I’m learning. That progress isn’t always a matter of speed. That showing up is sometimes the hardest part—and the most meaningful. That running, like life, isn’t about how fast you go, but who you go with.
Not faster, just closer.