Running Scared: Meeting fear with presence

…Don’t stop. Not yet. I coach myself as sweat slips down my forehead and stings my eyes. My lungs burn with every sharp inhale. My calves knot. A faint nausea curls in my stomach, followed by a sudden, rising dread.

This is it — I’m done. Something’s wrong. I have to stop. What is happening to me?

Then it dawns on me: I’m literally just running in the park.
Nothing more. Nothing less.

This was the soundtrack of my early days as a runner. My body wasn’t used to that kind of exertion, and the moment my heart rate spiked and my breath sharpened, an old panic reflex would whisper, “This isn’t okay — something is wrong.”

And still… I’m the one who laced up my shoes.
I’m the one who walked out the door.
I’m the one who said, “Let’s try this.”

That contradiction — choosing something that feels, in my body, like danger — is exactly what turned running into one of the most unexpected teachers I’ve ever had. It brought me face-to-face with the way past trauma had woven itself into my nervous system, waiting for moments of intensity to make itself known.

Have you ever felt anxious or uneasy with exertion, like your body was sounding an alarm when nothing dangerous was happening?
If any of this sounds familiar, you’re definitely not alone — there’s nothing wrong with you; your body is actually doing its job.

What follows is my journey into running — how it stirred up my history, how it challenged the way I relate to my body, and how it helped me understand myself in a deeper, more compassionate way.

When Running Feels Like Fear

The moment it happens is usually subtle. I’m settling into my stride when my heart picks up a little harder than expected. My breath speeds up. There’s a tightness in my chest that feels eerily like the early edge of panic.

And my mind doesn’t miss a beat:

You’re not going to make it.
Something is wrong.
Stop. Now.

For anyone who’s experienced trauma or chronic stress, this might sound familiar. The physical sensations of exertion — a pounding heart, fast breath, the surge of heat through the body, and the growing tightness in the chest or belly — can mimic the very states our bodies learned to interpret as danger.

And on a run, those signals can feel incredibly convincing.

Why Running Can Trigger Trauma Responses

Running naturally creates a cluster of sensations that overlap with the body’s “survival mode” cues:

• A racing heart — your body prepares to mobilize

• Rapid breathing — similar to panic states

• Muscles tightening — classic fight-or-flight readiness

• The flush of heat and internal tension — can feel like emotional overwhelm

• The rapid rise in tempo — where everything seems to speed up at once — mimics overwhelm and a loss of control

For anyone with a trauma-sensitive nervous system, these cues are responded to quickly — not because we’re weak or broken, but because our bodies were designed to keep us safe.

Running lights up the same dashboard evolution wired for survival — the one meant to help us hunt or escape being hunted.

This is why exercise can feel scary, especially if you’ve lived through real traumatic events. Your body has made — and kept — strong associations between intensity, danger, and survival.

Understanding this doesn’t make the sensations automatically go away, but it can help us meet them with awareness instead of fear.

Realizing What Was Actually Happening

For a long time, I believed the hardest part of running was the physical strain. But once I grew curious and peeled back the layers of avoidance, I realized that was only the surface.

The deeper issue was an unconscious belief that running meant danger — a crossed wire in my system that triggered fear whenever exertion arose.

As I sat with the discomfort, a memory from childhood came back. In elementary school, we played a game that was basically full-contact rugby — no rules, no supervision, and older boys mixed in with younger ones.

A ball would be shoved into your arms, and instantly a swarm of pursuers would chase you until you were inevitably tackled into the dirt. I remember the dog piles, the suffocating weight, the panic of being trapped under bodies.

The older boys used the game to bully, so if the ball ended up in your arms, you ran — not for fun, but to avoid being hurt. Refusing only made it worse.

It made more and more sense to me that some part of me still equated running with danger.

Many of us carry these old somatic associations without realizing it. They aren’t always conscious memories — they’re felt imprints stored in the body. And they stay buried until something — like a spike in heart rate or breath — brings them back online.

As I kept running, I recognized that this fearful reaction wasn’t new. It appeared in conflict, pressure, overwhelm — anywhere intensity lived.

Running didn’t create the fear; it just turned up the volume enough for me to finally hear it.

And because running offered a controlled environment — one where I could slow or stop whenever I needed — I finally had room to observe that voice instead of obey it.

That was the beginning of understanding that the problem wasn’t the intensity itself, but the old meaning attached to it.

The Moment I Became Curious

All of this was swirling beneath the surface long before I had language for it. But there was a moment when things clicked.

One day, mid-run, chest tight and breath ragged, a new thought cut through the noise:

“Oh — this is intensity, not threat. And I invited it.”

On its own, that realization isn’t profound. I knew logically that I had chosen to run.

What made it important was when it landed — right in the middle of activation, while my nervous system was surging and my fear response was already online. For the first time, I was able to integrate a grounding thought through the static of intensity instead of only before or after it.

That single moment of clarity created just enough space to wonder:

What if my body isn’t in danger?
What if this is simply intensity?
What if I can experience these sensations without assuming the worst?

That curiosity helped my body relearn that running wasn’t danger, but an intentional container — a safe place to notice what arises and practice moving between activation and ease with presence.

Running as Controlled Stress (Pendulation in Action)

Here’s why this matters, from a trauma-informed perspective:

Running offers a structured, predictable opportunity to:

• Activate the nervous system on purpose

• Notice the sensations that arise

• Practice staying present during activation

• Gently pendulate between effort and ease

• Rebuild tolerance for intensity

• Reality-test for “unsafe or just uncomfortable?”

• Strengthen mind–body connection through repetition

The goal isn’t to push harder.
The goal is to stay connected to yourself while doing something challenging.

Mindfulness-in-Action: How I Talk to Myself While Running

Staying connected to myself during intensity didn’t happen automatically — I had to practice it.

Over time, I found ways to track and adjust my inner dialogue while I was activated. What follows are the practical, steadying tools that grew out of that work — rooted in mindfulness, somatic tracking, and trauma-sensitive grounding.

1. Name the Sensation

“My heart is pounding.”
“My breath is fast.”
“My chest feels tight.”

Naming what’s happening reduces the power of the unknown.

2. Separate Sensation From Story

“This feels like fear.”
“But sensation is not danger.”
“My body is doing exactly what it should during exertion.”

3. Reorient to Choice

“I chose to run.”
“I can slow down or stop anytime.”
“This is a safe environment.”

Reminding yourself of choice transforms activation into empowerment.

4. Offer Compassionate Reframing

Instead of: “I’m not going to make it.”
Try: “My body is working hard. I can support it.”

5. Reality-Test the Safety

I check:
• my form
• my surroundings
• my breath
• the actual conditions of the moment

Then I remind myself:
“This is challenging, not dangerous.”

6. Permission to Slow or Stop

This is crucial.
Pushing past your window of tolerance defeats the purpose.
Slowing down is the practice.

The Shift: What Happens When I Stay With Myself

I’ve noticed that when I stay mindful and don’t abandon myself during the intensity — when I stay with my breath, my body, and the fear that rises — something begins to shift.

My heartbeat steadies.
My breath evens out.
The panic softens.
And that dramatic inner voice loses its urgency.

The experience stops feeling like I’m running away from something and starts feeling like running with myself— present, aware, and connected.

Instead of bracing against the sensations or trying to outrun them, I’m able to meet them. And in that meeting, something reorganizes inside me.

I feel more at peace with my body, and running becomes a source of relief rather than a trigger.

Why This Matters for Trauma Healing

This practice reaches far beyond running.

The core elements of mindfulness apply to any part of life that feels overwhelming. For example, if being around groups of people or crowded spaces puts you on edge, you can gently titrate that experience — starting with a short visit to a department store, then a mall, and eventually a concert or busy event.

Over time, practicing in this gradual, intentional way begins to shift how your nervous system relates to intensity, effort, and fear.

Here are a few of the changes that emerge:

• Intensity becomes tolerable

• Fear becomes information rather than an alarm

• Your self-talk grows more compassionate

• The body starts to feel like a partner instead of an adversary

• You learn you can feel big sensations and still be safe

• You build trust in your capacity to stay present

This is trauma healing in real time — not the absence of fear, but the ability to stay with yourself through it — the very heart of self-regulation.

A Different Way to Meet Your Body

Running isn’t for everyone, and it doesn’t need to be. What matters isn’t the activity itself, but the way you meet your body inside it.

Any form of chosen, contained exertion — approached slowly, kindly, and with permission to stop — can open a new relationship with your nervous system.

You get to experiment.
You get to choose the pace.
You get to stay with yourself through intensity rather than flee from it.

And maybe, like me, you’ll come to see that the fear that rises is a sign of aliveness, not failure — an old instinct coming back into service.

This is the quiet power of mindful movement:
It reconnects you with your body, restores your sense of choice, and strengthens your capacity to stay steady in the face of intensity.
And as that grows, you may find you’re not running scared anymore — you’re running brave.