On the Inherent Holiness of Running...

By: Nyla Vela

05/09/2026

The first time I ran on a track, I figured out what it meant to be born to do something. It was the 1st grade. I wore flare jeans and a t-shirt, and my gym teacher told us to run. I had ran in fields of grass to play tag. I had ran through the short hallways of my house. But that day, I ran on a circular blacktop track with holes big enough for my entire foot to fit in ankle deep, and I felt something I had never felt before...

I remember boys briefly sprinting to catch up with me, only to lose stamina and slow down, giving up. I remember them trying to match my pace and losing strength, maybe even losing interest, only for me to continue to lead the pack. I was the fastest kid in the whole school. I remember feeling the breeze and smiling. For the first time in my childhood, I was the best at something in my small pond. I was the best and I enjoyed it.

From then on, everyone in my life assumed I took running pretty seriously. I say this because most people who know me will find that I take very few things seriously. But I suppose the frequency at which I was running made everyone think that I had become a little obsessive. They weren’t wrong, but the obsession came from the way it made me feel, which was nothing short of incredible. I would run on Sundays when we had no practice. I would run without my phone and just think. No music, no running buddy. I would run 7 miles and leave the stratosphere and have time to become myself, free from the shackles of judgment, an important thing for me to have done at such an impressionable age. I would make up stories, whole worlds in my head as I ran. I would think through problems and solve them. I would run in the Summers before Summer practice began. I’d stay behind for extra hurdle practice with my dad. I would run and run and run. I liked getting better. I liked honing my craft. I just liked running. Seriously. I genuinely just really liked running.

One would think that this would make me the perfect athlete. A kid with natural talent who doesn't get beat up after a bad race because she’s in it for the love of the game. This was very much not the case. I was abhorred for not responding to the fire and brimstone coaching that was thrown at me. My coaches thought my enthusiasm was fake and came from a place of guarding my fragile spirit rather than a genuine love of the sport and desire for our team to come together in times of hardship. I would go as far as to say that I was probably one of our head coach’s least favorite captains. Unfortunate for her considering I was basically co-captain as a Freshman, so she had 4 years of dealing with my non-stop positivity that seemed so grating to her.

I used to try and have conversations about races in a practical way at that time. Am I coming out too hard? Am I using too much energy in my form? Am I not hugging the curve? What could we do in practice to ensure that my kick is strong enough? These conversations were met with eye rolls or never fully entertained before I was yelled at. They took this as not caring about winning. To them the desire to win should have been enough to make me good. But this was a fundamental misunderstanding of my character and my running philosophy. That was never what made me good. What made me good was that I felt dizzy with joy every time I thought about running. What made me good was that I wanted to people to feel this love that was so etched in my muscle fibers that it encouraged me to go faster and become stronger than I ever had been. I had no desire to win! They were right! Perhaps that made me a bad captain in their eyes, but to me if you love what you do, take pride in your results, and learn from them, you can never truly lose. You will always be in pursuit of your best self. That’s what I would personally define as winning. To me, basing running on race results was to spit in the face of the divinity of it. Running is a practice, a way of life that saved me more than once. It gave me purpose. It cradled my poor heart late at night and let it rest until morning when it was time to do it all over again. Cheesy? Sure. Genuine? Always (unfortunately).

In fact, the one and only time I was ever made to care about race placement was my freshman year of high school. My grandfather passed away on April 15th, 2015. A few days before the district track meet of my very first varsity season as a freshman. I couldn’t ride the bus because I had to attend his funeral. Between the newspaper articles written about my phenom status in this very successful season, my recent failed leg surgery, and the track meet happening in my grandfather’s hometown, the entire stadium was watching a perfect underdog story unfold. I was projected to win, all I had to do was run the race I had been running all season long.

I pulled up to the starting line, as nervous as I always was.

I’ll never understand the duality of my being in those days. I was confident. I knew my abilities. But I couldn’t fall asleep the day before a meet without dreaming of falling. I couldn’t approach a starting line without looking up at the lights and feeling a little dizzy. I couldn’t keep the shake out of my hands as I tried to fix my blocks to the track. I was always a nervous kid, but at some point I stopped letting that dictate what I could and couldn’t do. “Do it scared” they said. And I did. Always. I loved running. I would deal with my distaste of competition to do it as often as possible.

Over the speaker, an announcement was made. A man I don’t know, in a city I didn’t grow up in, announced that my grandfather was dead and that he meant the world to this town. He named some accomplishments of his, and then said my name. “And his grandaughter is running this very race today…” I looked down at my hands and felt something that I couldn’t name at the time, but I now can easily place. A feeling that I would become intimately acquainted with in my later teen years. I felt the heaviness of adults putting undue pressure on a kid who had genuine potential.

The gun goes off and I run a perfectly reasonable race. One my own dad and coaches would have been content with a week ago, but this was not a week ago. My grandfather was still alive then. This is an alternate timeline where the race I was expected to run was not enough, because it didn’t match the story that was being written out for me. In this timeline, my grandpa was dead and everyone was hoping I’d win.

I lost. I got second place by just a few steps.

I don’t remember cheering. I remember silence, maybe a ringing the way someone might hear after a bomb goes off. I walked, disoriented, to the side of the track. I collapsed onto the grass. The football fields were still grass then, not the plastic we have now. I collapsed and I choked on sobs. An entire stadium of people watched me fail my dead grandpa and everyone else who had been following my small town story of young talent and tragedy: The girl with a mysterious nerve defect, wins! She wins and wins and WINS!

Until I lost.

One coach approached me as I lay, a pile of myself on the grass. My hurdle coach. He gave me a pep talk. He yelled that my grandfather would be proud. I felt a million miles away. He told me I did good. I knew that already.

What’s worse? I didn’t even care. I didn’t care that I didn’t win. I didn’t even want to win. I liked running. The fact that I got to do it, no questions asked everyday for an entire school year was enough for me. Every morning I got to push myself a little past my limits. Every morning I got a glimpse of that little girl who beat all the boys with an easy smile on her face. I didn’t care about winning. I was crying, dry heaving on the ground in front of hundreds of people because, in that moment, I realized that love would never be enough for everyone else.

My grandpa was dead. He couldn’t care about me getting second place from 6 feet under. I knew that. But that didn’t stop the humiliation and disappointment I felt from the piercing eyes of my community.

I was proud of myself deep down. I ran a good race. I was a freshman who got second at district! Beaten by a girl two whole years older than me! The only people who cared about me winning were the ones who wanted a perfect story. A perfect underdog who wanted to win so badly she’d bleed for it. The ones who didn’t care about Nyla as a person, but only Nyla as Mission’s golden child.

But, I have never been a perfect story. I have never run a perfect race. I have never been more than a pretty good athlete from a small town. I know that.

But damn it, I still love running.

It never had an ounce to do with the medals that still hang unceremoniously from my bed posts. It never had anything to do with making adults around me proud. That’s what my coaches in high school never understood. Never would understand. The motivation came from inside me. I cared more to enjoy what I was doing. I cared more to get better than to win.

That was frowned upon. The goal on our team was to “weed out” the mediocre students despite their level of interest in the sport. Grown adults rolled their eyes at teenage girls who were trying to be good, but lacked the natural talent. They especially laughed at the bigger girls who wanted to take up this hobby and learn about it. Jesus, when someone asks me about running in earnest, I look at them like they’ve just asked me about my first-born child! I would never laugh someone out of something I found so wonderful and human. I would never gatekeep a practice I find so humbling and divine.

“I have a reputation to uphold. This is the strongest running program in the Valley” is probably the answer I would’ve gotten. I don’t believe that. My school had the equivalent of a flock of lambs they’d send to the slaughter every year, not fearing injury or burnout, only for them to reap the benefits of these poor young souls. All high schools are buildings full of kids, real human beings, with potential. Not bodies and numbers to build a legacy no one will care about in 10 years. I left high school feeling used, nearly broken in spirit and in my faith of the sport after years of my love and passion being spit on in front of my peers by adults who felt the need to put me down.

How many of my previous cross country sisters still run? How many of them had to take long breaks before they could find the love again? How many of them developed eating disorders because of the unrealistic body standards coaches had for their athletes?

Too many, probably.

And yet, somehow, I continued to run in college. No one told me to. I had no practice to fit into my schedule. But I did it. I did it because to me running is synonymous with living, with breathing. Maybe with loving, too.

That’s how I met my best friend, Mia. It kept me close to my boyfriend at the time. It gave me long conversations with people like Sam. I ran by myself and it felt just as magical as it did when I was 7. Everyday I thank the universe that I still run. That I still can. That I can share it with others without the confines of competition and rankings.

I won’t download strava. I have no intention of comparing myself to people who actually take running seriously. I will keep my obsession and hold it close. I will close my eyes and take deep breaths and learn more about myself through this intimate act of mindfulness. I will think and wonder and leave the planet, and come back, better, more appreciative, and, of course, sweaty.

Each step is a prayer, and I send them all up in hopes that I can keep this bit of religiosity forever. Running is mine. It always has been. Always will be. No one can take away the love I have for this small, holy act. As water, and thoughts, and machines run, so will I!

So will I!

Amen.