In running, pain is innevitable. Suffering is optional. In life it’s the same
At 3am the alarm light cuts through the dark.
The apartment is dead quiet, the city still. I shoulder my kit bag packed with gels and hydration, and take my first steps towards the desert silence.
Saturday was my first trail run in the Dubai mountains. I’ve been running for over a decade, but this was different. Over an hour away the mountains waited, rugged and stony, dust settling into the air like a veil. The terrain felt almost Martian—red rock, alien dust, a landscape both hostile and beautiful. Light lifted fast. Within minutes the sky held a grainy wash, like a visionary photograph on Kodak film—edges raw, tones honest, the world stripped of filters. its 6am, and a 90 minute drive from The Palm, a small group of trail runners greeted me with warmth and friendly smiles, led by running coach Lee Hill of UltraPerformance. They welcomed me into a tight-knit circle of athletes, each ready to push themselves in the name of growth and improvement.
The first strides were awkward. Ankles stiff, breath high, the mind eager to negotiate. But the trail took hold. Gravel scattered, rhythm found its way, the wadi drew me forward. Haruki Murakami’s words landed again: pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. The climbs were sharp, the stones cut into balance, my lungs pulled for air. Every step asked more than the road ever had, yet something in me unknotted. The body carried the strife, the mind found its release.
What do I think about when I’m running? I’m not really sure. In the 50-degree evening heat it’s sometimes the thought—will my heart give in? Or maybe—this is making my heart stronger. When I’m sad, I think about the sadness itself, why it weighs so heavy. When I’m happy, the joy pulses through me like voltage. But mostly, I let thoughts drift. I see them as clouds—passing, reshaping, breaking apart. I imagine myself as the sky—constant, blue, vast—while the clouds come and go. Running makes that possible. To hold stillness inside motion.
And this is what movement really is: not a performance, not a diary entry to offset the hours of sitting, but a way of living. The mistake is to treat exercise like a box to tick. One hour against the tide of stillness. It doesn’t work. The body wants rhythm. It wants friction folded into the day. Walks between calls, stairs without thought, groceries carried, not wheeled. Honest movement.
Mood follows motion. Stillness feeds rumination, shallow breath, poor sleep. Movement clears the static and makes space between stimulus and response. Shoulders settle, the heart steadies, choices feel lighter. You don’t need to have faith in it. You only need to start.
Anchor the day with three non-negotiables: ten minutes outdoors at dawn, ten slow squats while the kettle boils, five minutes of mobility before bed. Add strength you can carry—push, pull, hinge, squat, carry—two or three short sessions that leave you capable, not broken. Close the day with breath: four in, six out, five minutes before sleep. Call it nervous system hygiene.
None of this is grand. It is simple, repeated. Rhythm beats drama. The mountains reminded me of this—the trail is not conquered, it is lived through, one step after another, clouds drifting, sky unshaken.
Back on the ridge, the sun was up, gold brushing the desert. Heat built, dust lifted with each strike of the foot. It was painful, the hardest run I’ve done in years. And yet it felt integral, like something had shifted. Running was once the most painful, hardest thing I had ever done. Now it has become part of my day like breathing or eating. Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional. The desert trail—otherworldly as Mars—taught me this again. Movement heals, not by miracle, but by practice.
This week, move before you overthink. Walk before you scroll. Breathe before you argue. Choose friction over comfort. Build a rhythm you can carry into the week when it inevitably tests you.
Big love Chris.
P.S. If you want structure, I can help design a month with you: clear goals, a rhythm of anchors, strength and breath, all shaped around your real calendar so it stands up to ordinary chaos.
