When the Body Rebels, I Keep Running

Running has been my anchor.

In the dark hours before dawn, when the city still sleeps and even the birds haven’t stirred, I lace my shoes and step out. The quiet is a comfort. My breath, the steady rhythm of my feet, the whisper of the wind through the trees—these are the companions that make me feel alive.

Running has never been about racing. Not anymore. I used to enjoy the energy of events, but the medals, the finish lines, the noise—they no longer call to me. What keeps me moving are the long slow distances, the solitary hours when my mind unravels its worries and I am free.

But the body has its own clock.

And menopause does not ask for permission.

The Slow Unravelling

It began with small betrayals. Nights that stretched sleepless. Mornings when my legs refused to rise with me. Hot flashes, sudden sweats, waves of nausea that left me clutching at air. The brain fog. The migraines. The endless bleeding.

For years, I believed I had built enough strength to endure anything. Strength training, core workouts, cardio—decades of discipline. And maybe they helped. Maybe they softened the blow. But still, menopause arrived like a storm that stripped me bare.

The thirty-kilometre weekend runs that once felt effortless dwindled into painful three-kilometre attempts. Squats that once made me feel powerful now filled me with dread. My own body, once my ally, had turned against me.

The Date

Yet, when the Wipro Bengaluru Marathon opened registrations, I signed up. Not for the medal, not for the crowd, but because I needed a reason to keep going. A date. A promise to myself.

On race day, I woke at 1:00 AM. My body already warned me: this was not the morning for glory. The rest room breaks, too frequent to risk the official course, forced me into another choice.

So, at 3:50 AM, while others gathered at the start line just 6 kms away, I began circling my apartment complex. Round and round. Dark corners. Uneven ground. Small climbs and dips. I stopped to wish the half-marathoners as they set off. Then I returned to my loops.

One hour, pause. Rest room. Return. Another hour, pause. Again and again, until the number quietly added up.

42.2.

No medals. No finish line tape. No cheering crowd. Just the hush of early morning, the rhythm of persistence, and the quiet knowledge that I had endured.

The After

The rest of the day was silence. My body, heavy with fatigue. My home, still and calm. My mind, for once, at peace.

Menopause has not been kind. It has stripped me, tested me, pushed me to the edge of what I thought I could bear. But running has taught me this: the body changes, the mind wavers, but the will—if you hold on to it—can carry you further than you ever imagined.

I do not run for races anymore. I run because it reminds me that I am still here, still alive, still moving forward.

And I will not let menopause pause my life.