I’ve always loved running. Not the actual 5K-with-perfect-hair kind of running (although, yes, that too), but the escapist kind. Mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually. The Olympic-level sport of “nope-ing” out of whatever I don’t want to deal with. Ever since I was a kid, I could always find an exit sign. And honestly? It was more fun that way.

Now my Instagram, right on cue, because algorithm telepathy is real, is feeding me endless posts about “the only way out is through.”

Cool. Cute. Inspirational. Also: rude.

You can tell that to the part of me that’s currently hyperventilating at the mere idea of not running. The part that knows there’s nowhere to go but still wants to book a one-way ticket to Hawaii under a fake name.

I’ve tried every escape I was allowed to try. Life itself blocked the rest. I’ve literally done the emotional equivalent of pushing every emergency exit door and pulling every fire alarm. Still here. Still me. Still not escaped.

But facing what I need to face? That feels like losing control. Like shedding all the parts of me I’ve been clinging to like old band t-shirts that don’t fit anymore but still “spark joy.” I’m not ready. And yet I know life will keep throwing bricks of truth at my head until I stop ducking.

So, yeah, apparently I do have a choice: delay it or face it. Am I thrilled to discover that disappearing for three years to travel the world like some kind of Eat-Pray-Ghost is not an actual option? Absolutely not.

So cheers to whoever came up with “the only way out is through.” I know it wasn’t just one person. It’s clearly the universal tagline of everyone who’s ever had a shred of self-awareness and realized they can’t out-jog their own life.