The Mental Health Benefits of Running (As Told Through One Slow Run)

Science tells us that exercise increases blood flow and oxygen to the brain, builds neurons, increases focus, and decreases stress. Here is my empirical evidence.‍

When I set out for a run, my inner dialogue goes something like this:

“Ah, it’s nice to be out.”

“Does my knee hurt? Should I have worn these shoes?”

“Run to the creek and then walk a little.”

“C’mon Lulu! Good girl.”

I’ve been building back to a steady running state after a knee injury, which makes running with my 11-year-old yellow lab good for both of us. We need breaks. Her ears flop happily as she runs. Her happiness makes me happy.

We run slowly along a crushed gravel path alongside a creek. Cottonwoods. White fluff falling with the wind.

“What do I do about XXX?” The “XXX” can be replaced with any issue du jour: A family member having gone off their meds and acting recklessly. One of my sons not having written thank you notes from graduation gifts. A work project.

Silence. Rhythm. Breathing. Fleeting images of piles of stuff at home I need to clean up, a beach I’d like to return to. Which bag I’m going to use for an upcoming trip.

A bird flies overhead, dipping and soaring in a slipstream. Then circles.

“Is that a hawk or a turkey vulture?”

“I love that there are so many birds out here.”

Footfall. Footfall. Footfall. Breath. Breath. Breath. Wind rustling leaves in trees. A breeze.

I wonder if my family member will listen to me if I point out the difficult things.

“What do I say to get them to listen?”

“Is it my problem to solve?”

Sweat.

We get to a gentle bank entry to the creek, a good swimming spot for Lulu.

“Go on in, go on,” I say to her in my higher-than-normal-pitched dog voice. She does. I wait.

“Have Sam finish his thank you cards before he goes out tonight.” The thought becomes clear to me before Lulu is done swimming.

I voice text him as much from my watch: “Hey Siri, text Sam.”

“You need to finish the thank you cards before you go out tonight. Send.”

Lulu emerges from the dirt bank and shakes the water from her fur.

“Let’s go, Lulu. Good girl.”

We run.

“Run to the gate and then walk a few minutes. Don’t push it with your knee.” My inner dialogue continues.

“Just keep communication open,” I think about my troubling family member. I try to not let my body tense up.

At the gate, I walk. I let Lulu swim in the small pond with the tall reads and the black birds with the bright red markings on their chests.

Hands on my hips, I walk a little. Assess my knee.

“C’mon Lu,” I say. She runs out of the creek and onto the grassy shore, smiling.

We run up a short hill, slowly.

Rhythm. Breath. Rhythm. Breath.

“Maybe I’ll take the bag with all the pockets,” I think, as I jog the straightaway slowly, cows and horses off to the left. I put Lulu on a leash here because I once saw a rattlesnake on this mesa. She slows. I slow.

“Hi cows,” I say out loud.

I open the gate, Lulu and I both pass through. I close the gate, and decide to walk it in to the car. Happy that my knee doesn’t hurt, but I don’t want to push it, and Lulu seems content walking.

One more creek swim.

“Go on, go swimming,” I say to her.

Another shake. A happy dog.

Through another gate and I’m at my car, loading my wet dog onto her mat in the back seat. I exhale, start my car, roll down the windows. Another deep breath. The sun feels good on my sweaty skin.

Through my short run with walking breaks, dog swims, bird viewing, leaf rustling, movement, I’m better. I may not have completely solved all of the things on my mind, but I sorted. Made forward progress. Breathed.

Even if I didn’t think I was worse before I started, I am better as I drive away.

Through 35 years of running, this is what I crave.