Running My Own Race

(Tuesday, April 1, 2025)

It was hard to fall asleep last night.

I accidentally clicked on LinkedIn, and what popped up immediately was a shiny career update from someone I’ve intentionally cut out of my life.

In my early twenties, she treated me with side-eyes and made fun of the nerdy version of me behind my back. The worst kind—because to most people, she appeared jolly and kind. When someone who pretends to be good turns out to be cruel, it feels even worse than someone who’s just openly mean. At least own your brand. 

I know it wasn’t easy for her to climb into that elite world, and maybe that’s why she made sure I never felt welcome in it. The social circles, the coded norms—I didn’t belong, and I never wanted to pretend I did. I’ve never been interested in performing class.

This is all so outdated. So not worth my time now. But it did bother the twenty-year-old me—feeling like an outsider, like a clown sometimes.

So I cut ties. One of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

Still… when I saw her update—her new title at a bigger, fancier company—I felt it: that sharp little sting.

For a second, I thought, Did I waste the last few years? Did I waste my MBA?

For a longer moment, I asked myself: Why couldn’t I stay in one company for seven years like she did? Why didn’t I genuinely like everyone? Why wasn’t I more socially motivated—up for anything, smiling at everybody like she always seemed to be?

I watched the clock creep toward midnight.

And then I remembered something I’ve learned over the years: Don’t trust your mind too much at night. Don’t think too hard, don’t make decisions, maybe don’t even believe yourself fully. Everything can look different in the morning—including how you feel.

To bring myself back to reality, I thought: For all those “Why couldn’t I” questions, the answer is simple. Because that’s not me.

I shouldn’t care how much money she makes, or what her title is, or how happy she looks in filtered photos. That’s her life. Tant mieux. 

We’re not friends. We’re not even meant to be in the same chapter anymore. So I’ll let her live her life, and I’ll live mine.

The only job I have is to live my own life.
Focus on myself. Be myself.

—

This morning, I went for a run in the park. A lot of people passed me.

I had a scraped knee from another run earlier this week—it’s still bleeding, and every step hurt. But the pain was on the surface, not deep enough to stop me. So I kept going. Just slower.

And I thought: We all have to run our own race.

As a runner, you can’t care who’s passing you. Or who’s behind. It’s useless to care. Everyone’s running their own route—fast, slow, with bleeding knees or pristine legs. The only thing that matters is that you keep moving forward, in your own rhythm.

I’m not behind. No one can ever truly be “behind” anyone. We’re each living a life that only we can live. And we’re in constant motion—making progress in ways that can’t be seen from the outside.

It might sound individualistic, but I’ve come to believe this more and more.
I don’t know the nature or purpose of life.
But I do know I’m trying to understand the nature and purpose of my life.

—

Last Thursday night, in a bar thumping with EDM, I found myself holding my tenth beer when someone from school asked me what I was passionate about.

He’s a young Irish doctor. His dream is to join Doctors Without Borders. He’s learning French to be able to work globally.How inspiring.

I looked amazed, and he turned to me and asked, “What are you passionate about?”

“Hmmm,” I said, tipsy and thinking for a beat. “I don’t know. The career services advisor at my MBA program once told me—”

He cut me off. “I’m not asking what they told you,” he said. “I’m asking you. What are you passionate about?”

I did a quick mental search.
Career paths. Volunteer work. Creative hobbies. Nothing stood out.

I’m excited about the new job I’m starting. But I can’t say that’s my life’s passion.
I love art. But not in the way an artist does.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m afraid… I have no passion.”

He was about to respond, but then someone else—much drunker—crashed into our conversation.

Still, I’ve been thinking about his question ever since.

Can I be passionate about simply living my life?
But then—what about life makes me passionate?

Do we even have to have a passion?
Does it need to be something fixed?
Or can our passion change over time?

I don’t have the answers.
At least not today.

But I’d like to find out.
While I run my own race.
While I live my own life.