One thing I’ve always understood about my sobriety is that it has to be on my terms, not on the world’s terms. Sobriety, to me, isn’t just the absence of alcohol or the avoidance of substances—it’s a way of reclaiming my own life and writing my own rules, even when they challenge the way society defines success, discipline, or control. For me, sobriety is about choosing a path of self-awareness, one that empowers me to face the truths I’ve often tried to bury or numb. And as I began to take running more seriously, to recognize a hint of talent, I quickly realized that my old, insidious friend—the voice of self-doubt, of relentless expectation—was back and louder than ever.

“You should be faster.”
“Why’d you waste so much time?”
“You’re behind.”
These voices were there, familiar and persistent, echoing the old beliefs I’d battled with during my addiction. They’re loud—deafening, even—especially on the tough days. It’s that unsatisfied, relentlessly critical part of me that addiction once served to quiet, a voice that seems to say, “It will never be enough.” It doesn’t matter how far I run, how fast I go, or what place I come in; something within me is convinced that none of it will ever be enough. Somewhere along the way, I internalized this idea, this harsh standard, and I’m left with limited choices on how to confront it.

What I’ve learned is that the most productive approach is a three-step process: acknowledge, appreciate, and ignore. It may sound simple, but it requires an enormous amount of patience and honesty. The first step—acknowledge—is about giving these voices the space to be heard without letting them dominate. If I try to bury them, if I push them down, they only grow louder. So I start by acknowledging them. “I see you. I hear you. You have a place.” I know they’re not helpful, that they’re counterproductive, but I also recognize they’re coming from a place that was once valid—a place of fear, regret, and uncertainty. For instance, yes, I could have started training earlier. Yes, I could have taken this more seriously sooner. But recognizing that doesn’t mean I have to dwell on it or let it hold me back.

The next step, appreciate, is a harder one, but it’s a crucial shift. I try to find something valuable in those critical thoughts, however negative they may seem on the surface. I choose to appreciate that part of myself that wants to improve, the part that cares enough to want me to succeed, even if it’s expressed in a harsh way. I remind myself that this drive, this desire to push, is also what’s brought me to where I am today. I appreciate that I care enough to hold myself to high standards, that I take myself and my performance seriously. Sometimes, appreciation doesn’t have to be an active process, especially if the thought has come up repeatedly. I might have already set a boundary with that thought and know I can rely on that. But when necessary, I take the time to genuinely feel gratitude for that inner drive—even if it often feels more critical than kind.

Finally, there’s the step of ignoring. This is where I consciously decide to step back. I’ve heard the voices, acknowledged them, appreciated their intent, but now it’s time to move forward. If the negative thoughts persist and refuse to quiet down naturally, I give myself permission to ignore them. I’ve addressed them and given them their due; now it’s time to focus on what actually helps. This is where I walk away from the noise. This step was something I struggled with intensely during my journey with alcohol. Back then, I’d often skip acknowledgment and appreciation and jump straight to ignoring, or worse, suppression. My first instinct was always to shut those thoughts out, to bury them deep. But burying never worked for long—they would resurface, stronger and louder each time. Sobriety taught me that these voices don’t need to be crushed; they need space to exist without consuming me.

This approach has become a vital part of not just my running, but my daily life. It’s a practice of acceptance, of allowing my imperfections and insecurities to have a place without letting them dictate my actions. By honoring these parts of myself, I’m reclaiming control in a way that feels genuine and sustainable. Sobriety and running are intertwined for me in that they’re both paths toward learning how to live with the full spectrum of who I am—the ambitious parts, the doubtful parts, the relentless parts, and yes, the parts that will never feel like enough. And through this process, I’m discovering a version of myself that isn’t striving for perfection, but for resilience.