On Running a Business and Running to Nowhere

Maybe you’ve heard the saying that growing a business is a marathon, not a sprint. Both have endings. Goals. Finish lines you can see in the distance. I could never see mine.

With MINNA, it felt like I'd been running a sprint for twelve years straight. But without enough water, or enough protein, and no directional markers telling me which way to go. Just the relentless feet against dirt, lungs burning, legs screaming, but never being allowed to stop.

Before I go further, I should say that I always struggled with identifying as a business owner or entrepreneur. Imposter syndrome followed me everywhere. And while I enjoy movement and played sports, I am by no means a natural athlete. My feet are flat, my knees and hips stage daily protests. I’m not particularly graceful.

I always wanted to be a runner, though. I wanted to be able to put on my sneakers and disappear into rhythm, anywhere.

A few years ago, at dinner during a particularly dark period, a friend of Mary's mentioned that running saved her life. Got her through a depression that felt like drowning. I laughed internally, nothing helps my depression, I thought. But something about the way she said it made me think.

So I went for a run.

It was ugly. I stumbled through my neighborhood. I was wildly sore the next day, every muscle in my body questioning why I decided to do that in the first place.

But I kept going.

For three years, I ran at least three days a week. Slowly, I worked up to 6.2 miles, otherwise known as a 10K. And while I never ran a race, I claimed that distance as my own small victory. Each one a conversation between my stubborn will and my reluctant body. Eventually it felt easier, though never easy.

Running became a ritual. A place I could untangle my thoughts and find myself in my body. Each run felt different. Some days fluid, some days impossible. My mantra became: "I've done harder things."

And I had. Most of those harder things were wrestling with my own mental health and navigating a business. Putting myself out there day after day. Hiring and firing. Swallowing rejection regularly. Being asked with barely concealed skepticism who actually ran my business (because surely someone with a BFA couldn't possibly). I was running endlessly uphill. But, I couldn’t stop because stopping meant letting too many people down. It felt like admitting defeat.

The hardest thing was deciding to close. To finally stop running that endless race.

Then, on May 13th I gave birth to my son. I can truly say now that I’ve done harder things, both mentally and physically. Now I am attempting to coax my new body back into motion, misaligned pelvis and all. I haven't managed much running yet.

And here's the thing: How is it that I spent twelve years running an endless sprint, chasing a finish line that kept moving, and all I want now is to get back to a place where I can intentionally run to nowhere?

Maybe the difference is that in business, I was often running from something: failure, judgment, the fear that I wasn't enough. Now I want to run to nothing in particular. To run for the feeling of it. To run not because I have to, but because I want to.

To run anywhere, to run to nowhere, to be in my body. Which might be the only destination that actually matters.