No, it's NOT me...
I almost didn’t publish the article about my first (and only) session of rejoining a running club after ten years- Is It Me.
There were still some doubts swirling around my head as I continued to dissect the part I played in the session, a lingering voice telling I shouldn’t really make a fuss, and the worry that I would come across as critical.
But yet, I really wanted to know if it was just me. So I bit the bullet and pressed publish anyway.
The messages started coming through quite quickly - people thanking me for my honesty, many surprised, yet pleased that someone “like me” (their words) could feel the same way they did.
I received some positive messages, I should say, of people who’d found a club that had supported them properly. But sadly the majority reflected my experience of disappointment and self-blame, the more I read the more I saw that they shared an uncanny familiar narrative arc.
Each story began with the same excitement and anticipation about joining a running group and finally being called a “runner”. There was a lot of detail in the explanations of why a particular club had been chosen. No one arrived on impulse; they’d researched, they’d checked for evidence of safety - they’d looked at websites, social media content, all of which emphasised friendships and communities, the inclusivity of the language used gave all the assurance they needed.
The saying “hopefulness is hard-earned” never rang truer as each story unravelled, I could feel the optimism of intention and the leap of bravery they’d dared to take.
In one message I was told how she’d read everything meticulously beforehand, what to wear, where to meet and that someone would be there to greet her, these reassurances made her feel she’d be looked after.
But when she got there all she saw was a sea of people blocking the designated meeting point; in her eyes not one of them “looking” like a fellow beginner. There was no clear place to stand and no one obviously in charge to talk to.
She knew she looked lost, she said she felt out of place, but she found the courage to ask someone where she should go. Suddenly, she was being hustled into the middle of the group, and the person she’d asked for help was shouting “we’ve got a beginner” over the heads of everyone, pointing her out to the previously unseen leader. Suddenly, everyone was looking at her, and she started to wonder what she had gotten herself into. She started questioning what she’d signed up to.
Someone else shared with me that, while trying to figure out how things work, she asked a question. She said, “I’m sure the answer wasn’t intentionally harsh, but the tone was corrective, it implied I should’ve already known this. I was embarrassed, did everyone else know this? Was it just me? I instinctively knew at that moment, not to ask any more questions”.
In all these stories, in all the different messages and the different clubs, the feelings and the same inevitable ending came up again and again:
“I didn’t go back” “I missed a couple” “I was too tired” “I’m not a runner” “I couldn’t keep up” “I was too slow”.
When people expressed surprise that someone “like me” would even ask, “Is it me?” I knew the conversation wasn’t about experience or skill, but rather about what happens in the interactions between individuals. Because even someone “like me”, an experienced runner, needs to feel psychologically safe.
Psychological safety is a state where individuals can ask questions or make mistakes without fearing judgment. Unlike physical safety, it is less tangible and difficult to measure, especially since vulnerability in running has often been viewed as weakness under mantras like “no pain, no gain” and “consistency is key.”
Onboarding language such as “we cater for all abilities”, “we are inclusive and supportive”, “no one gets left behind” ,“we will look after every single one of you” are words that successfully market inclusion, they lower people’s guard and promise both physically and psychological safety from the onset.
I know how much those onboarding words matter, the ones that promise you’ll be looked after, I used to be the one making the promises and I’ve seen what happens when the promise doesn’t hold.
The last-minute messages before a session or a graduation parkrun – family emergencies, upset tummies, headaches, car trouble, childcare issues. Over the years, I recognised the pattern and with it came a growing disquiet and the realisation that it was in fact something that I’d got wrong.
I can still picture the last person’s face as they crossed the finish line. Surrounded by cheers intended to show support, often instead revealing a discomfort of being the centre of attention, quick goodbyes followed with promises of “see you next week”, only to never see them again.
I adapted the structures, tightened the looping, softened my teacher edges, and dropped the graduation parkrun. I removed all the fixed, numerical success criteria but it took me a long time to understand what was really happening in those moments.
Because it was about how quickly people formed assumptions about their experiences and how easily they excepted them as true, regardless of whether they were or not.
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I was talking to my husband about this earlier in the week. He was telling me about someone at work who’d checked in on him to see if he was ok, before they “climbed the ladder of inference”. He just didn’t get it, I said to him “they’re asking if there’s a reason you didn’t reply to their email before they create a narrative about you that’s not true”
He laughed, “what? Let me get this right, they’re checking in on me before they make up some shit about me”
“Basically, yes,” I said, “they’re trying not to build a story about you that isn’t true”
He looked exhausted by it all, I felt a bit sorry for him.
He sighed heavily, “so, let me get this right, I’ve got to let them know that I’m busy, I’m a bit overwhelmed with emails and that’s the only reason I didn’t reply to them. Not because I couldn’t be bothered or that I don’t like them?”
After a moment, he laughed again, “can you imagine if we did that on the submarines?” he continued “there’s no room for “stories” you do your job, or you don’t. It’s as simple as that”.
Most of us don’t live in such a clear-cut system, but what we do recognise is how quickly we can jump to conclusions about a situation, or ourselves, when we don’t feel psychologically safe enough to ask.
And that’s exactly what I was hearing in those messages, all those small moments that didn’t quite land leading to an internal assumption followed by a mammoth climb to the top of the “ladder of inference” - “it was me”.
In a running group, this is one example of how it can shows up.
A mixed ability group sets off together and for the first couple of minutes, it works, the group holds. But how does a 30 second per mile difference in pace appear in real time?
After 2–3 minutes, the gap, approx. 10–20 metres, about the length of a bus, is still close enough for you to feel part of the group, you can still hear the chatter and see people’s backs. However, the gap isn’t static, the difference in pace is cumulative. So, if you’re at the back, or even in the middle, for you to stay with the group, you’ll need to increase your pace slightly, just above what starts to feel comfortable.
By the time the gap stretches to 30–50 metres, half a football pitch, the gap still looks manageable on a straight road, but turn a corner, or hit an incline, and suddenly the group disappears, the gap feels impossible to close and you’re no longer with the group.
Your pace probably no longer feels manageable, so you drop back with possible feelings of being a failure and if the group do loop back for you, again, you’re suddenly visible as the person responsible for holding everyone up.
But it doesn’t stop there.
Meanwhile, the same thing is happening on the leader’s side, they see someone whose attendance becomes sporadic and make the assumption that they’re not committed. And of course, this narrative makes sense to them, after all, running has a simple structure to it, to be a runner, you’ve got to be consistent because you only get out what you put in.
There might be a check-in, a week or two later, when someone notices you’re missing, but the story may well have already been written, and you’re absence is justified, the system inflexible.
Sadly, without realising it, both sides move further away from each other, and this is where it breaks, not in one big moment, but in the small moments of last-minute messages, promises of being there next week, that unfortunately, all ended the same way, self-blame.
And the cost of that?
People leave believing they were the problem with a system that carries on, unchanged.