I Am a Runner: Priya Seshan
“I am a Runner” is a series of personal stories told by those who've claimed their space in the sport of running. Like the writers themselves, these stories are unique and illustrate there is no one right way to be a runner.
Coach Priya Seshan is our first writer in the series.
“But I’m not fast. I don’t ‘look’ like a runner. I’m not like you,” my sister said to me, as she contemplated whether or not she should try running. I said that there were so many types of people who run—different ages, body types, and paces—but she shook her head adamantly. Try as I might, I couldn’t convince her otherwise. She had an idea of what a “runner” was, and to her, she didn’t fit that image.
Was I "Good"?
In the beginning, I too had a skewed idea of what being a runner meant. I thought running was for “fast” people with “fast” shoes and being a runner meant having a thin body with long legs. At age 13, I joined my high school’s cross country team after getting cut from every other sport. My coach emphasized “being fast.” I was very thin, but wasn’t one of those fast people, at first. I didn’t have fancy, fast shoes. However, I was told that I had “the long shins of a runner.” I took the comment as a small sign of approval that I possessed a runner’s body even if I wasn’t fast.
My first year on the team, I was midpack, but by my second year, I was running at the varsity and state level; to me that meant I officially was a runner! When I ran “well” at a competition, my self-esteem would soar. When I ran “poorly,” my self-esteem would plummet. I strongly associated success in running with speed and being “good.”
I Was "Different"
As a teenage girl of South Asian descent, I read running magazines and noticed that no one looked like me—and no one looked like me on my team or at the races I ran. It perplexed me, but I was too busy trying to run fast to focus on it. I made up for any of my “differences” with my performance.
However, sometimes my difference was impossible to outrun. My senior year, the day my team and I were leaving for the Ohio state cross country meet, I woke up to a sign and decorations hanging in front of our family home. To my horror, a male teammate had drawn a racially charged character and slogan on the poster: a primate swinging from a vine and the message to “swing fast [at state], baby.”
I quietly took the sign down, knowing that my white teammates did not have that on their sign. Even though I had earned a berth to run at the top level with the best and fastest runners in the entire state, I felt ashamed and different.
Outrunning Old Doubts
In college, I walked on to the cross country team. I struggled; I wasn’t “fast” compared to my teammates—and I quit after a semester. I still associated running with speed and performance and avoided running with anyone for the next 12 years out of fear that I wouldn’t be “good enough” or “fast enough” and because of old self-doubts that lingered from my teenage and college years.
It was not until I ran the 2004 New York City Marathon that I realized that running could have a different purpose: joy and self-satisfaction. The day after I completed my first marathon, I sat on my couch and marveled at what the human body could do; at WHAT I COULD DO. My confidence grew. I began to embrace this running-for-self-satisfaction thing, but I still ran alone and avoided running with groups out of fear of not being fast.
Still, various running opportunities came my way. I ran on the top of an overturned army tank in Venice, Italy as part of an art exhibit for the Venice Biennale. I was featured in a national running advertisement on “real” runners that appeared in magazines and in stores. I began coaching young people where I’d encourage them to focus on the process, not on speed. They enthusiastically embraced my philosophy, but for some reason, personally I still struggled to adopt that mindset.
Creating My Own Definition
It was not until 2014 when I was approached about a running job that I entertained the idea of running with a group. In order to be considered for the job, I had to attend practices as a participant. I was still worried about being fast enough, or ending up at the back of the pack, worried that my body would be scrutinized by others and not be considered “runner enough.” After a track practice at Icahn Stadium, I realized that 1) “fast” was relative, and 2) who cared if I was last, if I felt good in my body and mind when I ran? I left the stadium, my confidence and joy in running buoyed by this discovery.
I got the job. From then, I realized that I could create my own definition and version of what a runner is, and what a runner looks like. Sure, in that job, I got “complimented” from time to time on my (then) skinny runner’s body and my (then) thigh gap, and I was also told by some runners and coworkers that I was “slow.” It bothered me greatly that others would scrutinize my body or comment on my performance. But I realized that it was me who could define what voices and definitions mattered to me. The voice and definitions that truly mattered were…mine!
It's All Relative
I now focus on what my body can do, not what it looks like, and I run in whatever I’m comfortable in, even if society says otherwise. I run to complete things, not for time, and it’s when I run that I feel the most confident in my skin. I remember that race times and speed are all relative, and one person’s “bad day” is another person’s “dream day.”
As for being the only South Asian runner? I still find myself walking into running groups where I don’t encounter many South Asian participants or coaches, and I still don’t see running magazines and running brands using people who look like me in their ads or on their covers. However, I remind myself that I have the right to be there, and that running is for everyone, even if some populations are less visible right now. That’s all the more reason I should be showing up. My running journey and my “why” is mine and mine alone, and it is up to me to define my goals and what “success” means and looks like. I am a runner.