(Trying) to Run away from depression

April 23, 2025

The frigid Colorado winter had come to an end, and buds began to sprout on trees above my orange bathroom-dyed blonde hair. The air finally smelled sweet again, and I got to wear my favorite fabric shorts with an oversized sweatshirt. No longer able to hide behind cargo pants and blue jeans, I was faced with the reflection of my pale legs. I love my Capitol Hill apartment, but every morning, I curse the bedroom wall with floor-length mirrors. 

Despite the 75 mg of antidepressants, a well-balanced (ish) diet, and a crisp 8 hours of sleep I get each night, I remember my brain is prone to sadness. The winter doesn’t help. About a month ago, one morning, before work at the coffee shop job I got because corporate America slapped my ass and called me Sally, I looked into those bedroom mirrors. I saw my shit hair dye job, my chubby legs, and belly hanging over my sleep shorts. While Chili Jason sat outside the sliding bathroom door screaming for his half portion of Frisky’s Wet Food, my head screamed, ‘you ugly bitch’. 

I remember this day vividly, I go into work and my work best friend is there to say goodbye. While I was left to work a double in the shop lobby in downtown Denver, Amy left for Washington. Throughout the excruciatingly long day of asking tech bros, ‘How are you doing today?’ and receiving a reply of ‘small americano,’ I went crazy. My eyes still burned from the morning farewell; the mental image of my chubby winter body lingered in my head, and people continuously asked for Iced Vanilla Oat Lattes, their voices laced with vocal fry. 

I dragged myself up the three flights of stairs to my apartment after work, saddened, tired, and weak. I sat on the yellow couch I had just inherited from Amy, and I cried and cried. The three gingers I live with, Chili, Gumbo, and Grace, sat around me and watched. Through tears, I explained, God, I hate my body right now, something needs to change. Of course, right as I find a work best friend, she moves. And jeez, who’s playing the saddest Taylor Swift song, Evermore?

“Would you like to go to Planet Fitness with me in the mornings?” 

No. 

“You’ll make other close friends at work!” 

Not like Amy. 

“You need to turn off this song; it always makes you cry.” 

BUT IT FEELS GOOD!

The next day, I began the Couch to 5K program and signed up for the Colfax 5K on May 17. Yes, I know a 5 K won’t fix how much money I make, or how rude customers can be, or even bring Amy back to Colorado, but it might help alleviate my self-loathing. 

It’s week three of running, and I can say with complete honesty, it works. On days that I wake up early and hit the cracked sidewalks of Denver, the rest of my day lacks anxious thoughts. It becomes clear, no, the coworker you’re with today does not hate you. Yes, your family back in Kansas City does miss you. And gosh, are you guys witnessing how beautiful the sun makes the Cash Register building look? It pains me to say, exercise does help mental health. 

Growing up on volleyball teams, playing all seasons, I never needed to develop willpower to work out because I always had coaches expecting me in the gym or my parents reminding me that they had paid $2,000 for this club team. As I grew older, it became harder to motivate myself to move because there was no one to do it for me. I also have a Sims 4 login, so why lift 20 pounds when I could do it in a virtual game as a blonde-haired look-alike who makes $50,000 with a cheat code, has a mid-century modern mansion as a young adult, and doesn’t need to work as a barista to make money for plane tickets home. The temptation was far too grand. 

At the time, I deleted Instagram, Snapchat, TikTok, and even Pinterest from my phone. I know, how much damage can chicken recipes and nail designs do to a girl, but I had to quit cold turkey. It was as though I had hired a whole demo team to clear out the cobwebs of winter and renovate myself. I had a lot of downtime outside of work, now that I wasn’t scrolling, so I would sit on the couch and stare. I would walk around the kitchen and stare at things. I frequently looked at my plants, observing their leaf patterns and watering them as needed. It’s not rocket science to see I was underwatering them, but give me a break, I am a depressed person, and it was winter.

With each stomp on the pavement, I can feel myself getting watered again. Music has been sounding better; it's almost as if I can taste the bass line. I bought a few new pieces of clothing, feeling cute and strong as I watch my calf muscles firm up. I toned my hair, leaving the once-brassy strands with a cool, purple tint. I started listening to Remi Wolf instead of re-listening to sister albums, Folklore and Evermore. It’s been helping my hips move with joy over that deep gray melancholy. I haven’t been wearing makeup, because what is there to mask right now? Pimples come and go; nobody will remember them. Less metaphorically, I’d rather not rub mascara straight into my eyeballs with all this pollen dive bombing me. 

I must admit that I’m nervous about the race. Please, God, let me be able to finish. Completing the first tangible goal in adulthood will give me a sense of accomplishment. And jeez, that’s all this girl needs right now, a sense of achievement in this tiring life. If I can’t find a non-shit job in my career, can hardly pay for a weeks worth of groceries, and drive around the city in my 2006 Ford Focus with the muffler hanging on by a wire (a literal wire my dad put on 4 years ago), I can at least finish a 5k. 

I had to push down the feeling that this goal was weak in comparison to others who run half-marathons, get promotions, or are getting married this year. But as the old saying goes, comparison is the thief of joy, so won’t you all let me be excited? Because I am, and I may even buy myself a new pair of running sunglasses before the race. I panicked after a particularly sunny morning run, and chose the fugliest, cheapest pair I could find. I think the middle-schoolers who walk to school while I’m running in those glasses at the same hour are scared of me. Or they’re making fun of me, which, honestly, is way worse.