The Art of Running Away

I don’t know how much of this blog post will resonate with you, but I’ll write it anyway because it’s on my mind and maybe if I write it out it’ll make more sense to me, too. I’m writing about running away.

Running away doesn’t help anything.

And it seems like a small, semi-obvious fact, but it doesn’t make it any easier to not do. Because running away is so easy. It’s so easy to take flight in a moment of what do I do what do I do what do I do. It’s so easy to run away from people, problems, because then you don’t have to deal with them.

But what I’ve found?

You still have to deal with them.

I know, it sucks. You spend all of your energy running away, covering your tracks, lying to yourself or others, and in the end you’re exhausted and you’re only option remaining is to face what started it all. Because running away means someone notices your absence. If you run from something, someone will notice that you’re missing, that you ran away from them, that you’re in hiding. And they may not come looking for you, but they will notice your return. They’ll notice your return and they’ll see your exhaustion and they’ll ask the hard questions that you were avoiding in the first place.

I have run away without people noticing. Not proper running away; I’ve never run away from home or anything like that, but I have had those days where you go and hibernate because life hurts too much and so you don’t face it, or anyone, for a day or so. But you have to reappear at some time because you can’t ignore stuff forever. You can try, you really can try, but it doesn’t work.

I like running away from my problems. I like avoiding certain topics with certain people and I like worrying about the moment they find out the truth about something I’ve been trying to hide. I’m really good at it. That’s not something to be proud of, either.

There are moments on my timeline where I can pinpoint big moments where I’ve run. And I can pinpoint the moments where I’ve turned around out of exhaustion, defeated because I couldn’t run away, not really, not fully. But in the aftermath, in that moment of defeat as I walk back home, I see big moments of growth as reality is faced and truth wins out.

Moments where I’ve been running away in the hopes of avoiding a lie I told; that took three years for me to confront. Moments where I’ve been running away in the hopes of avoiding someone’s eye. Moments where I’ve been running away in the hopes I can keep pretending a situation is okay.

But there’s something so grand in the aftermath. Something that I’m sure is relief as you tell someone the truth, as you admit something to yourself, as you meet that person’s eye and let it out. The moment you stop running is the moment you stop carrying that burden, is the moment you start to trust that someone.

The aftermath, whilst I wouldn’t advise running away, is always like letting go; the running is you taking a deep breath in and the coming home is you finally, finally, giving yourself permission to let it out. Because running away means you run with a heavy burden, and to finally, finally, put that down is the best feeling in the world.

There’s something satisfying and nearly productive in the moment you tell yourself to stop running. It’s the moment you face the mess you’ve created, or the messed that was placed upon you by someone else.

And you know, I still run away and I’m still good at it because facing stuff still sucks, and I obviously haven’t learned my lesson because I run and I run and I run and I get exhausted exhausted exhausted, but after each instance, I can see how God rocks up and spins the whole situation into something good.

God is so good like that,

Sarah xx

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