A number of years ago, I decided to give running a try. Running has never been my thing. I don’t mind sprinting in a game, but the idea of just…running…never appealed to me. The first few times I ran, it was so terrible I went to the allergy doctor assuming I had asthma. As it turns out, my lungs are actually a bit too small for my body. The doctor told me running was not for me. I just can’t produce quite enough oxygen to keep those side cramps from coming on.

For whatever reason, I took this as my personal call to keep running. (I don’t recommend this; I have countless stories of my defiance getting me in a little bit of trouble.) I wasn’t just being stubborn, though; something about running was calling to me. It’s as if I felt it had a lesson to teach me, and I needed to keep going if I was going to learn what it was.

I ran for about three years consistently. I ran three to four times a week, two to three miles, walking as I needed to catch my breath. I was not fast, and I did not get much faster. I ran a few 5k races and did respectably. I ran one relay marathon–in the pouring rain and humidity, my lung cryptonite–and did absolutely awful. It was all very unsatisfying and unimpressive, considering the level of dedication and work I put in.

Because here’s the thing: the running was not what I’d call pleasant. Within a couple of minutes, my brain would start shouting at me to slow down, or stop. My lungs would start to feel stretched, with nowhere to go. I have so many friends who told me how amazing it was to hit that runner’s high. I had to take their word for it. I think I maybe experienced it once or twice, but I can’t be sure.

I enjoyed being outside. I always enjoy being in motion. I loved listening to music and feeling the sunshine on my shoulders. I always felt great afterward. But during each run, it was just a mental slog and a physical pain.

Once I took my friend Matthew, who is a running coach, to lunch to ask him for tips. He gave me some helpful fixes, but he also smiled across the table at me and asked, “Why keep running? Why don’t you just do your other stuff?” The truth it, I had no idea how to explain to him that I had to keep going, or why. I just knew I needed to.

It took me three years and a few conversations with my spiritual director to feel like the lesson had become clear and strong within me: running was about training hard for something that isn’t going to improve much, and keeping it up anyway. It was endurance practice.

So I kept it up. And when I started to feel that I couldn’t do it, I would push through, knowing it was far more than just running I was fighting for. And when I had to stop, I would remind myself that part of the practice of endurance is knowing when to honor your body and take a break, so you’ll be able to keep going.

There’s no miraculous ending to this story, no moment of great triumph, but I can say this: I do appreciate running, and look forward to it. When I began to see it as endurance training, as practicing the kind of willpower that will keep me showing up in this world day after day, it began to feel like a joy and a calling.

Here’s the other invaluable lesson I learned: I can’t ask myself to be something I’m not. Some of my dear friends are endurance runners–you know, the kind who run 100 miles. I am endlessly impressed by them and empowered by their example. (I’m no less impressed by my half-marathon and marathon running friends. It’s all very magical to me.) But I also had to accept that I would never, never be able to do that. I am not built for it. And that’s really okay. I can’t ask myself, or push myself, to be a marathoner. It’s enough to do what is available to me. It’s faithful for me to stay in my lane and do what I can.

In the past few years, so many of us have felt overwhelmed, and a little hopeless at times. It’s all so much. Every time I read an article about climate change, or the increasing national debt, or geo-political tensions, I feel so small. But what I know for sure, thanks to all that awful running, is that I’m going to keep going anyway.

Because, in the end, we really only have two choices: we can quit, or we can keep going.

I don’t run often anymore. These days, I practice daily endurance through yoga and martial arts. But I will forever be grateful for the lessons running badly taught me. Most of all, it helps me to remember that not everything is a feel good story. Sometimes it’s a do good story. And that’s an absolutely valid happy ending.