How Wolf Run Gave me Back a Piece of Myself

I’m writing this because up until this morning I was sedentary, terrified, fuelled largely by bacon and sausage sarnies, and fully convinced I was about to spectacularly embarrass myself in public. Instead, I ended up muddy, exhausted, smiling - and unexpectedly hopeful. Not because I ran far or fast (I didn’t), but because the experience cracked something open in me that had been closed for a long time. This isn’t a fitness story or a motivational lecture. It’s just an honest account of what happened when I showed up scared and gave it a go anyway.

Up until I was about 12 years old, I loved cross‑country running. Not the neat, tidy, sensible kind either - I mean the proper stuff. Muddy routes, steep climbs, anything that made other people veer off saying “nope, not that way.” Those were always the paths I chose. I loved the challenge, the chaos of it, and I often used those moments to push myself right to the front of the pack.

Then I grew up.

Through my teenage years, I stayed “looking fit” on the surface, but behind the scenes I started smoking, drinking underage, and learning to mould myself into whatever version felt acceptable at the time. I ended up carrying a bit of a reputation - the one who could drink vodka like it was water. (Absolutely NOT a vibe to be proud of, but teenage brains are wild things and I didn’t want to ‘let anyone down’. Mm‑hmm. Sure Soph, Sure 🙃)

By my mid‑teens, what started as experimenting quietly slipped into something heavier, and before I really understood the weight of it, I found myself tangled up in harder drugs. The years that followed blurred together - chaotic, loud, and exhausting - a constant chase for escape, stimulation, connection… something!?!

I convinced myself it was fine because I was still “active”. Yes, we were taking substances during the week, but at weekends we were “exercising”, right? (By exercising I mean dancing non‑stop at underground raves and free parties, barely sleeping, fuelled by adrenaline and questionable life choices.) But looking back now, it’s obvious: it wasn’t fitness or freedom - it was avoidance. I wasn’t thriving; I was running. From myself, from pain, from loneliness and reality. And eventually, that way of living caught up with me.

Everything changed when I became pregnant with my gorgeous son, Josh.

For the first time in my life, I felt like I truly belonged. I had purpose. I was needed. And strangely, the comfort of those feelings led me to stop caring what I looked like. I stayed fit and healthy for the first five or six years of Josh’s life, but then COVID hit. I was a single mum. Life became smaller and heavier. My fitness dipped, my weight increased, and the motivation cycle appeared: every six months I’d get a burst of enthusiasm, smash out three workouts… then disappear back into the same rut.

Spoiler alert: doing three workouts every six months does not, in fact, cancel out bacon and sausage sarnies. Trust me, I’ve tested the theory. 😅

Fast‑forward to now, and I’m the biggest and heaviest I’ve ever been. After multiple significant losses in a short space of time, some deeply disappointing work and personal situations, and a whole lot of suppressed emotion, I got classed as “depressed”. My life had become sedentary - properly stuck, both physically and mentally.

Then, two weeks before the Spring Wolf Run, my mate signed me up for the 10k.

For the following fourteen days, I CURSED that woman. I called her every name under the sun. I told her it was dangerous to go from sedentary to 10k with zero training. I explained, repeatedly, how my heart would clearly give up, my lungs would collapse, and every unused muscle in my body would cramp during the warm‑up.

She stayed calm and kept telling me it would be good for me - physically and mentally. Of course, I told her that I didn’t want to change, that I was absolutely fine and that I was ONLY doing this to support her.

Then she casually dropped that there would be THIRTY obstacles.

I nearly disowned her.

But alongside the very real dread, there were tiny sprinkles of excitement. Freezing cold water? Slippery climbs? Bog pits? Laughing strangers dragging each other through mud? Somewhere deep inside me, a thought whispered: maybe there’s still a glimmer of old adventurous Soph in here somewhere.

Josh got curious and asked to do the junior Wolf Run, so I signed him up. I also signed up my eldest brother Tom because if I’m going to hell, they can bloody well come with me. Fair’s fair.

Five days before the event, Josh and I did one “practice” jog/walk together - 0.8 miles (about 1.2k). We walked quickly, jogged up two mini hills (they were hills, okay, there was at least a slight incline), and I was absolutely BLOWING. Tight chest, angry legs, very dramatic internal monologue. This was less than a fifth of the distance I was supposedly about to run.

Panicked, I rang the Wolf Run contact number.

The woman who answered the phone - calm, funny, reassuring - changed everything. She explained how the day worked, reminded me I could walk the entire course, skip any obstacles I wanted, and even told me she skips the height obstacles herself. Then she dropped the golden information: even though I was signed up for the 10k, I could switch to finishing the 5k route on the day - no judgement, no guilt.

Honestly, that one conversation nearly had me in tears. Not because I suddenly felt confident - but because I was given permission to just exist within the experience.

And then… the day arrived.

I was moody, exhausted, emotional, and probably unbearable to be around as we travelled to what genuinely felt like my death. But when we arrived, everything started to shift. Smiling faces everywhere. A sense of connection. A buzz in the air.

Josh and Tom went first in the junior run and watching them completely redirected my energy. I felt overwhelming pride - following them from obstacle to obstacle, seeing their determination and pure joy. They even chose to do an extra lap, turning their 3k into a 6k run, which was both incredible and slightly alarming.

Then suddenly, I found myself in the starting pen with around 100 other people - warming up together, laughing, joking, smiling. The energy was immense. And then the gun went off.

I jogged the entire first kilometre - including jumping into icy water and wading across it. People slipped, slid, stacked it spectacularly… and were immediately helped back up. No embarrassment. No pressure. Just humans helping humans.

By kilometres two and three, my calf cramped, my ankles throbbed, my breathing went shallow, and I started to panic… which gifted me a lovely stitch, just to really drive the point home. I kept telling my friends to go on without me - genuinely happy to be a “lone wolf” - but they stayed. They walked when I needed to, distracted me, grounded me, kept me moving.

And something else happened.

As my body slowly stopped fighting me, my mind opened up. I noticed the laughter. The teamwork. The hands reaching out. A reconnection to humanity that I didn’t even realise had faded as much as it had.

I completed the whole 5k, skipping a few obstacles when I needed to - without guilt, without shame. A cheesy burger and a jet wash later, I slept the entire way home.

My body is now absolutely in tatters… but honestly? It feels good.
And my mind feels even better.

What I’m left with is a sense of achievement, a spark of curiosity, and a dangerous little thought forming: maybe I can do more.

This experience didn’t fix everything - but it cracked something open. It reminded me that progress doesn’t have to be perfect to be powerful, and that community, kindness, and encouragement can carry you far further than self‑criticism ever will.

And that? …That feels like enough to keep going.

See you at the Summer Junior Wolf Run 🐺💚