Discover why fear never truly goes away in running (or life) and how learning to “do it scared” can help you grow. From ultramarathons to everyday challenges, this issue of Aid Station explores the power of running with fear in the passenger seat.
I’m afraid of a lot of things. Traffic. Mountain lions. Spiders. Snakes. Soft-tissue injuries. Bone injuries. Honestly, any injury that would force me to stop running. Also: sending an email to a colleague in a tone that’s just slightly off—not so much that they ask about it, but just enough that they quietly think, “what’s up with Zoë?” for the rest of our working relationship. Normal stuff.
I don’t think of myself as particularly brave. But I do try to keep nudging myself into that space where I’m “comfortably uncomfortable”, that emotional growth zone somewhere between “so terrified I regret not bringing a change of pants” and “Netflix and chill.” Sometimes that means stand-up comedy, where I’ve had to learn a biathlete-level of heart-rate control while talking about deeply personal stuff in front of paying strangers. Other times, it’s sending an email without triple-checking it, running it past two friends, ChatGPT, Grammarly, and a spellcheck gauntlet, then trusting any adult human will understand my quirks aren’t subtle hostility. Most often, though, it’s through running, where every mile has the potential to teach me how to stay just long enough in that sweet spot between fear and flow.
I used to think the ultrarunners I saw on start lines and live feeds were somehow inoculated against fear, that there was a certain mileage, or maybe a threshold of compression gear, that made you immune. Three belt buckles and hundreds of miles later, I know better. Ultrarunners aren’t fearless; we just get good at doing it scared.
“If you can’t beat fear, just do it scared.” – Glennon Doyle
Running 100 miles will never stop being scary to me. Honestly, even runs longer than a couple of hours can still feel intimidating. Early in my running career, I kept waiting for fear to resolve itself, for the day I’d wake up finally brave enough to run 100 miles. The fear never goes away; we just learn how to carry it.
My fear inevitably shows up anytime I’m about to do something interesting, or hard, or important. It has an important job to do; making sure I file my taxes (mostly) on time, and to remind me that rattlesnakes exist.
Everyone has their version of doing it scared. Maybe it’s signing up for that race on UltraSignup before you feel “ready.” Maybe it’s hiring a coach, trying a new training plan, or attempting something steeper, longer, or maybe even shorter and faster, than feels totally comfortable.
In 2023, I signed up for Run Rabbit Run 100, one of my all-time favorite events. The course is brutal and beautiful: fall colors, singletrack, immaculate vibes. The twist? The “hares” start at 1 p.m. and run through the night. No pacers. Just you, your headlamp, and whatever podcast you remembered to download. I spent weeks ruminating on what it would be like to run through the dark alone. And then the night came, and the fear was still there. But so was I. Doing it anyway.
Running is an excellent laboratory for this kind of practice. Pre-race nerves, night miles, stomach-churning descents, aid-station M&M bowls, it’s a training ground for living with fear without letting it dictate your choices.
This isn’t some Snapple-cap encouragement to disregard fear, or dance like nobody’s watching. But, to use fear not as a stop sign, but as a compass. About realizing that everyone next to you on the start line, or at group run, or on Strava, is just as scared as you are (and potentially more if they’re a neurotic writer who writes for the internet for a living). Bravery isn’t about being unafraid, but about building that tolerance for discomfort. Running gives us reps in living in fear so that it doesn’t dictate the terms of our lives. Bravery isn’t about being unafraid; it’s about building tolerance for discomfort. It’s about giving fear a seat in the car, but not the keys. Elizabeth Gilbert said it best in her “Letter to Fear”:
“I recognize and respect that you are part of this family, and I will never exclude you from our activities, but still, your suggestions will never be followed. You’re allowed to have a seat, and you’re allowed to have a voice, but you are not allowed to have a vote. You’re not allowed to touch the road maps; you’re not allowed to suggest detours; you’re not allowed to fiddle with the temperature. Dude, you’re not even allowed to touch the radio. But above all else, my dear old familiar friend, you are absolutely forbidden to drive.”
Running hands us endless reps in this practice, reps in fear tolerance, reps in discomfort, reps in seeing what happens when you lace up and keep going anyway. That’s the real prize at the finish line: not a belt buckle, not a medal, but the knowledge that fear can ride shotgun all it wants, and you can still floor it.
Because here’s the thing: everyone at the start line is scared. Some of us just hide it better behind sunglasses and hydration vests. But fear is proof you’re doing something that matters. Fear is the receipt you get for living a life that isn’t boring.
So no, the goal isn’t to be fearless. It’s to be slightly terrified, and still hit “register” on UltraSignup, still line up under the inflatable arch, still send that risky email without a proofreading séance. Fear can sit in the passenger seat, but we’re the ones driving the van, even if the van is an 86’ Westy that smells like running shoes and has seen better days.
Because doing it scared is still doing it. And that, in the end, is enough.
Great essay that really resonated with me. I’m training for a 100 miler next month, and every run I think about everything that might go wrong. I am getting back to the distance after two years of injuries and can’t wait to toe the line, but I am also trying to manage all my fears about whether I can do it. How will I respond when my legs go? Can I problem solve?
Last night, my wife and I watched Dave Roche’s YouTube video about his experience at Western States, and I welled up watching it. It was eye-opening to understand that even top runners have fears, and sometimes those fears are debilitating. Best, Jim OBrien