Sometimes the hardest thing to give up for Lent isn’t chocolate or coffee – it’s something good. Something that has become too important.

Earlier this year, I gave up running for Lent.

I know, I know. Running is healthy. For years, it was one of the best tools I had to manage anxiety. It gave me joy, balance, and even a sense of triumph as I crossed finish lines and set personal bests. How could that possibly be something to “give up”?

Over time, though, I noticed how much running had taken hold of me. When I had to miss a week, I felt withdrawal. Training for one marathon turned into four in three years. A few weekly runs grew into seven days straight, sometimes over 100 kilometers a week. At my peak, I was running more hours than a part-time job.

I tried to make it spiritual. I prayed the Rosary on runs, and even started an Instagram account called Running with Jesus. But the truth was, running often came first — before prayer, before my wife, before my kids.

In early 2025, I was preparing for the London Marathon. I wanted it to be my fastest ever. Training was going well until I pushed too far and aggravated an injury in my knee. I ran 36 days without a day off, and my body was starting to break down.

The day before Ash Wednesday, I went to a physiotherapist. His advice? Stop running.

I was devastated. My reaction revealed just how much I had come to depend on running. And suddenly, Lent had begun – without running.

At first, I fought it. Wasn’t this good for me? Didn’t it make me healthier? Why would God take away something I loved?

But in the silence, God was patient. He showed me that my attachment to running had slipped out of balance. Friends and mentors spoke gently to me, helping me name what was happening: I wasn’t just injured physically. I was also spiritually out of step.

I began asking questions I had avoided:

Why am I working so hard? Why do I need to perform? Why can’t I slow down?

The truth was painful: I believed I only had value if I achieved. My self-worth was tied to performance, to proving that I could do more, faster, better.

Injuries teach us something about limits. Online articles attributed common causes of my injury to “training error” — too much, too fast. Spiritually, it was the same: trying to prove my worth at all costs.

But Jesus met me there. As I slowed down, He began to heal more than my knee. He was healing my soul. Before, I didn’t feel free to take a break or slow down, out of fear of not having what it takes. So I would push and stretch until I broke. He reminded me that my identity doesn’t come from personal bests but from being His son, already loved and approved as I am. He reminded me that there’s always room to slow down, and that rest is of God.

When I finally returned to running, I did so with a different heart. My goal for London was no longer to break records. It was simply to show up, run with gratitude, and enjoy the gift. By God’s grace, I finished the race and spent the rest of the trip delighting in London with my family.

Even after all this, I still feel that it’s okay with Jesus for me to keep running as a part of my life, just not at the centre. When I ran through London, I no longer felt the pressure of needing to have the best performance at all costs. I felt the joy of the Lord throughout the race. I even saw a priest in the early kilometres of the race and he sprinkled me with holy water! But I now see marathons aren’t the most important races He has for me. He wants me to put first things first: my relationship with Him, my vocation as a husband and father, and the people He has entrusted to me.

Even now, when I lace up my shoes, the temptation is still there to push a little harder or further than is sustainable. I don’t always get it right, but I’ve been finding that as I put Jesus, my family, and my mission first, God helps me find time for my running. 

In the long run towards Heaven, I’m learning to let Jesus set the pace.