While volunteering for the Mountains 2 Beach Marathon, and seeing runner after runner desperately reach for water, I wondered this very question—“why do we run?”

Why do we do the very thing that is considered punishment for many athletes for our own pleasure?

Why, despite the blisters and the stitches and the aches, do we start that Strava run?

Why do we get on that starting line, knowing that in a few minutes, you’ll be wishing you didn’t?

To be honest, I wish I had an answer.

In more ways than one, running humbles you. It humbles you when you realize that all the pain is caused by simply putting one foot in front of the other. 

But I guess that’s what I like about running—the simplicity.

Out there, it’s just you and your running shoes. Sure, you could invest in the newest Nike ZoomX VaporFly and the Mojave Run Plus Sports Headphones, but by no means do you have to to start running. Anybody can run(mostly). 

Sometimes though, I do regret getting myself into this. Like during this run, for example. 

PC: my strava

Recently, I revisited my quarantine-era playlist, and let me tell you, it was LIFE CHANGING.

It’s crazy how music can bring back such vivid memories and feeling from a certain part of your life.

Lets go over a few songs:

Song #1: Hot Rod – Dayglow

This was THE song for me during quarantine. I would get on my bike, play this song, and ride around town, with the sun beams burning the back of my neck. During quarantine, it was really, me, my bike, and this song against the world.

Song #2: Green Light – Lorde

Now, I’m not going to go over the masterpiece that this album is, because I could write a whole other blog about that. Specifically though, I would listen to this song on long car rides, or when I was stuck at home, laying in my bed, staring at the ceiling.

Song #3: Ain’t It Fun – Paramore

Quarantine wasn’t very fun. But this song made it a little bit better. The intro itself brings me back to the era of dalgona coffees, and the “Say So.”

Song #4: Corduroy Dreams – Rex Orange County

Now, every Rex Orange County song was a quarantine song, but I think I listened to this song the most. I remember listening to this song while walking home from “work,” whered I helped my parents out with the restaurant.

Finally,

Song #5: Maniac – Conan Gray

Do I even have to explain💀

PC:ALL PICTURES FROM GOOGLE

My name is Karin H. Hahn. The H stands for Hasegawa. Except I don’t like Hasegawa. I just like H and that’s all. 

If that line doesn’t sound somewhat familiar, well for one, I’m heavily disappointed, but two, it’s from one of my FAVORITE series, Junie B. Jones.

This line, which opened every single book in the series, will forever be ingrained in my head, for multiple reasons.

One, I’ve read and reread this series numerous times between the first grade and probably the fourth grade, admiring the spunky girl who talked to her stuffed animals and gave herself haircuts with craft scissors.

Second, as a kid, I resonated heavily with Junie B’’s resentment for her middle name.

Growing up, I wanted a middle name like Rose, or Mary, or another one of those basic white-girl middle names that every other girl in my class had. 

Over time though, I’ve grown to like my middle name.

I like the meaning of it—”long valley river.”

I like how it connects me to my heritage, to my mom’s side of the family in Japan.

I like the way Karin Hasegawa-Hahn flows.

I just have to get used to people mispronouncing it. 

I’m betting that it’s going to be mispronounced at graduation. 

I’m looking at you, Mr Floyd.

PC: pinterest

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked.”

This quote, from Sylvia Plath’s novel, Bell Jar, is, my per-say, “Roman Empire.”

Especially as a senior in high school, there’s so much weight on you to figure out what you want to be.

And it becomes so easy to categorize and label yourself, like “I’m a STEM person,” or “I want to be an engineer.”

But truth be told, I have no idea what I want to be. Or actually, I have too many ideas on what I want to be, and I have no idea how to choose. For example,

I want to be a film score composer, where I can make music  that makes people feel the thrill of a car chase through a dystopian wasteland, and the enigma of navigating a mind-bending world of dreams within dreams.

I want to be a teacher, and share the excitement that I get from successfully integrating a function. 

I want to be an astronaut, and journey into the hauntingly beautiful bounds of space.

I want to be a surgeon, and work with the intricacies and the ins and outs of the human body. 

I want to be an architect, and shape the skyline with my designs and structures.

I want to be a nature documentarian, where I can harness my inner David Attenborough through immersive storytelling and beautiful panoramic shots.

I want to be… 

“I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

PC: pinterest

I am laying on a reclined chair. There is a garbage bin right in front of me. There are two garbage bins, one recycling, one standard, in the corner of the room far to my right. There is a garbage bag about 45 degrees to my right and two meters away. What appears to be a garbage bin is, in fact, my backpack for the day, storing, my homework. There is a table with in front of me with papers, a calculus books, a calculator and two raw pieces of artichoke. There is Mr. Kim sitting at his desk typing up homework for one of his classes. He just looked at me. He did it again. It’s as if he knows that I just typed his name. After a year in this class, I noticed there is a plant in a basket hooked above his chair.

The pencil would move, stop, scratch a line, drop. Pinched in between the thumb and the index finger, it would perform a graceful salto around the hand, transitioning to a fervent Irish jig on paper. The tip would go up and down with a feverish pace, unsure of where it will land next. Pause. A set of teeth biting into it in a great distress, reluctant to let go. But the time is pressing and the writing must continue. Graphite meets paper again, leaving a part of itself anywhere it goes. In this manner, it keeps on going until it runs out of either time or life.