I Finally Experienced This Elusive Running Milestone. It Changed My Relationship With Drinking.

It happened at the ninth-mile mark of one of my long runs: I suddenly realized I hadn’t been thinking about anything—neither the pain in my legs nor the never-ending to-do list that usually looped around my brain. And when I did think about my legs, they felt light.My mind was blank, and my body was floating.A pang of recognition hit my lungs: it was a feeling I’d experienced before—and had chased ever since—on the dance floor of a techno rave.I don’t have a natural ear for music or a knack for rhythm; I can’t easily memorize song lyrics or list the names of famous DJs, but techno makes me feel like none of that matters. Dancing to it makes me feel empowered, confident, and sexy. My bad thoughts and anxieties dissipate, and I’m entirely present.My half marathon training was making me see the similarities between running and raving: they both made my body move until my mind reached a state of near-meditation.A state I thought—until now—I could only reach drunk.I have had my share of bad experiences with alcohol. Countless nights blurring into one; blackouts; second-day hangovers; chipped teeth; bruised legs; lost phone; missing shoes; stolen bags; and a shame that lasts weeks.But alcohol had also always given me the confidence I lacked in social situations; it was my armor against a world I was too scared to be myself in. A few years ago, after much reflection, I started to cut down my consumption, but it remained my safety blanket on the dance floor—I couldn’t imagine going out without it.It was around that time that I also moved to London, and running returned to my life. Settling into the new city was more challenging than I’d anticipated, and so while I faced both personal and professional rejections, running gave me the validation I craved. All I needed to get from A to B was my body and a pair of running shoes. It was the one thing I was in full control of. I might not have a job interview or a second date, but at least I can run up a hill, was a thought I often had.Toward the end of my twenties, I decided to train for my second half marathon. I took the training a lot more seriously than the first time around a decade earlier and soon enough was going on 11-mile runs every Saturday. That’s when I started experiencing what I believe to be runner’s high—the same feeling I thought I would only ever be able to reach while drunkenly dancing to techno music.I pondered this: why did I need my crutch on the dance floor if I now knew it was possible to reach a high without it?When my friends invited me to a DJ event three weeks before my half marathon, I took it as an opportunity to challenge myself.The room was packed full of people, their sweaty shoulders touching as they moved and throbbed to the music. My friend Sofia took my hand and forged a path through the crowd toward the DJ, and I motioned for my other friend, Rob, to follow. Once we established a space big enough for us to dance, I pushed my sunglasses down onto the bridge of my nose. I was self-conscious at first; there was no way I could dance as well as everyone else. But after a couple of minutes of scanning the crowd, it was clear that not dancing at all was a worse crime. Those who barely moved were disrupting the room’s energy and flow. And what an energy it was! I could almost see it bouncing from body to body as the loud, repetitive beat made us feel like we were part of something bigger; like we were one. People were smiling at each other. I was smiling too. I closed my eyes and let the music wash over my body so it could do what it knows so well. With each tap of the foot, sway of the hip, and twist of the wrist, my body became looser and more fluid. My mind emptied. It was just me and the music.“What are you on?” Rob shouted into my ear. He had seen me decline my favorite going-out drink, tequila lime soda, at the bar earlier in the night, and knew I didn’t dance unless I was buzzed. “Nothing,” I answered. “How are you doing this sober?” he wondered. I grinned. “You need to try long-distance running.”The following morning, I reflected on the night: I could remember every interaction, every conversation, and every exhilarating high I’d experienced while dancing—without a single stimulant. I had proven to myself that I didn’t need it to enhance my enjoyment of the music or the company. I was proud of myself and itched to do it again.At the next few raves I went to with my new mentality—or, I could say, a different version of myself—I dabbled with sobriety. It felt good to have a little beer or glass of wine with my friends if I wanted to, without feeling guilty or afraid that it would turn into a big session that would decimate my mental health. It wasn’t always easy; an entire adolescence and adulthood of drinking a lot in dancing environments is a habit that dies hard, but the promise of a fresh head and a run the next day spurred me on. So much so that, since a few months ago, I’ve been going out sober. It means that I can do what I love more often, without damaging my purse or my health.This isn’t to say that I’ll never touch a single drop of alcohol again, or that I don’t miss being silly with my best friends over a shared bottle of Chicken wine or a handful of bright green BuzzBallz before heading to the club, but for the time being, it’s a relief to be able to agree to spontaneous nights out without having to worry about whether I’m going to be drunk enough to feel comfortable to dance—or if I’m going to be well enough to run the next day.Based in London, Mared Gruffydd works for a nonprofit organization and as a freelance journalist. She writes about mental health, travel, community, nature, and sex and relationships.