'I am begging you, stop asking me to join your run club.'

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I say this with the utmost respect and as someone who owns three pairs of matching exercise sets, two drink bottles with built-in straws, and one extremely chic tote bag that has never actually made it to Pilates:

Please, for the love of all that is holy and sweaty, stop asking me to join your run club.

It always starts the same way. A text. An Instagram story. A glint in your eye as you casually mention that your pace is getting so much better and your recovery runs have been so vibey lately. Then, suddenly you're inviting me to a 7am "fun run" with 18 strangers and a communal foam roller, and I'm supposed to be excited?

No.

Watch: Harry Styles runs a marathon. Post continues below.

I do not run. I do not jog. I do not "shake out my legs with a cheeky 5K before work." I do not wake up and think, "You know what would fix this terrible mood? Beating the sun in a race it didn't ask to be in."

I'm not built for this. I enjoy walking in expensive activewear while holding a coffee that I have no intention of finishing. I enjoy stretching exactly once while scrolling on TikTok and convincing myself it counts as meaningful movement. I enjoy doing things at a glacial pace, both emotionally and physically.

And yet, the pressure is mounting.

Running is no longer a solo pursuit; it's become a whole personality. A community. A cult. Every second person I know suddenly identifies as "a runner." They have race bibs. They have electrolytes. They wear those tiny tiny shorts and talk about "hitting the wall" like it's a badge of honour, not a cry for help.

And, even worse, they all want you to JOIN IN ON THE FUN.

"It's not about speed!" they say. "It's social!"

Cool. So is brunch. Let's not ruin that with a 6km lead-in.

"It's such a vibe. We end with coffee and chats!"

Sorry, but if I'm sweating through my bra and haven't been able to breathe through my nose in 15 minutes, I'm not chatting. I'm hallucinating.

The only run I am going on is the run to the bottle shop at the end of a long week…. Image: Supplied.

And then there's the whole aesthetic. Because run clubs are no longer just for the fitness freaks who excelled in cross country in school. Now they're populated by cool girls with slicked-back buns and caps with funny slogans on them. They make being in physical pain look like an Instagram brand partnership with a trendy athleisure label.

Me? I show up like I'm being hunted.

I love that running gives people a sense of purpose. A sense of community. It's like a very niche form of trauma bonding. But please, I beg you, stop acting like it's the answer to all life's problems. Some of us are barely surviving our morning commute, and now you want us to run through it, too?

I am happy for you. And I will clap when you post your race results. I will fire emoji react your Strava uploads. I will even meet you after your run, when you are drenched in sweat and high on serotonin and feeling slightly evangelical. I will love you through that.

But I will not join you.

Some of us are built to be supportive sideline friends. Some of us are more "walk-and-talk" than "sprint-and-bond." Some of us are simply in our recovery era — and by recovery, I mean sleeping in on a Sunday and not developing shin splints for fun.

So once again, and with love:

No, I do not want to join your f***ing run club.

But I will happily meet you at the café after. I'll be the one in jeans, eating eggs and not sweating. God's strongest soldier.

Feature image: Supplied.