Kimberly Drew: “Running can be its own destination.”

Kimberly Drew (a.k.a. @museummammy) has worked at some of the world’s most prestigious art institutions including The Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Studio Museum in Harlem, and Pace Gallery, where she currently works as a Curatorial Director. Here, Drew shares her story, and her take on the “pure and vibrant chaos” of running.

Words by Kimberly Drew. Photography by Jordan Naheesi and Isaiah Winters.

I work as a curator, author and cultural producer in Brooklyn, NY. My days can include studio visits, curating art shows, sitting front row at fashion shows, making content or swimming in a sea of mundane emails. Holding the multitudes of my life is an artful practice, and with the advent of surviving a pandemic, I, like so many, have had to find new ways to make life make sense. In 2021, after having a mental health crisis, I knew that something had to give, or be radically shifted, if I wanted to continue the career and life that I had built for myself. 

It started with weekly yoga and then amped up to HIIT classes and reformer pilates, but it wasn’t until my first “real” run that I knew I found home. I went out for a mile and then out again and again. On runs, I found peace and quiet and soon, I wanted to get better.

One could make the case that running is about discipline. Articles and YouTube binges will lead you to think that you have to run in the morning, or for at least fifteen minutes or for miles to really get it done. But, on my own journey, I’ve found that yes, discipline is a good thing. But without honesty, you’re just going through the motions as you would with any other daily practice. I’ve found that honesty with myself is the core thing that grants me permission to identify as a “real runner.”

In my first year of running, friends recommended Haruki Murakami’s best-selling memoir, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. Among many things, Murakami writes through his many start lines and the good and bad runs that came to shape periods of his life. 

There are a lot of things that I didn’t enjoy while reading Murakami’s book. A writer myself, I am full of opinions, but as a human, I am also filled with worthy and righteous sensitivities. I had to take pauses whenever confronted by the countless instances of fatphobia menacingly hiding within his otherwise generous prose. 

There are many reasons why runners hit their first starting line, but more often than not it’s seen as something punitive and all too often related to body weight and image. This is one of the most toxic parts of a sport that, otherwise, has the unique ability to invite joy into the lives of those privileged enough to partake. In my journey towards honesty, I am consistently working towards language that celebrates my body – in all of its shapes – to undo the ways that society has impacted my own self-image.

Midway through the memoir, Murakami faces an injury while running the Lake Saroma Ultramarathon, a 100-kilometer (62-mile) road race held on the northeastern shore of Hokkaido, Japan. In between checkpoints, his legs began to fail him, and in the interest of completing the race, he forced himself into an “inorganic place." While pushing through pain at the 75-kilometer mark, he began to repeat, “I am not a human. I am a piece of machinery. I don’t need to feel a thing. Just forge on ahead.” With this mechanical mantra, he would go on to finish the final 25 kilometers and complete the marathon.

An unfortunate reality about running is that it can cause pain in the body. Consistent running, even when done with caution, can come along with any combination of joint pain, muscle pain, tendon pain, and bone pain. To run is to know pain. It’s also to know injury, hope and to remain humble within your own limits. 

And so, we count the stairs. We soak. We know that our body’s overall health is a priority, because every runner knows (or learns) that the only “bad runs” are the ones where you cannot run at all. 

In the weeks after the run, Murakami is faced with what many call “runner’s blues.” His joy for the sport waned, and his ability to continue on as he once had shifted. A man who ran with such consistency had to return the basics, and seemingly start from scratch. 

Over the past few years, many of my runs have started the same way. I set goals and I attempt to meet them. I run for distance or time. I’ve recently begun training for my first marathon, which has meant incorporating speed play and pushing harder than I ever thought I could before. In this process, I have learned a new type of honesty. Not all runs are triumphant and life shifting and make you feel good or strong or sexy. They aren’t all going to be notes in your memoir. Some runs are just runs: one foot then another over and over again. In my first mile, without fail, I routinely find myself asking the hard questions: Will I make it to my goal? Is this the right route? Is a mile enough? Do I feel fulfilled? Am I good enough? Both good and “bad” runs require answering these types of questions with the utmost honesty. 

While I never intended to run races, or train for marathons, it wasn’t until my first race that I really tapped into what makes this sport so important. I secretly signed up for the Queens 10K. I told no one. I showed up alone. Ran alone. Finished alone. 

At the finish line, I had a lot of the feelings that come from completing a run. I’d never run that far before, which is also why, despite having a dear family member who lived 10 minutes away, I was too ashamed to invite people to cheer me on. I had all this joy and nowhere to put it but an Instagram caption. 

It makes a lot of sense that many writers have turned to running as a practice. They’re disciplines with a lot of commonalities. They can be done in collectives, but at the end of the day, each run or passage is drawn out step by step by the author. You can’t skip to the end of a literary project without pushing through each letter in the same way that you won’t reach any distance or time without making the commitment to doing just that. 

Running, like writing, is about listening to these inner voices and remaining honest within the dialogue. In reading Murakami’s memoir, it was no mystery to me that in reaching the “inorganic” that he found himself facing a version of depression. Running has made me a softer and maybe even better person simply because of how organic it is. Finishing my first 10K and then running a marathon relay have invited a sense of pride in myself that I have never known. I’ve spent more time with myself than ever before. I’ve listened to my body and trusted it fiercely in ways that I don’t know I would have found without lacing up my shoes for the first time. After running my first race in solitude, I learned that I need my community in ways I don’t think I allowed myself to before.

Running can be about miles and meters, but it’s also about making a commitment. The ways we show up matter. Setting goals and disciplining ourselves is one thing, but without an honest commitment to our own self-worth we won’t accomplish our goals.

Some of the best art I’ve ever seen comes from artists who have remained true to who they are. I think of artists like Carrie Mae Weems, Alma Thomas, Simone Leigh or Mickalene Thomas. Black women who unapologetically tell their stories such that other Black women are also able to live in their own truths. In this way, it’s no surprise that running, writing and art are all so inspiring to others. These feats are at the core of what it means to be human, organic and honest.

We’re all living in a time of unexpected twists and turns. Pure and vibrant chaos. As the world remains turbulent, running has the ability to place us within ourselves with brutal honesty. In that way, running isn’t so much about running away from, or towards something. Running can be its own destination. Where will your next run take you?