It was a cold December day in 2003.  I was working a night shift at the Crisis Open Christmas shelter in London. I had just finished my MBA but couldn’t find a job.  I had one year left on my visa, and I was scared. I didn’t know what would happen to me. Would I end up with no home? No country? I was worried every day.

I didn’t have many friends. I hadn’t spoken to my family in Japan for almost four years. I felt alone. The happy Christmas lights and music on the streets only made me feel more left out.

I wanted to do something that felt useful. I wanted to feel needed. So I signed up as a volunteer at the night shelter. I didn’t know what to expect, but I didn’t want to be alone at home.

I sat on the floor with the guests. We didn’t have to talk if we didn’t want to. We could just sit. One man and I ended up sitting together for a long time. He told me about losing his family and how much he regretted some things. I told him about my family, how we weren’t in touch, and how lonely I felt.

Back in Japan, I used to dance. I was part of a small dance company. I had friends, a teacher I loved, and we danced together all the time. It was part of me. Since coming to the UK, I hadn’t danced at all. I didn’t know anyone who danced. I didn’t have money for a gym or studio.

After listening to me, the man said, “Why don’t you just run?”

I looked at him like he was crazy. “Run?” I said.

“It’s free,” he said. “Just get some trainers and go outside. You will feel better.”

I didn’t like the idea. I didn’t think of myself as a runner. I liked music and dancing, not running. So I just smiled, nodded, and thanked him for the idea anyway.

Later that night, some other volunteers were talking about a fun run in spring to raise money for Crisis. One of them said he’d run dressed as Scooby-Doo! He was a middle-aged man who wasn’t sporty at all, and we were all laughing about how slow we would be. I said, “Okay, I’ll do it too.”

When I say I’ll do something, I mean it. So I started training.

I lived in a tiny flat in Golders Green. I put on a hoodie and joggers and went out. I ran around the block near my home. It was freezing. I was nervous. But I ran. I got back home in 15 minutes—it felt like forever.  But I was proud. I had done it. So I went out for the second round. 

Running outside was nothing like running in a gym. There were no walls, no roof, no music. Just me and the cold air and my own breath. I felt exposed, like anyone could see me. It was scary, but also exciting.

I carried a few sweets and coins in one pocket and my Oyster card and ID in the other. I made sure my house key was safe. I learned the street names and counted my turns. I started saying hello to an old man with a long silver beard who always sat on his porch and watched me run by.

While running, I started thinking about my future. How to get a job. What I’d say in interviews. What I could do next. All the questions that made me feel stuck didn’t feel so scary anymore. My brain worked better when I ran.

After each run, I came home a little stronger. A little braver. I ran three times a week.

In July 2004, I ran the Crisis Square Mile Run along the Thames River. There was music on the street and cheering. I was so proud of myself. I hadn’t found a job yet, but I had found something else—I had found my strength.

That first run changed my life. It was just me and my legs on a cold street. But something new started that day.

It’s been over 20 years, and I’m still running.

So if you’re feeling lost, if you don’t know where to start, maybe try putting on your shoes and going for a run. You never know—you might find your way, just like I did.