Running towards embarrassment (and away from shame).

Hi everyone,

Exercise is so hot right now. (And always. And forever.)

But wait. Hot as in…sweaty? Hot as in…on fire with the intensity of strong athletic performance? Or hot as in “damn, I look good in this shapewear designed to give the illusion of a thong line”?

Choose your fighter, but self-image when exercising is complicated no matter how you feel the heat. This week’s essay runs (ahem) with these complications — towards exercise enlightenment. 

Head for the hills,

The Prism Team

Ana Monroe is an artist, human-centered designer, and former civil servant proudly fired by DOGE in early 2025. She lives in Los Angeles with her family, where she is leaning into the former two, having been prevented from being the latter. Subscribe to her writing about running at Stoic Running.

One thing that makes Ana feel well: “A night’s untroubled sleep and waking up naturally in the morning.”

When I was eight, I cared about what I looked like. I was a round kid with a tendency to turn red when crying or exercising. But when I was eight, I was also very, very bored after school. My school had a cross country team, and there was a cool fifth grader who ran on it and was for some reason willing to talk to me at practice. So I joined the team and started running every day. I immediately loved running. I loved how free I felt when I was doing it; I loved how challenging it was; I loved talking to the Cool Girl while we trained.

As I got older, I imagined myself as Steve Prefontaine, all flowing hair and graceful stride, or perhaps Linda Hamilton in Terminator 2, glistening attractively with the sweat of the righteous.

Then, sometime in my late 20s, maybe when the Great Recession knocked my career on its ass, I started feeling less like Pre and Linda and more like Phil Dunphy power-walking: lots of frantic motion, questionable technique, and an overall aesthetic that suggests mechanical failure. Sometimes this feeling is reinforced by others’ comments: a friend recently reminded me of my reality at dinner when she said, "I saw you once when you were running, and I thought 'OMG my friend is insane! She's going so fast! She's really sweating!'" I knew she meant it as a compliment, but I felt like I was simultaneously seeing every store window reflection of my big-thighed, red-faced self schlepping down a sidewalk. If I smoked, I would have dragged hard on my cig right then. 

But my friend’s comment — or maybe my reaction to it — made me think about how running has that unique power to reveal the absurd gap between our mental self-image and our physical reality. We are minds inside bodies that betray us at the most inopportune moments. On a daily basis, my sweat glands don't care that I’m hoping to look contemplatively athletic rather than desperately overheated. 

The real comedy emerges when we examine what we're actually embarrassed about. Social norms dictate that we should feel shame about trying too hard at stuff — about sweating ungracefully, and about resembling gelatinous blobs while pursuing our fitness goals. But these norms reveal themselves as arbitrary. Why should it be embarrassing to have a human body that acts like a human body? Why should we feel shame about the natural consequences of physical exertion? Why should we be expected to effortlessly attain what we strive for? 

The alternative social norm — the one that should guide us — would make it embarrassing to hold ourselves back from doing our best because we're worried about appearances. It’s much worse to deny yourself living life because you sweat like a cartoon character. Sweat, after all, is a sign that you’re alive.

Properly placing what is actually embarrassing — and what is just an arbitrary social norm — transforms my running from an aesthetic performance into what it actually is: a philosophical practice of inhabiting my sweaty, living body as I try very hard to do something I love. Every embarrassing mile becomes an opportunity to recognize that how I look while running is neither inherently good nor bad.

When I stop trying to control the uncontrollable, I can focus on what matters. Yes, I’ve had to accept that I’ll never look perfect panting my way through a long, boring straightaway — but that acceptance isn’t resignation. It’s liberation.

So the next time you're out there feeling your bra chafing and your elbows swinging wildly and your sweat soaking through your shirt and [insert whatever insecurities you have when exercising] — you’re not failing anyone, least of all yourself. You're succeeding at being alive, in all your sweaty, gloriously human imperfection. And that, I would argue, is the whole point.

➚ Substack

The fact that Ana found liberation from restrictive norms in a sweaty, physically demanding activity is no coincidence. In fact, sweat and transcendence are often linked, from ancient religious ceremonies to the everyday ecstasies of hot yoga.  

Our favorite transcendent sweat-er might just be dancer, writer, and performer Gabrielle Roth, who taught dance classes based on what she called the 5 Rhythms: “a dynamic movement practice — a practice of being in your body — that ignites creativity, connection, and community.” In her book Sweat Your Prayers, Roth writes:

If you’ve had enough ecstasy for one day, never fear: there’s sweaty fun to be had in more quotidian realms. Did you know, for example, that the very first episode of Cheers features a debate about the sweatiest film of all time? And yes, that debate is still going in this episode of NPR’s Pop Culture Happy Hour. We personally think it might be Top Gun (trust). If you’ve got a sweaty piece of pop culture to add to the discussion, drop it in the comments.

Feeling the burn 🕺🏼🥵🕺🏼

Really, really hot 🌶️🌶️🌶️

Hope your Sunday is more inner strength than inner critic.