How We Learn to Hate Running in Childhood

And how to restore a positive experience of movement for our children—and ourselves.

Urban Praprotnik

After classes ended, we would gather in the school locker room, change into our running gear, and head out from Prebold toward Šmiglova Zidanica, regardless of whether it was snowing, raining, or occasionally, sunny. I belonged to a small group of upper-grade students brought together by our teacher to do extra runs a few times a week.

From the fourth grade onward, I attended primary school in Prebold; before that, we lived in Žalec. During our first physical education class in September—we still called it "gym" back then—I walked down to the local swimming pool with my new classmates from 4.a. We didn’t go to swim. The pool had already been drained. In Prebold, summer ended precisely with the final day of vacation; the water emptied from the pool like sand from an hourglass, carrying the carefree days of summer away with it.

We ran around Zabjak. First along the road by the pool, then a left turn. At a large, weeping willow, we turned left again, and that was where the gap began to widen—separating the faster runners from the slower ones. We ran alongside a small brook where the road gently sloped downward; your legs could barely keep up with your stride while your lungs burned hotter and hotter. At a narrow little bridge, we had to filter into a single file. After that, only the final stretch remained. That was where I felt, for the very first time, that I was among the more resilient ones in my class. It became a part of me. A part of my identity. Back then, of course, I had no idea that running would shape the course of my life so profoundly.

Today, we know that such moments are far from insignificant. Long-term studies tracking individuals from childhood into adulthood show that early experiences deeply leave their mark on how we live, make decisions, and care for ourselves later in life. What we once experience as play, effort, or just another day at school often becomes a quiet compass, guiding us long after the school doors have closed behind us for good.

I was lucky.

For me, running became a way to prove myself in a new environment. It wasn’t just about the mileage; it was about the feeling of belonging somewhere. Even though I felt that familiar burning in my lungs and the tingling in my arms that accompanies fast, prolonged exertion during cross-country races below the ski slope or at the stadium in Celje, those experiences taught me something invaluable: to accept physical effort. Not as an enemy, but as a teacher.

But the story doesn't end there. In fact, that is precisely where the question begins.

What about all those who weren’t successful in those races? Did they also learn to accept effort—or did they only learn to reject it? If a child finds no meaning in exertion, they begin to push it away. Effort becomes a punishment. Something agonizing. Something that is entirely reasonable—even for one’s own well-being—to avoid.

And that is exactly where we make our mistake.

Running is one of the most natural and therefore immensely beneficial movements we possess. Yet the way we introduce children to it often fails to reflect this. We turn it into a competition far too quickly. Into comparisons. Into a leaderboard where a select few stand at the top as winners, while the vast majority are left at the bottom as losers. And this isn't about handing out participation medals to everyone, either.

The greatest reward is not a medal. The greatest reward is the experience. A positive experience. One where effort is not a punishment, but an exploration. Where a child doesn’t run to defeat someone else, but to feel their own body. To discover how they breathe, how they move, and how they can manage just one more step, and then another.

If the first experiences are good, the desire returns all on its own. If they are bad, the body and emotions rebel. That is why it matters how we introduce physical effort to children. In the beginning, running shouldn’t be a test; it should be an invitation. Not a competition, but a journey.

When we allow ourselves to alternate between running and walking, when we allow ourselves to start slowly, something vital happens: the effort becomes acceptable. And from acceptance, perseverance begins to grow. And perseverance is exactly what remains. Not just in running, but in life.

In the end, times and distances fade away. What remains is a feeling. A feeling that a child carries with them—whether movement is a space where they can grow, or a space where they must prove themselves. From these feelings, identity is quietly pieced together. Not all at once, but step by step, built from experiences we often don't even notice.

My own running didn’t start with grand goals, either. It began with soaked sneakers and the feeling that I could manage just a little bit more. And perhaps that is where the secret lies. Not in how fast we run, but in the story we paint for ourselves along the way. And in whether we want to keep returning to that story, over and over again, to grow.

Perhaps now is the time to start writing this story differently—not just for ourselves, but especially for the generations to come. And so, I invite you to reflect: How can we bring that playful, exploratory note back to movement in our own environments?

If this reflection resonated with you, please share this article. Share it especially with physical education teachers, coaches, and educators who stand on the front lines of shaping children's experiences every single day. Let this text be an invitation to a shared conversation on how to transform school playgrounds and gymnasiums back into spaces of growth, rather than spaces of proving oneself.