Picture this: you cross the finish line of your first race, your legs heavy but your spirit soaring. Someone drapes a medal around your neck. It’s weighty, tangible—a validation of every early morning run, every blister, every mile of self-doubt overcome.
That medal, in that moment, feels monumental. It becomes a symbol not just of the race itself, but of the transformation you underwent to get there. It’s a snapshot of what you’re capable of when you commit to something.
But fast forward a few races. The medals pile up, tucked away in a drawer or hanging on a wall you rarely glance at anymore. The initial spark you felt—the raw, visceral pride—starts to dim. You chase bigger races, faster times, shinier medals, hoping to reignite that feeling. And yet, something is missing.
This is the paradox of external rewards: they’re incredibly motivating, but they can also lead us away from the deeper reasons we started running. They promise fulfillment but often deliver only fleeting satisfaction.
To understand why medals hold such power over us, we need to dive into the psychology of motivation. Human behavior is driven by two primary forces: intrinsic motivation (doing something because it’s inherently enjoyable) and extrinsic motivation (doing something for external rewards or recognition).
Medals, trophies, personal bests, and social media accolades all fall squarely into the extrinsic camp. They’re visible, measurable, and socially validated. When you show someone a medal or post your race time online, you receive recognition—an evolutionary currency that our brains are hardwired to value.
Psychologically, this is deeply satisfying. The neurotransmitter dopamine floods our system when we achieve a goal, reinforcing the behavior that led to it. This is why crossing a finish line feels so euphoric: it’s not just a physical milestone; it’s a neurological reward.
But there’s a catch. The more we rely on external rewards, the more we risk becoming trapped in a cycle where running is no longer about joy or growth—it’s about chasing the next hit of dopamine.
Psychologists call it the hedonic treadmill: the phenomenon where the joy of achieving something fades as we quickly adapt to it. That first medal feels incredible, but by the tenth or twentieth, it’s just another trinket. The threshold for satisfaction keeps moving higher, requiring bigger challenges and more extreme achievements to trigger the same sense of accomplishment.
This isn’t inherently bad. Striving for growth is part of being human. But when growth becomes tied solely to external markers, it can lead to burnout, dissatisfaction, and a loss of purpose.
When medals and PBs become the primary reason for running, it’s easy to push too hard, too fast. This can manifest as:
Research in The Journal of Sport Psychology (2020) found that athletes driven primarily by extrinsic motivation are at higher risk of burnout and performance anxiety. When the reward is the only focus, the process becomes a chore rather than a source of joy.
For many runners, their identity becomes intertwined with their achievements. “I’m a marathoner,” they say, or “I’m an ultrarunner.” This can be empowering, but it’s also precarious. What happens when an injury prevents you from racing? When life circumstances force you to take a step back?
Without the external markers of success, some runners experience a profound identity crisis. They feel lost, disconnected from the sport they once loved.
Platforms like Instagram and Strava exacerbate these pressures. Seeing others post their medals, times, and achievements can create a toxic cycle of comparison. You start to measure your worth not by your own progress but by how you stack up against others.
So how do we break free from the cycle of external validation? How do we rediscover the pure, unadulterated joy of running?
Medals and PBs aren’t inherently bad. They’re milestones, not destinations. Instead of viewing them as the end goal, treat them as symbols of the journey. Ask yourself:
One way to shift focus from outcomes to the process is by running without a watch or GPS tracker. Leave behind pace, distance, and splits, and instead pay attention to how your body feels. Notice the sound of your breath, the rhythm of your stride, the landscape around you.
Trail running can be especially transformative in this regard. It shifts the emphasis from speed to exploration, inviting runners to connect with nature and embrace the unpredictability of the terrain.
Running doesn’t have to be a solo endeavor. Joining a local running club or participating in group runs can remind you of the social and communal aspects of the sport. Instead of competing, you’re collaborating—building relationships and supporting others in their journeys.
Take time to reflect on why you started running. Was it for stress relief? To improve your health? To spend time outdoors? Reconnecting with these original motivations can help you realign your priorities.
Even at the elite level, many runners emphasize intrinsic motivation over external rewards.
At its core, running is a deeply personal act. It’s about freedom, movement, and connection—to yourself, to others, to the world around you. Medals and PBs can be part of that journey, but they shouldn’t define it.
The next time you lace up your shoes, ask yourself: What am I running for? If the answer goes deeper than a medal or a time on a clock, you’re already winning.
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