How Running Without Music Can Help You Hear Yourself Again

It’s 6:45 p.m. on a Monday. It’s around 67 degrees outside. I’m in Yaphank, a town on Long Island, New York. I make a mental note of the time and toss my phone into the passenger seat of my car.

I haven’t run or walked without my Apple Watch or headphones in probably two or three years. Not because I abhor it, but mostly because I never think to not take them with me. My best friend, who’s also a runner, told me once: “If you didn’t track it, it never happened.” Her words stuck with me. Did I really run if I have no real proof other than my frizzy edges, a racing heartbeat, and sweat dripping from my eyebrows? If I can’t share my activity on Instagram, was my run a waste?

According to a 2021 study, wearable technology and the data it generates can be burdensome for athletes, as it turns a workout that should be rewarding and even fun into a competition. I, myself, have found myself racing against my own watch. So today, I’m running without music and without a tracker.

I shut the car door, pull my obnoxiously large emerald-green sunglasses over my eyes, and hop up on the sidewalk. I see a woman walking her gigantic dog and quickly turn around and go the other direction (I’m a cat person, sorry not sorry). I start with a slow jog. I feel naked. My ears feel empty. My right wrist has been orphaned. Everything feels off. I don’t like this, I think to myself.

Without music and no watch to poke at, I don’t know what to focus on. I hear each step of my feet. I see every car driving. My breaths are loud. Why am I breathing so loudly? Huff. Step. Huff. Step. Huff. Huff.

No one is in earshot, but I’m immediately embarrassed. I sound like a panting dog on a scorching summer day. Do I always sound like this? Let me steady my breath. Huffffff. Hooooo.

I’m actively controlling my breathing as much as possible in the event I pass by another runner; I don’t want them to think I’ve never run or walked or done anything a day in my life. My breath quiets. I feel accomplished. Maybe my breathing always sounds like that. I wouldn’t have known, considering the music usually beating my eardrums.

The world seems to disappear. I think I hit my runner’s high. I’m truly running and soaking up every second of it.

“One of the best ways to gauge effort is by listening to your breath, and it’s hard to do that over a beat,” says Ashley Mateo, an RRCA- and UESCA-certified running coach based in Denver, Colorado. “I’ve advised a number of runners who struggle to run at a truly easy pace to try running sans music so they can hear when their breathing gets heavier—that’s a sign that they’re running too fast.”

I think I’m about 10, maybe 15 minutes into my run, but I really can’t be sure. The sun is starting to set—a yellow-pink ombré hue takes over the sky. I like it. I remember that my sister and I used to refer to it as “pink lemonade sky” when we were kids. I could go for some lemonade right now.

I don’t know what time it is or how far I’ve run, and I don’t care. Usually, I’d have grabbed my phone at this point to skip a few songs I’ve heard too many times. Or I’d be glancing at my pace. But I’m actually paying attention to my stride. I notice that I bear most of my weight on the right side of my body. I feel some pain creeping into my right knee now. I stop to bend down and massage it a bit. Wind kisses my skin. Come on, knee, stop throbbing. It’s getting dark. I’m jogging again.

I pick up the pace. I feel grateful that my body is doing its best to carry me through this run. The world seems to disappear. I think I hit my runner’s high. I’m truly running and soaking up every second of it. I can’t remember the last time I found this level of mindfulness on a run.

Running without music, “you’re forced to shift your attention inward,” says Mateo. “You can better tune into your body and can better get lost in the zone.”

I look at the sky again; it’s indigo now. I see my car ahead. Only a few more steps. Hoooooo. I reach it, open the driver’s side door, and plop down in my seat. I look at my phone—it’s 7:37. That was kind of nice.