“Commitment is an act, not a word.”
Jean-Paul Sartre
One night, as I was scrolling through Facebook, half-asleep and probably eating something I shouldn’t have been, I decided to declare that I was going to run a half-marathon. Why? I still don’t know. It wasn’t like anyone had dared me, or even gently suggested it. I wasn’t feeling particularly athletic or inspired. It just happened.
Maybe I was caught up in the late-night delirium that makes anything seem possible after midnight. But there it was—a public declaration, broadcast to all of my friends, acquaintances, and that one guy from high school I’d never unfriended.
“I’m running a half-marathon!” I posted. Bold. Inspirational. The likes trickled in. “You got this!” people commented. And for a few glorious minutes, I believed them. I imagined myself training, lacing up my sneakers, hitting the pavement, and becoming one of those people who can casually drop their running accomplishments into every conversation.
But then I woke up the next morning. That half-marathon? Not happening. Ever. I knew it almost immediately. For one, I don’t run. I never have. Not even when I was supposed to as a kid during P.E. And the thought of voluntarily doing it now, as a fully-grown adult who has the ability to choose not to run, felt like some sort of self-inflicted punishment.
It was a moment of weakness—or maybe strength, depending on how you look at it—that I didn’t delete the post. I just let it sit there, a monument to my fleeting burst of optimism.
The thing is, I never even tried. I didn’t sign up for a race, didn’t Google training plans, didn’t buy new running shoes. I just let the whole thing quietly fade into the abyss. And yet, there was my post, still getting the occasional “You got this!” comment from people who hadn’t realized that no, I absolutely did not got this.
The funny part? I didn’t even feel that bad about it. It wasn’t like I was failing at something I’d deeply cared about. I wasn’t a runner, and I was never going to be one.
It’s funny how easy it is to say something, to throw words out there into the void, expecting them to somehow take shape and manifest a new reality. But words—especially big, grand declarations—are like helium balloons. They float around for a while, looking impressive, but eventually, they deflate. And that’s where the truth comes out. If you’re not willing to do the work, to lace up those sneakers or drag yourself to the track, the words don’t mean much at all.
Commitment isn’t about making a spectacle. It’s not the late-night Facebook post or the promise you make because you feel like you should. It’s the small, quiet actions that you do, day after day, without fanfare. It’s the mundane, boring stuff—like actually going for a run (if that’s your thing)—that matters.
And I think we all have our “half-marathons”—the things we say we’re going to do but never will. Maybe it’s learning to play the guitar or finally organizing the garage. It’s okay to let some of those things go. The key, I think, is knowing which commitments are worth acting on, and which ones are better left as passing thoughts. Because in the end, it’s not about the words we post for the world to see. It’s about the quiet, daily acts that build the life we actually want.
So, no, I never ran that half-marathon. And honestly, I never will. But at least I’ve learned what real commitment looks like—and it’s a lot less flashy than a Facebook post at 1 a.m.
