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Hangover Run

Writer's picture: Desiree HullDesiree Hull

For the past three years, I’ve participated in an annual five-mile run on New Year’s Day. Since it falls on the typical “hangover day,” the organizers have dubbed it the “Hangover Run.” I don’t train for this event; it’s something my cousin convinced me to do one year when she was trying to rekindle her high school love of cross-country running. At the time, I had nothing to lose. She asked me to join her during what was nearly my one-year sobriety anniversary. I figured the run wouldn’t be torture—I’d already conquered harder battles.


Year One The first year, my cousin and I met up feeling under the weather but showed up anyway. We agreed to walk this time and promised to train throughout the year so we could run the next. Turns out, we both had walking pneumonia and couldn’t start training until weeks later when our lungs were healthier. My cousin kept her promise. She started training, signing up for 5Ks, and by mid-year, she’d completed a half marathon! I, on the other hand, started more slowly. I’ve never been an avid runner; I always thought running should be reserved for situations where my life depended on it—and I hoped never to be in one of those.


I downloaded the Couch to 5K app and began doing walk/runs around my neighborhood. Tuning into my body, I noticed how out of breath I became within the first minute. It felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest, constricting my lungs. Deep breaths were hard to come by, but I persevered. Then my legs began to protest. Muscles I didn’t know existed started aching, and my knees rebelled against the pavement’s impact. I wanted to give up—and often did—but I also developed a newfound respect for running. In recovery spaces, I’d often heard about the “runner’s high,” a euphoric sensation fueled by a dopamine surge. As someone with ADHD, I’m always chasing dopamine hits, so I was curious.

That year, I shifted my focus to trail running to spare my knees. Though I wasn’t consistent, I did the best I could leading up to the second annual Hangover Run.


Year Two The second year, I laced up my running shoes and donned Wonder Woman knee-high socks. After a lot of internal pep talks, it was go time. “No walking this time,” I told myself. But five minutes in, my lungs, legs, and mind begged me to stop. The first mile felt eternal. When I finally saw the mile marker, my breathing had started to level out, and my legs weren’t screaming as loudly. Still, I slowed down to walk, as I’d promised myself earlier. Oddly enough, it hurt more to walk than to run, so I picked up the pace again. Starting over felt like torture, much like getting sober. The first 30-60 days are brutal—long, painful, and exhausting. Why keep repeating that part over and over? I tried to keep this in mind for the rest of the run, though I gave in to my aches and pains a few times. Each time, I had to push through the hard part all over again.

I finished the race in about 1 hour and 16 minutes. My cousin was cheering me on at the finish line, and I experienced my first runner’s high. It was exhilarating.


Year Three Year three came quickly. My training was minimal again, but I was a regular at the gym, which helped. On race morning, I was buzzing with excitement, fueled by parfait, mushroom coffee, and a little nervous energy. As I stretched, I told my cousin I wanted to run the entire race but wasn’t sure I could. I was on day four of the 75 Hard Challenge (yes, I’m an overachiever), and she reminded me, “The important thing is to finish.” Her words gave me permission to show myself grace if I needed to stop.

This year, I blasted music to drown out distractions. In previous years, I’d tried listening to podcasts and audiobooks, but neither worked. I chose a “runner’s music” playlist, and it made a world of difference. The first mile and a half were the hardest, but once I pushed through, I found small bursts of energy that allowed me to adjust my pace as needed. By mile three, I was in a rhythm. My breathing had leveled out to the point where I could hold a conversation, so I started whispering prayers of gratitude to God. I thanked Him for my growth, my family, my career, and my health. At one point, I even raised my hands in worship, unbothered by what others might think. It felt like God was running beside me.


When the finish line came into view, the lyrics of Casting Crowns’ song “Thrive” vibrated in my ears:


Just to know You and to make You known We lift Your name on high Shine like the sun, make darkness run and hide We know we were made for so much more than ordinary lives It’s time for us to more than just survive We were made to thrive.


I felt an overwhelming urge to cry, but more importantly, I wanted to rejoice. My word for 2024 is “fly”—to soar and reach new heights now that addiction no longer holds me down. I’ve grown so much this year by embracing discomfort, and with each step, I’ve learned to rise higher.


This year, I want to THRIVE.





Joy unspeakable, faith unsinkable, love unstoppable—anything is possible.

Oh and this year I ended the race at 57 mins!

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