Editor’s note: This story discusses death by suicide.
In early December, a survey published in the Journal of American College Health found that physical activity of LGBTQ+ and non-LGBTQ+ college students differed significantly, with the latter getting more aerobic and resistance training overall.
The researchers didn’t dive deeper into the possible reasons, saying only that perceived barriers should warrant more research. But runner Joy Puleo, Balanced Body education program manager, wasn’t surprised by the results.
“Some of this may be built into the need to be with likeminded individuals who may or may not be going to the gym,” she tells Runner’s World. “It may be due to feelings of displacement, other-ism, or of not belonging. They might find the gym environment harsh and unforgiving.”
For some, that changed with running. Not because it was something they could do solo, away from crowded gym spaces and potentially non-welcoming sports teams—although that can provide its own balm—but because many found groups that provided the kind of support they didn’t think they’d find. Here are a just a handful of the stories of those who have embraced the sport, and the allies who run alongside.
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John Ladesic, 39, Washington, D.C.
MarathonFoto
Even when I was in elementary school, coaches realized I had a natural talent for running, but they didn’t realize a major part of that was because of how much I was bullied. All the pain, the anxiety, the fear about being different, I could burn it off through running. Sometimes, I would pretend each light post was a specific bully in my class, and I would run past them to show myself that I could leave them behind.
Ironically, the better I got, the more positive attention I received, but only when I was setting county records or contributing to a team’s score. Even then, I made sure never to use the locker room or go to the bathroom because kids had been talking about me being gay since I was 6 years old, and I was terrified of being in a situation where they would accuse me of looking at other boys.
This was strengthened by hearing some of my teachers put me down for “acting gay,” and supporting one of the darkest parts of my story, which was being sent to conversion therapy when I was 15. Through it all, I kept running. It’s always been a way to get away and feel free.
After I got older and became a first-grade ESL teacher, the brand Hyland’s partnered with the Boston Marathon to hold a contest for teachers in 2018, and I entered and won a spot. In my profile, I talked about being bullied, and it forced me to reflect on my life—it made me tell my story in a new way. But it wasn’t until I got back to my school after the marathon that everything really changed.
The superintendent of my district asked me to do an anti-bullying assembly, along with discussion and role play that would help kids talk about their emotions and how they can channel that into something positive, like running had been for me. Seeing this get recognized was incredible, and it inspired me to start a running group for kids called Let Me Run, as a way to debunk masculinity in sports. For example, before a run, the kids write positive comments to each other, to let boys know it’s okay to support each other—it’s okay for them to talk with kindness.
Running has always been my safe haven, but for a long time, it was what I did to get away. Now, it’s become this amazing force that’s helped me build a community of other runners, and to start this group where I hope I can inspire kids to feel secure in who they are.
Sammie Bennett, 32, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Andi B Photography
Although I’ve only come out in the last year, I didn’t feel like I could be my full self in the gym before that. It just didn’t feel welcoming somehow, and I was concerned that once other people knew I was gay, that would only get more pronounced. That may be, in part, because I live in a very conservative part of Michigan where I feel like I can’t be out in general. But I wondered if maybe running could help me find my community.
Running has always been an outlet for me, especially through struggles with depression and anxiety. I had some dark years of suicidal thoughts and attempts, but in addition to getting help through therapy, running helped me process emotions—it’s where I thrive. So, even in the middle of pandemic, I thought it would be good to put a group together.
In late summer 2020, I created a trail running group through Trail Sisters, and said all are welcome. We meet biweekly, wear our masks, and keep a good distance—and our numbers keep growing. Sometimes we have up to 25 women on a run, and some of them are gay, but even those who are not are supportive. When I first started talking about myself, I was nervous, but the reactions were so positive and friendly that it was a huge relief. There’s something intimate about talking when you’re running with a group, people are so open in a way they may not be otherwise.
My advice to other LGBTQ runners would be to find a group and take a chance. I spent a lot of time being afraid of other people, but maybe that’s because I wasn’t talking to the right ones. If you haven’t found your community, create your own. She used the online resource Trail Sisters, but you can also create local Facebook groups, talk to the owners of the nearest running store to put the word out, even put up fliers in places where other runners are likely to see them—like coffee shops close to a well-traveled running route.
Douglas Otero, 47, New York City
Cassidy Sparrow
For most of my life, I was an anti-runner, I didn’t understand why people did it. I liked working out, but not every gym feels welcoming, and I know I’m not alone in saying that. There are just many spaces where you immediately feel uncomfortable.
I’m a professional makeup artist for Broadway, and in 2014, one of my clients, Amber Sabathia—who is on the board of NYRR—talked about the running group she had with her husband, CC Sabathia, who’s a retired pitcher for the New York Yankees. They also have a nonprofit, called PitCCh, where they give back to inner-city kids, and I just appreciated their whole positive approach, so I thought I’d give it a try.
I began running races to help the nonprofit raise money—that was seven years ago, and joining them opened me up to what running is really about. I realized that running physically felt like dancing, and the group that came together felt like the theater community. You’re around people who lift you up and make you feel like you have a purpose. It doesn’t matter who they are, gay or straight, they’re there for you.
I’m proud when I look at my race medals, but most of all, I feel like I have these best friends, and I didn’t expect that at all. That’s been especially valuable in the past year when we’ve all been trying to cope with the pandemic, and if anything, I’ve become more passionate about running because of that.
Running with people who support who you are is just the epitome of love and inclusivity, and that’s not just for LGBTQ people. It’s for everyone.
Jenny Thomas, 49, Montana
*Name and location changed for anonymity
Right now, I’m only out to my running group. No one else in my community knows, including people at my work, and not even my kids. There will come a time when I’ll tell them, but for now, I’m getting the support I need when I run, and that’s important to me.
What’s funny is that I was actually out in college but then it started to feel difficult with people judging me, and I decided it would be easier to live a straight life. So, I got married and stayed married for 20 years, with two kids along the way. But I was so unhappy all the time. Every counselor I saw told me, “You’re not going to fix this until you start living who you are.”
I joined the running group a few years ago as a way to cope, but I didn’t know how much it would help. We’re about 15 women of all different professions, backgrounds, and political views. We run about five miles every day and spend the whole time talking—the understanding is that what happens in run group stays in run group.
When I began talking about being gay, I didn’t even know at first why I brought it up, except that we were all discussing our struggles. And there was such an outpouring of support and zero judgement. People stepped up for me, and I can’t even describe how grateful I felt for that.
That gave me the courage to end the marriage and to keep navigating toward who I am and what I want. I’m in the middle of this journey of coming out, but it means everything to me to run alongside people who will support me every step of the way.
DJ Pulce, 27, Atlanta, Georgia
DJ Pulce
After I graduated from college, I realized how hard it was to make friends as an adult, and back then I felt like the only place to interact with others was at a bar or a club, which didn’t lead to the most in-depth conversations. Then I met Thomas Barker, the president of Front Runners Atlanta, and he suggested I join their run group.
I wasn’t a good runner, and I was afraid they’d all leave me behind, but I was excited about the chance to be around people who wanted to do healthy things together, not just hang out and drink. In August 2018, I gave it a try and was relieved to be greeted by LGBTQ people of all ages, shapes, and sizes who genuinely loved connecting with others while running.
Everyone was so happy and positive, and what stuck with me is that from day one, you could tell they were looking out for each other. No matter how slow I was, someone would run with me and actually tell me to go slower so we could talk. They taught me how to pace myself, and I couldn’t believe they’d take the time to do that for someone in the back of the pack, but they did. Because of that, I went from 10-minute miles to 7:30 times on casual runs in about six months.
Now I’ve become one of the people who’s supporting those who are new. I know what it’s like to be intimidated when you’re starting out and you just want to feel comfortable. As a gay person, having this group has really helped me feel like I’m part of the community, like I’m not alone. These are definitely my friends, and it feels like we’re united not just because we’re all gay, or because we’re all runners, but because we care about each other.
Joy Puleo, 55, Sacramento, California
Scott Kartagener/Balanced Body
When I was in the process of coming out, running was my respite. I was married to my childhood sweetheart, had an 18-month-old son, and both our families to come out to. During that time, I was married to my childhood sweetheart, had an 18-month-old son, and living the hetero-suburban “dream,” but it didn’t feel right.
It was running on the track where I was able to close my mind to the onslaught of questions, needs, pleas, and general feelings of disappointment and anger to figure out my path—my next steps and my feelings about who I was. When I put on the headphones, the world around me disappeared, and all I could feel was my own heartbeat in time with the rhythm of whatever anthem I was playing.
Running truly saved my life, gave me perspective, and helped me organize my thoughts, which, in turn, helped me navigate through all the drama until everyone—husband, child, parents—ultimately came to a place of acceptance and love.
It does not surprise me that LGBTQ college-aged students do not frequent the gym as much as their straight counterparts. The images of buff, strong, masculine/feminine are what sells fitness, and are not often what is experienced or felt by the individual.
Sports are even more skewed toward the “ideal,” and being competitive and athletic is imperative. When coming out, finding community and feeling supported is important, and these environments may not inspire self-acceptance and love. For me, while I was actually working in a gym at the time, my feelings of strength, solace, and optimism, came from shutting out all the images of what I was supposed to be, what I was supposed to look like, and what I was supposed to want, and to see my world for what it could be.
Fitness, movement, exercise, sport, and health are important for the LGBTQ community to embrace. These can empower not only our physical being, but our emotional being as well. However, the environment matters—the type of exercise needs to resonate, and the way we see ourselves needs to expand beyond the picture perfect poster that greets you in the gym lobby.
If you or someone you know is struggling with mental health, reach out for assistance. There are hotlines you can call right now for free. Contact the NAMI HelpLine (800) 950-6264 that can be reached Monday through Friday, 10 a.m.–8 p.m., ET. If it’s an emergency, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline—(800) 273-8255—or 911, available 24/7. The Trevor Project can also help.
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