There was a time when I would have gone on a five-mile run and berated myself for slacking off. The minimum mileage for it to feel worth it would have had to be at least eight to 12 if I wanted to really feel good.

Back then, when I lived in NYC, I maintained a strict sweat schedule: 45+ miles a week of running and at least three days a week of weights and stretching. Oh, and I walked to and from work — a four-mile total trek per day. On weekends, I challenged myself to walk even more. Consider that this was the time before Fitbit could triumphantly tell me how many steps I logged that day. I’m afraid of what I would have done with that information.

Clearly, looking back, life was lacking, well, fun. And most other things, really. I felt isolated in the city where I was trying to jump-start my career. I missed home — Chicago — dearly. So I tried to fill up my time by being healthy and active. Because that’s always good, right? I wasn’t getting wasted, smoking weed, or having regrettable sex. I was going to the gym!

Let me tell you that when you’re running around Central Park on mile 13 at 6 a.m. on a Saturday, you can’t focus on the Should I be here? and What am I doing with my life? and Will I ever meet someone? that would otherwise be running through your mind — all you feel is your quads burning. And then, later, you’re too tired to do anything.

You’d think that since I let fitness be my escape, I was super-healthy. And I’m sure my slim, muscular body looked the part. But my sunken eyes and exhausted sadness hinted at the truth: Mentally, I couldn’t have been less healthy. I was a bundle of misery. Partly because of my laser focus on the scale, which not only revealed my weight but my body-fat percentage, too. It’s probably not a surprise that I hopped on every morning hoping to love my stats, but always felt ashamed, never satisfied — no matter what it said. Every day I went through the motions, meeting my “exercise quota,” flopping into bed, and then starting it all again the next day.

At the end of that summer — at the height of my exercise obsession — I moved back to my hometown in the Chicago area with, gulp, my parents. I was 24. The change of scenery was what I needed. I felt more comfortable back home, and with that, became less reliant on exercise for happiness. I started easing back on the workouts. Slowly at first. Twelve-mile runs became eight-mile runs became five-mile runs. I reconnected with old friends. I met my boyfriend, who would become my husband. I launched a freelance-writing career that perfectly suited me. I started to travel. I moved into my own place in the city.

With each of these mini successes, exercise became less of a stranglehold and more something I did because it made me feel good. I started to run for the joy of it. To train for a marathon as a challenge, not because I felt like if I didn’t, I’d somehow become a flabby, unfit mess. To go to the gym because I’d always leave feeling strong and kickass, not because I’d feel ashamed if I didn’t.