A Full Marathon of Resistance

My alarm clock was set to ring at 10:00 PM, but before it could break the silence of my dark room, my eyes were already wide open. Beside me, my seven-year-old cat rolled lazily on the bed, purring in a kind of peace I couldn’t quite access that night. Earlier that afternoon, I forced myself to sleep at 3:00 PM, hoping to get at least a few hours of rest. But the entire time, I hovered somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the quiet weight of the moment. After months of training, I was only hours away from standing at the starting line of my first full marathon.

By midnight on January 18, 2026, I was already at the starting line of the Iloilo Dinagyang Marathon Heritage Run 3. Music filled the air as a Zumba session warmed up the crowd. Some runners were still arriving. Others were taking photos with friends, stretching their calves, adjusting their race bibs. Promotional booths flashed bright lights and logos in the chilly midnight air. It was festive, chaotic, electric. 

But in the middle of all that movement, I stood still, feeling the quiet gravity of the moment beneath my feet on the pavement. It felt like more than the beginning of a race. It felt like the culmination of years spent trying to understand what my body can do,  and who I am allowed to be beyond the expectations society places on women.

I used to believe that running was the most apolitical thing I could do. It was just me, the road, and the rhythm of my breath. But the longer I ran and the farther I went, the more I realized that even something as simple as putting one foot in front of the other is shaped by politics. 

Before I leave for a run, I make quiet calculations. I have a usual route in the Esplanade, but sometimes it feels so familiar that it triggers a kind of paranoia—that someone might have noticed the pattern and decided to wait, follow, and grab me. So sometimes, I veer away  from my usual and and choose routes that are better lit. Sometimes I share my live location with a friend. 

These are not the rituals of sport; they are the rituals of safety that many women runners know too well.

The Philippines had to pass the Safe Spaces Act in 2019 to criminalize catcalling, stalking, and harassment in streets and public places. That law exists because harassment in public spaces is so common that it has become normalized. 

When I run past construction sites, terminals, or sidewalks at night, I am made to feel that my presence in public space is not always seen as ordinary. Sometimes it is treated as an invitation. Sometimes it is treated as a provocation. In moments like these, it becomes clear that running, especially as a woman, is never just running.

When I run through the streets of Iloilo City in the early morning or at night, I witness how the city is slowly becoming car-centric, heavier traffic, and the reality of gender in public space follows me. Studies in the Philippines have shown that three out of five women have experienced sexual harassment in public spaces, from catcalling to stalking and unwanted remarks. Many of these incidents happen not in dark alleys but in ordinary places: sidewalks, public transportation, and busy streets. 

These numbers matter because they shape how women move through spaces. For many men, a run is simply an exercise. For many women, it is also risk management. 

And the broader statistics tell an even deeper story. National surveys conducted by the Philippine Commission on Women show that nearly one in five Filipino women aged 15 to 49 has experienced physical, sexual, or emotional violence from a partner. Gender inequality does not disappear when we step outside to exercise; it travels with us, shaping the spaces we inhabit and the freedom we claim.

So when a woman, alone, steady, and determined, runs through the city, she is doing more than training for a race. She is moving through a landscape where her safety has never been guaranteed.

There is something quietly radical about a woman who runs long distances. Running demands endurance and space. It demands that the body occupy the road unapologetically. 

Yet women are often taught the opposite: to be smaller, quieter, less visible. We are taught to fold ourselves into corners of rooms and into expectations that prioritize modesty, silence, and restraint. But a woman marathoner’s body refuses to shrink. 

When I run, my legs take up space on the pavement. My breath becomes loud and unrestrained. My sweat becomes visible. My muscles grow stronger. The very things women are often told to hide, her strength, her exertion, her ambition, become necessary.

There is another layer of endurance that rarely appears in race statistics or finish-line photos that many women runners quietly carry. Running as a woman also means running through the rhythms of our own bodies. 

So how do you run when you have your menstrual period? I still run. 

There are training days when menstrual cramps feel like knives twisting inside the abdomen, yet the kilometers still need to be logged. There are weeks when hormones shift energy levels, when fatigue appears without warning, when emotions feel heavier, and recovery takes longer. The menstrual cycle alone can influence endurance, hydration, muscle recovery, and even injury risk. These are biological realities that shape how women train, perform, and experience running, realities that men rarely have to consider. 

That being said, many race directors are men, and there was never a time I ran an official race where there were adequate portalets along the route for women’s bathroom break needs. I already lost count of how many times I wet myself, while men runners could just easily find a wall to relieve themselves.

So when I run, every kilometer becomes a quiet act of defiance—not against a single person, but against a culture that has long told women where they belong and how they should move. The road becomes something else entirely; it becomes my territory reclaimed step by step.

But even as I celebrate what running gives me, I know that this freedom is not equally available to all women. Running requires time, safety, and resources. Race registrations, running shoes, and training time are privileges that many women cannot easily access. 

In the Philippines, where women often carry the burden of unpaid care work such as caring for children, managing households, and supporting extended families, finding hours to train for a marathon can feel almost impossible. Our infrastructure also matters. Not every city has safe sidewalks, parks, or river esplanades where women can run without fear. 

This is the contradiction of running. It can feel like liberation, but it also reveals who gets access to freedom of movement and who does not.

In the Philippines, more people are now running. Cities are seeing a rise in early-morning run clubs. Marathons and fun runs sell out within days. River esplanades, parks, and city streets are filling out with people chasing personal records, finish-line medals, and the quiet discipline of putting one foot in front of the other. What used to be a solitary activity is slowly becoming collective, and in that growing crowd, more and more women are running too. 

Women running alone or running in groups. Women training for their first 5K, their first half marathon, their first 42.195 race, each one of them claiming space that women have long been told to approach with caution.

So when the countdown finally begins 3… 2… 1… 

And the clock resets to zero, my legs begin to move with the rest of the crowd. 

Running will always be political because every time a woman claims the road, she is asserting something that should have been guaranteed all along: the right to move through the world without fear.

Ryn is the current Communications Manager of DAKILA, an organization of artists, cultural and development activists, students, young professionals, and individuals creatively building a movement of heroism toward social transformation. She’s also training to run all seven World Marathon Majors.