When I first heard about Tempohaus, I wasn’t looking to run. I was looking to heal.
It had been a tough few months. A breakup. A job loss. A move. The kind of shift that makes you question everything—including yourself. I knew I needed something to anchor me. Something physical, but also emotional. Running seemed too intense. Run clubs seemed intimidating. But something about the way Tempohaus described itself—purposeful, aesthetic, community-driven—made me curious.
So I showed up.
It was February. Cold, damp, unforgiving. The group gathered near Houston Street, all layered in black and grey, with a kind of quiet confidence. I remember feeling wildly out of place. But someone caught my eye and smiled. Another runner offered me an extra pair of gloves. No one asked about my pace. They just asked if it was my first run with the crew.
We set off slowly. The rhythm was calm, conversational. I stopped after three miles. Winded. Embarrassed. But they waited. They encouraged. They made space for me.
That moment shifted everything.
Over the next few months, I kept showing up. I ran through cold mornings and rainy nights. I learned to find comfort in the discomfort. I listened to others’ stories. I shared mine. I rebuilt something inside myself, one mile at a time.
By May, I ran ten miles without stopping. It wasn’t about speed—it was about strength. Not just physical, but emotional. Because I wasn’t running alone. I was running with people who saw me. Who ran beside me.
Tempohaus gave me more than endurance. It gave me back my sense of self.