I started running a decade ago. Every morning, I’d find myself on Carter Road, chasing the ocean breeze. That wind is what made me fall in love with this city and running. I want to feel it again. And dystopian as it is, I put on a mask before lacing my shoes. It took me back to the pandemic. Except there’s no virus in the air endangering our life. The air itself could kill us. I never imagined a day when the very thing we breathe to survive would become a luxury. My doors and windows stay shut. I bought an air purifier. I moved my runs to a treadmill, staring at a wall instead of the sea. And it still isn’t enough. Running is the thing that keeps me whole. It clears my head. It heals something in me that nothing else reaches. But now the act I built my life around feels like it’s quietly destroying me. Pollution is undoing what years of discipline and sweat and devotion built, one breath at a time. This isn’t seasonal anymore. It shouldn’t be political. But somewhere between the data and the denial, people like me are out there in masks, grieving a morning run, mourning a city we loved. Is basic accountability really too much to ask for?