Why Run Without Headphones But Also, It’s Fine If You Do
Golden Gate Park to Sutro Baths to Coastal Trail across the Golden Gate Bridge (and back)
I used to think I needed headphones to run. That, without Charli XCX in my ears, I would simply... stop. Not out of exhaustion, but out of boredom. When I went on my first run in my early twenties, it felt like an overly earnest activity for someone who hadn’t grown up doing sports, and I relied on music to make every step bearable. As I ran more, my headphones were so central to the ritual that if they weren’t available, I’d skip the run altogether.
But then something started to shift. A friend once told me they never run with headphones because they like to keep track of how their body is doing. They want to feel their breath, notice their pace. At the time, I didn’t totally buy it. It sounded like something people said because it was trendy to be “in tune with your body,” like part of the larger wellness zeitgeist of turmeric lattes and cold plunges. But they’d run cross-country in high school, so I figured maybe it wasn’t just a line. I got curious and gave it a shot. And I did feel more in tune with my body. I just also felt more annoyed by it. So I went back to music.
Still, their comment stuck with me. Years later, another friend, training for their first 100-miler, said something similar. They only use music when they’re really wiped or in the final, brutal miles of a workout. Like it’s a secret weapon they save for the hardest moments. That felt different—not “music or nothing,” but “music when needed.” I tried that. And it was surprisingly fun. The music helped when things got tough, but not having it also made the rest of the run richer in ways I hadn’t expected.
This is the story of one of those runs—a low-headphones day from Golden Gate Park to Sutro Baths, up the Coastal Trail, across the Golden Gate Bridge, and back.
The first sound I heard was a piano glissando, someone playing a pop-up piano in the park. It sounded like the start of Dancing Queen, but I figured it was just a popular riff. But then, those first three chords. It was Dancing Queen. What a banger to start a run with, especially when I’m still wondering why I’m even out here during mile three. I dance-ran and bobbed my head along. It felt like the whole city was on the run, too.
Then came the school field trips. Packs of toddlers in reflective vests holding onto shared ropes. Middle schoolers (or maybe it was high schoolers? I can’t really tell the difference) flinging around slang that felt completely made up. I’m still thinking about one kid who said, “Nah, that’s cabbage confidence.” No idea what it means, but I’m obsessed.
My half-empty water bottle started swishing with every stride, which was annoying for half a mile until it blended into the rhythm of my breath.
A truck roared past during a concrete stretch, and I swear it hit the exact key of Summertime Sadness. I hadn’t planned to sing, but I did. It felt correct.
Crossing the bridge, the wind picked up and started playing the cables like a harp. It was eerie, and beautiful, and felt weirdly earned.
Somewhere in the middle miles, I started getting into a rhythm with a few other runners—leapfrogging back and forth. We’d exchange a quick nod or a “you again!” or a little smile that said, “yep, still out here.” A few micro-conversations emerged from nothing. A stranger let me pass with a “go right ahead!” and we both laughed when I promptly stopped to adjust my running vest. It made the run feel social, like we were in a group run club.
And then I bonked. Not a dramatic collapse—just that slow-motion unraveling where everything feels too heavy. My feet were singing “no no no no” to the tune of Bruno Mars’s Marry You. I didn’t want to be running anymore. So I pulled out my phone and texted a friend. They joined for a stretch. And suddenly I wasn’t alone. We laughed. Talked. Distracted ourselves (well myself). It flipped the mood entirely.
Later, after they peeled off, the world softened again. I heard the bison munching grass, one rubbing its back on the fence. A grandfather decisively denying his grandson access to his remote-control boat. Geese barking. Tourists arguing over photo angles. A drinking fountain gurgling to life like a dragon clearing its throat.
My own breath. My own steps. The slow, quiet realization that I wasn’t just running through the city—I was running with it.
Then the final five miles hit.
My legs were cooked. The cute snippets of sound weren’t cutting it anymore. I needed help. So I reached into my pocket, pulled out my headphones, and hit play. It felt like a power-up in a video game. My pace picked up. My brain chilled out. It was exactly what I needed to get home.
So no, this isn’t an anti-headphone manifesto. Sometimes you need Lorde from the start telling us we’re the greatest and that they’ll hang us in the Louvre (down the back, but who cares? Still the Louvre!). Sometimes you need a Tay Tay banger at mile fifteen. What I’ve learned is that there’s something fun about waiting—letting the world score the first part of your run before you cue up your own personal DJ for the big finish.
So yeah—run with music, run without. Just don’t forget to listen.