It’s the night before my half marathon. I feel sick. Nerves and complete lack of confidence flood my head. I’m attempting a PR I was set to achieve pre-pandemic. Now I don’t feel I’m where I was then. Now I feel worried because I wrote my own training plan. Now I am filled with self-doubt and impostor syndrome.

This goal feels too big. Too scary. What if I fail? What will my followers think? What will my clients think? There is so much more at stake this time around. I tell my husband I changed my mind. I don’t want to do it anymore.

He reassures me it will be fine. That even if I miss the PR, it doesn’t mean I failed.

I know this. I know he is right. But it’s easy to know these things. It’s harder to take the pressure off yourself.

I go to the race since I paid for it.

It’s god awful early. Pitch dark. I’m on a bus riding up the canyon so we can run back down.

The girl sitting next to me is a new college student. She tells me about how she didn’t train enough because school got stressful. I give her advice. It feels good to be able to “coach” somebody even though it was small in these last few moments.

We get to the start line. I use the porta-potties. Twice.

I warm-up.

I line up.

Inhale. Exhale.

Tell myself one last time to just have fun. To enjoy racing for the first time since March 2020.

The announcer counts down. The crowd surges forward. I cross the timing chip mat. Start my watch. I weave and dodge in and out of people until the pack opens up.

I am flying down the canyon. Glance at my watch. 7:00 min/mile pace. Heart rate looks great, effort feels great. I relax a bit and enjoy the rush of my feet pounding the pavement amongst all the other runners. I take in the brilliant scenery surrounding me. I listen to my boss ass playlist I made.

The first 8 miles pass in the blink of an eye.

I’m still pacing way faster than goal and my legs are feeling good.

Mile 10 hits. The elevation levels out. We are now on mostly flat pavement with a few small ups and downs.

My legs begin to feel heavy. My heart rate begins to climb. I know that these last 3 miles are going to be a battle.

Mile 11 comes and goes. My mind is screaming at me to stop. I keep moving one foot in front of the other.

Mile 12.

One to go. You can do this, I tell myself. I kind of want to cry. Everything hurts and I am so so tired.

I keep going. I think of Molly Seidel in her Olympic Marathon. How tired she must have been. I keep going.

The finish line comes into view in the distance.

My mind wants me to run faster. I force my body to hold pace. I don’t have enough left in the tank to sprint the last half mile.

Hold. Hold. Hold.

It becomes a mantra as my legs carry me closer to the end. I pass the 1:40 pacers in surprise.

As I approach the finish line I see the clock. It reads 1:39:50. I begin to sprint, the taste of a sub 1:40 finish giving me one last burst of energy.

I cross the finish line in astonishment. Not only did I hit my goal, I beat it by 5 full minutes.

Suddenly I cover my mouth and heave, praying nothing comes out. Three times I heave. Three times I keep it down.

I walk it off. I breathe. I drink a bottle of water.

And I let it sink in.

I did it. This huge thing I was so scared of. I fucking did it. In that moment, I know that I gave 150% out there. I know that I left it all out on the course.

And I am so so proud of myself.

This was the hardest I’ve ever run. This was a special race. Those last 3 miles will forever be a reminder of what I can do. Of the mental strength and fortitude I have built. 

This is why I run. To prove that I can. To test my limits. To create new limits. To show myself and the world what hard work, dedication, and drive can do.

Go do the hard thing. It’s always worth it.