06/22/2026
On June 20th, I crossed the finish line of Grandma's Marathon.
It wasn't the race I envisioned when training began back in March.
About 7-8 weeks before race day, I was hit with Influenza B. I fought hard to rebuild my fitness, but deep down I knew things weren't quite where they needed to be. Some workouts didn't go as planned, and the confidence I wanted going into race day just wasn't there.
As the race approached, I found myself questioning my "why." Why was I chasing this goal? How much was I willing to suffer for a PR?
I started the race determined to give it a shot. For the first half, I stayed within the 3-hour pace group and felt okay. But by mile 14, I knew something wasn't clicking. By miles 16-18, I realized I wasn't going to be able to hold on.
Then the race became something entirely different. The goal was no longer a PR. The goal was to finish.
From mile 20 to the finish line, it became a battle of will. My pace slowed. My heart rate wasn't recovering. My hip flexors and hamstrings screamed at me. More than once, I looked at a medical tent and thought about stopping.
But every time, I kept moving forward.
Sometimes the races that teach us the most aren't the ones where everything goes right. They're the ones where every part of you wants to quit, and you choose to continue anyway.
When I crossed the finish line, I cried. Not because I was disappointed. Not because I failed, but because I absolutely nothing left to give.
On that day, finishing was the victory.
After 11 marathons, I'm reflecting on what I want from this sport moving forward. Maybe chasing a sub-3 marathon isn't worth the physical cost for me anymore. Maybe it's time for different goals, shorter races, and a different relationship with the marathon.
I still love running. I still love racing.
But if I run another marathon, I want to high-five spectators, smile when people cheer, soak in the atmosphere, and appreciate the experience instead of obsessing over the clock.
The marathon has a way of humbling you. Grandma's marathon taught me that sometimes grit looks different than success—and that's okay.