If you walked by, you might notice that I am, in fact, still crying.

One thing I’ve learned in 2025 is that I have zero shame crying in public. I call it character development.

It’s that time of year when people get reflective… totally fine if that’s not you. Unfortunately (or fortunately), it is very much me. And when I was asked yesterday how I’d sum up 2025 in one word, the answer came immediately: Unpredictable.

This day last year, I was doing mile repeats & feeling confident to PR a half in Houston, try to place in DC & even see something special happen racing Eugene.

Then, unpredictably:

The first week of January, I canceled Houston because of a subtle shin pain I tried to convince myself was “nothing.”
The day before DC, I was diagnosed with my seventh stress fracture (because apparently six wasn’t enough). Eugene was predictably very, very off the table.

Unpredictably, my mom didn’t get better, and I stayed home for four months trying to help in any way I could.
Unpredictably, I started working in the ER — something I never thought I’d see myself doing — and ended up loving it while also being challenged in ways I couldn’t have prepared for.
Unpredictably, I had to cancel Berlin for the second time.
Unpredictably, I cried for three hours in front of the Balto statue in NYC.

And then, months later, unpredictably, I met a puppy in the Pearl on a random night, knew immediately I was taking him home, and named him Balto. Full circle, apparently.

Fast forward a bit, skip a couple more unpredictables, and unpredictably, I texted my coach for the first time three days ago saying I was genuinely excited for what the next year could bring.

And then ~ very on brand ~ my knee started hurting the next day.

Lately, I’ve found myself waiting. Waiting for my body to feel trustworthy again. Waiting for pain to quiet. Waiting for a stretch of sunshine long enough to believe I can run through it.

But time doesn’t pause while we wait for better conditions. Life keeps moving, quietly tallying the things we miss while we hold out for a season that feels safe again.

I’ve missed group morning runs.
I’ve missed races I trained for and dreamed about.
I’ve missed holiday 5Ks, Courtney’s Halloween run, Torcido miles, and the simple joy of showing up without fear.

And what hurts almost as much is the fear that some dreams may never come back the same — or at all. Trying again for DC, Eugene, Berlin. Wanting to do the Speed Project. Even thinking about OTQ, which feels… bold? Delusional? Embarrassing? Definitley embarrassing.

For a long time, I kept telling myself “just wait.”

Wait for your season. Wait for your moment. Wait until the rain stops.

But the waiting has cost me something too.

So instead of waiting for a “sunnier season,” I’m trying to remind myself that this gets to be my season of beginning again (& again & again). Not because it’s ideal. Not because I’m ready. But because it’s the season I’m in.

Every season can still be formative.
Every season can still prepare us for what comes next.
Every season can still hold joy if we let it.

I’ve found it can take many seasons to soften scars. To rebuild trust in a body that has broken you over and over again. But choosing to begin again when you’re tired, disappointed, and scared is its own kind of courage.

Anyone can quit because of limitations. Honestly, I probably should have quit running years ago. I’m not special. I’m not a professional. I don’t do this for a living. But for reasons I don’t fully understand, I can’t quit.

I think of Balto… the dog, the statue, the story (yes, it’s so cheesy)… and I remember that trying again is its own form of heroism.

I don’t share this because I have answers or I’m looking for validation. I share it because when I’m injured, I want to feel less alone. Reading writers like Peter Bromka has helped me sit in this mess and feel like someone else actually gets it. Hearing athletes like Molly Seidel speak honestly about injury and her eating disorder has been a reminder that there is so much more to life than the narrow, all-consuming lens we sometimes view running through.

There’s no shortage of content about injury prevention, optimization, and performance. I’ve learned those lessons. I’ve made changes. I’m genuinely happy for runners who are healthy and thriving.

But I’m still sad. Still frustrated. And every once in a while, I need to hear from other athletes that I’m not the only one sitting in this, feeling isolated while grieving the version of myself I thought I’d be right now.

I love running. I hate running. And somehow, I still love it so much I can’t stop thinking about it.

Because when it clicks and it feels like effort and freedom coexist, there is nothing that compares. And I don’t know if I’ll ever feel that again. Which sounds dramatic, but when your unofficial superlative becomes “most likely injured,” it’s hard not to lose hope.

So, to sum up this unpredictable, roller-coaster year, here’s what I’m holding onto:

You can be lonely in a crowd. Life asks us to keep growing, whether we want to or not. It is a gift to love something deeply, even if it breaks your heart. True friends matter more than milestones. Peace is worth protecting. Hope is necessary. Joy lives in simple things. Sometimes old ways have to break to make room for better ones. Life is a constant breaking down and building back up. Let the small things take up big space in your heart. There is always room for more.

And if this season feels as unpredictable for you as it has for me, maybe that just means it’s asking us to begin again, and trust that there are better things ahead. We really never know what’s waiting around the next corner.

November 21, 2025 I stood on the rooftop of a parking garage in downtown Austin with the same chef, saying: “we did the damn thing.”

Bloody noses. Achy knees. Sweaty towels. Misplaced headlights. Soggy socks. Questionable gas station coffee. Jammed van doors. Cowgirl potty stops. Wrong turns. 3 am hallucinations.

Everything I imagined & more.

For the last few years, I’ve had this quiet dream tucked in the back of my mind: No rules, no set route, just a team, the open road, and the kind of chaos that makes you question what the hell you are doing. Right up until the exact moment you remember: this is what running is supposed to feel like.

That dream kept tugging at me. I’d talk about it here and there, float the idea to people who might understand the thrill of chasing something a little unhinged.

It’s the kind of event built on camaraderie, a little bit of recklessness, and the specific brand of suffering that somehow bonds a group of strangers into an irreplaceable friendship. The kind of experience where the memories don’t need to be explained because the only people who really understand them were crammed into a van with you at 4 a.m.

And somehow ~ miraculously, with the help of a few very key people ~ I got to see this dream come to life and be a part of it.

The thrill, the laughs, the delirium, the hype up music in the van, the quiet moments during your stretches when you’re staring at the stars and thinking, This is exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I’m grateful for the runners who trusted me, the captains who welcomed me, the community that keeps saying “yes” to big, (absolutely) ridiculous ideas, and the fact that wild dreams have a way of finding their way back to you at just the right time.

UNRTD was a relay. But it was also proof that the best things in life are often the things with no set route.

And the best people are the ones who show up in the dark and run with you until the sun rises again. (Or run for you when your knee is giving out)

I’m grateful for a lot of things. But today, I’m especially grateful for this:

For the people who built this wild, chaotic thing with me.

For the ones who said yes to 90-ish miles, questionable decisions, and still 10/10 would do it again.

UNRTD 2025.. see you next year.

There's a moment in every long run when you hit a choice: lean in, or back off. It’s the point where fatigue settles deep, where your legs feel heavier, where your mind starts negotiating with your body. Maybe today isn’t the day. Maybe you should slow down. Maybe stopping altogether wouldn’t be the worst thing. Sometimes, stopping is exactly what your body needs, and knowing how to listen to that voice is critical. But sometimes, in that moment, something inside whispers: lean in. Trust it. Keep going.

Lately, life feels like that moment—but not in the way I’d really like it to. I feel like God is whispering, “Lean into Me” when I’d rather be leaning into mile 17 of a long run. So, I’ve been asking myself: What does leaning into Him look like?

I think it looks like trusting that He is working for my good and His glory, even when I can’t see the full picture. I think it looks like believing that I will be ready when it counts. It looks like knowing that I can begin again—because I have, and I will. And it looks like letting go of the shame that tells me I am never good enough.

I belong here. It's a phrase I've been repeating to myself, trying to silence the imposter syndrome that whispers I don’t deserve a spot on the starting line. Because now, instead of standing on that line, I find myself stuck on an elliptical — reminding myself that even here, even now, I still belong.

So here I am. Another little injury. And I’m doing my best to lean into it. Meeting myself with a lot of grace and even more grit.

Starting over feels like starting over. And the fear of beginning again after an injury is so real. It’s learning to trust your body again, fighting the fear that the next step might hurt. It’s realizing that an 800-meter repeat feels way harder than it did just a few months prior. This reality has been discouraging me — thinking back on every injury, every setback, every time I felt like I had to rebuild from the ground up. But lately, I’ve been asking myself… isn’t this the whole point? Don’t I love this because it doesn’t come easy? Don’t I love this because it requires getting up again and again? Don’t I love this because failure is inevitable, but resilience is a choice?

Despite feeling like I have fallen down over and over, maybe leaning into Him means believing that nothing - not even my possibly ~7th bone stress reaction - is going to knock me off course for what He has planned.

I don’t want to let my highs be so high or my lows so low that I forget how to navigate forward. I created this online space to acknowledge both the highs and the lows. So just because I may be in a valley right now doesn’t mean it lasts forever. And it doesn’t mean that there aren’t pearls to be found even in the depths. So, I’ll embrace the highs, search for treasures in the lows, and keep moving forward. I don’t know what’s around the corner, but I am leaning into the belief that I have what it takes to face whatever challenge is in front of me head-on. I am leaning into the belief that the best is still yet to come.

This season of leaning in isn’t about the big, shiny moments - it seems to be more about the boring ones. The 90 minutes on the elliptical. The repetitive steps on the stair stepper. The same four walls surrounding the pool as I aqua jog for what feels like hours (though only 30 minutes). These are the moments that matter. These are the "miles" that add up. One step at a time, one small decision at a time, until one day, I’ll look back and realize I’ve cut down an entire forest.

Sometimes, I find myself wanting to numb out the boredom or the discomfort. But leaning into the moment means choosing presence over distraction. I don’t want to numb it out. When healthy, I want to feel every footstep hitting the pavement. So even in this season, I want to feel every pedal stroke on the bike. I want to feel my lungs burn and the sweat pouring on the elliptical.

Because when I reach the final third of a marathon - and I know I will again, even if that starting line feels far, far away - I won’t be there just to coast to the finish. I’ll be there to see it through, to push my limits, to find out what I’m made of. Because the curiosity of what God might have in store is what keeps me moving forward.

Not everyone will understand why I do this. Some days, even I don’t fully understand (especially 75 minutes into an elliptical workout).

But I believe that only those willing to risk going too far will ever truly know how far they can go. And I don’t want to be afraid of that risk.

So, I am leaning into this season. Trusting that I can begin again, Trusting that I will be ready when it counts. And asking God… just how good can this possibly get?There's a moment in every long run when you hit a choice: lean in, or back off. It’s the point where fatigue settles deep, where your legs feel heavier, where your mind starts negotiating with your body. Maybe today isn’t the day. Maybe you should slow down. Maybe stopping altogether wouldn’t be the worst thing. Sometimes, stopping is exactly what your body needs, and knowing how to listen to that voice is critical. But sometimes, in that moment, something inside whispers: lean in. Trust it. Keep going.

Lately, life feels like that moment—but not in the way I’d really like it to. I feel like God is whispering, “Lean into Me” when I’d rather be leaning into mile 17 of a long run. So, I’ve been asking myself: What does leaning into Him look like?

I think it looks like trusting that He is working for my good and His glory, even when I can’t see the full picture. I think it looks like believing that I will be ready when it counts. It looks like knowing that I can begin again—because I have, and I will. And it looks like letting go of the shame that tells me I am never good enough.

I belong here. It's a phrase I've been repeating to myself, trying to silence the imposter syndrome that whispers I don’t deserve a spot on the starting line. Because now, instead of standing on that line, I find myself stuck on an elliptical — reminding myself that even here, even now, I still belong.

So here I am. Another little injury. And I’m doing my best to lean into it. Meeting myself with a lot of grace and even more grit.

Starting over feels like starting over. And the fear of beginning again after an injury is so real. It’s learning to trust your body again, fighting the fear that the next step might hurt. It’s realizing that an 800-meter repeat feels way harder than it did just a few months prior. This reality has been discouraging me — thinking back on every injury, every setback, every time I felt like I had to rebuild from the ground up. But lately, I’ve been asking myself… isn’t this the whole point? Don’t I love this because it doesn’t come easy? Don’t I love this because it requires getting up again and again? Don’t I love this because failure is inevitable, but resilience is a choice?

Despite feeling like I have fallen down over and over, maybe leaning into Him means believing that nothing - not even my possibly ~7th bone stress reaction - is going to knock me off course for what He has planned.

I don’t want to let my highs be so high or my lows so low that I forget how to navigate forward. I created this online space to acknowledge both the highs and the lows. So just because I may be in a valley right now doesn’t mean it lasts forever. And it doesn’t mean that there aren’t pearls to be found even in the depths. So, I’ll embrace the highs, search for treasures in the lows, and keep moving forward. I don’t know what’s around the corner, but I am leaning into the belief that I have what it takes to face whatever challenge is in front of me head-on. I am leaning into the belief that the best is still yet to come.

This season of leaning in isn’t about the big, shiny moments - it seems to be more about the boring ones. The 90 minutes on the elliptical. The repetitive steps on the stair stepper. The same four walls surrounding the pool as I aqua jog for what feels like hours (though only 30 minutes). These are the moments that matter. These are the "miles" that add up. One step at a time, one small decision at a time, until one day, I’ll look back and realize I’ve cut down an entire forest.

Sometimes, I find myself wanting to numb out the boredom or the discomfort. But leaning into the moment means choosing presence over distraction. I don’t want to numb it out. When healthy, I want to feel every footstep hitting the pavement. So even in this season, I want to feel every pedal stroke on the bike. I want to feel my lungs burn and the sweat pouring on the elliptical.

Because when I reach the final third of a marathon - and I know I will again, even if that starting line feels far, far away - I won’t be there just to coast to the finish. I’ll be there to see it through, to push my limits, to find out what I’m made of. Because the curiosity of what God might have in store is what keeps me moving forward.

Not everyone will understand why I do this. Some days, even I don’t fully understand (especially 75 minutes into an elliptical workout).

But I believe that only those willing to risk going too far will ever truly know how far they can go. And I don’t want to be afraid of that risk.

So, I am leaning into this season. Trusting that I can begin again, Trusting that I will be ready when it counts. And asking God… just how good can this possibly get?

Whenever someone shows up for their first group social run, one of the first questions they’ll hear is, “What got you into running?” It’s the classic icebreaker, impossible to avoid. Sometimes it’s followed by “Did you run in college?” or, “What are you training for?” My answers are always the same: I’ve always enjoyed running but never thought I was particularly good at it. I didn’t run in college until my senior year when I joined a running group, thanks to a post-breakup COVID-era push to lace up and hit the pavement. The coach of the group, Gilbert Tuhabonye, was the first person to suggest I train for the Boston Marathon. He believed in my potential long before I did. Like many new runners, I was eager and overzealous, ramping up my mileage too quickly and leading to a torn hip labrum that sidelined me for six months. That injury set off a chain reaction, including several metatarsal stress fractures and the classic runner's knee soon after my return to running.

After five canceled marathons and countless setbacks, I finally lined up for my first marathon in January 2022. My goal was to qualify for Boston with a time under 3:30, but I was shocked to cross the finish line in 3:06, feeling like I still had more to give. Since then, my running journey has been a rollercoaster of highs and lows. I managed to complete my first, and only, ultramarathon injury-free, only to break my foot at mile 18 of a marathon shortly after. Following that, I arrived at my first Boston Marathon with just 10 miles of training under my belt and, by the grace of God, somehow managed to finish. While injuries have repeatedly disrupted my training, I’ve been amazed time and time again at how my body rises to the challenge and bounces back even stronger on race day.

Fast forward to October 2023, when I raced a half marathon in Irving, Texas, finishing in 1:22:50. I was thrilled and confident that I was finally breaking free from my cycle of injuries. But just a week later, a dull ache in my hip led to an MRI, revealing a femoral neck stress fracture. This injury forced me to withdraw from yet another marathon in December.

By January 2024, my hip had healed enough to ease back into running. On a whim, I decided to jump into Austin’s 3M Half Marathon to test my fitness as I began training for Boston. Despite starting at the back of the pack, weaving through crowds, dropping my bib, and wrestling with my shirt mid-race at mile two, I finished as 2nd female with a massive 6-minute PR, crossing the line in 1:16:32—a result I never could have imagined.

With the guidance of an incredible friend and coach, I achieved another milestone at the Chicago Marathon last fall. Crossing the finish line in 2:54 was a testament to how far I’ve come and only ignited my fire to soar even higher.

I love to run for a multitude of reasons: the euphoria of finishing a hard effort, the camaraderie built through shared miles, the thrill of flying on race day, and the simple joy of being able to wake up and lace up on any given day. Running reminds me that we’re made to do hard things - and not just endure them but learn to love them. As runners, we don’t want to miss out on something great just because it may also be difficult. We don’t shy away from challenges; we embrace them, knowing that the hard is what makes the journey truly great.

So, here’s to more morning miles, sweaty hugs, and surprising ourselves with PRs we didn’t think were possible. I like to remind myself that the dreams that seem impossible today might just be inevitable tomorrow. As Gilbert told me years ago, truly, the sky is the limit. I’m so excited to share this journey with you.

For so long, I equated success in running - & often in life - with pushing hard. Hard effort, hard goals, hard work. I’ve always believed that we were made to do hard things, and that the most rewarding things in life often come from perseverance through struggle. Some of the best things in life are often the hard things. I’ve believed that if I wasn’t grinding, I wasn’t growing. That mindset has taken me far, and in many ways, I still stand by it. But it has also led me down a path of repeated injuries. Stress fractures, overuse injuries, races I had to cancel … setbacks that left me wondering if I’d ever feel strong again. If you’ve ever been injured, you probably know that first-run-back anxiety: Will it be pain-free? Will I ever get back to where I was?

But through every setback, I’ve found a way to return. And now, I’m learning to return differently.

I've recently come across On’s Soft Wins campaign, and while I have no affiliation with the brand, the message resonated deeply within me. It’s a simple yet powerful reminder that growth doesn’t always come from force. Sometimes, the best way forward isn’t about effort - it’s about ease. Less about proving, and more about pressing on. It’s about trusting the process instead of rushing it. It’s about allowing softness to win.

What do ‘Soft Wins’ Look Like?

Softness doesn’t mean weakness. It means knowing how to step back, to listen to your body, to lean into joy instead of pressure. It’s also about trusting that I am more than what I accomplish; trusting that my there is something greater than split times and highest mileage.

Lately, my soft wins have looked like:

• Running for joy, not just PRs. 

• Showing up to group runs with friends, feeling the rhythm of my stride, and appreciating movement for movement’s sake.

• Post-run (& sometimes pre-run) monster cookies. Because food is fuel, but it’s also meant to be enjoyed.

• Lagree - a low-impact workout that makes me feel stronger without breaking my body down.

• Sleeping in when I need it - especially when home with my favorite pups.

• Being OK with rest days (and a trip to Mexico with no workouts planned)!

• Letting go of comparison and allowing my training to be uniquely mine, even if that means more cross training and fewer miles.

There was a time when I thought ‘soft’ meant settling. That taking the softer path meant I wasn’t trying hard enough. I’m learning that soft isn’t passive, it’s intentional. It’s choosing longevity over burnout. It’s choosing consistency over intensity. It’s choosing love over fear.

Learning to embrace softness has been a lesson that real strength isn't just about how much we can endure, but also about how well we can recover. It's a reminder that rest has a purpose - that growth happens not only in the pushing but also in the pausing.

Let soft win. Maybe this is your reminder to embrace the kind of training, recovery, and mindset that doesn’t break you down but builds you up.

Soft wins. Not just in running, but in life. And I’m here for it.

I would love to know - what do soft wins look like for you?