Unpredictable

12/18/2025

I’m sitting outside Local Coffee on a beautiful Thursday afternoon. It’s 71°, sunny, there’s a perfect breeze, my dog is chewing a bone at my feet, and on paper, everything looks tranquil.

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.