The stories we tell ourselves can carry us forward… or convince us to stop.
TO MY PAST SELF
You prepared for everything... except yourself.
You stood on that start line ready.
You had the clothing, the shoes, the gear, the miles under your feet, and the spreadsheets. Oh, those spreadsheets.
You studied the course to death. Past performances. Cutoffs. Paces. You knew where you were supposed to be and when. Even the aid stations, which were meant to be little surprises along the way, you pieced together from old Facebook posts and race reports.
You prepared for everything.
Except the one thing that mattered most.
But you never planned for what to do when things inevitably went wrong.
Not the logistics. You packed Band-Aids, blister cushions, spare socks, and enough supplies to survive almost anything.
But you never packed a plan for despair.
For disappointment.
For questioning whether you deserved to be near the front.
For feeling like a fraud.
For believing that if things weren’t going according to plan, then somehow you weren’t enough.
The pain made the race difficult. But those thoughts nearly ended it.
It wasn’t until mile 303, crossing the Blue Bridge, that something finally shifted.
Nothing had changed physically.
Your legs still hurt.
The finish was still miles away.
But you finally stopped judging yourself and started seeing what you’d actually become.
You weren’t a failure.
You were strong. Independent. And, quite frankly, a badass.
But when you came home, you didn’t celebrate what you had accomplished. You replayed every mistake. You searched for everything that had gone wrong.
You convinced yourself that chasing an FKT after this run was simply another adventure..
It wasn’t.
Part of you was trying to prove you were enough.
Enough for whom?
I wish someone had asked you that question before the race began.
To My Current Self
Train the mind as deliberately as the body.
It took months to understand what actually happened.
The chafing, the blisters, and the unbearable heat were simply part of the game.
The real battle wasn’t on the course.
It was in my head.
I tell my athletes all the time that a race result doesn’t define them. That they are more than a finish time.
Yet I struggle to believe those same words when they’re directed at me.
I am not my results. I run. Running is something I do, not who I am.
Yet I still catch myself living inside the if…then… trap.
If I reach this goal…
Then I’ll be happy.
Then I’ll earn respect.
Then I’ll belong.
Then I’ll finally feel like I’ve earned it.
Why do I still believe that?
I even avoided looking at the entrant list because I was afraid of who might register.
Logically, I know another runner has absolutely no effect on my race. Emotionally, my mind tells a different story.
There will always be someone faster.
Someone stronger.
Someone having a better day.
They’re standing on the same start line carrying their own hopes, fears, and doubts.
They’re not taking anything away from me.
Sometimes they’ll become the people who help me reach my own goals.
Just run your own race.
The comparison doesn’t stop with other runners. It shows up in training too.
There is no value in turning imperfect preparation into an excuse.
My priorities have shifted as I try to balance my own goals with building something bigger than myself. I’ve poured countless hours into creating a community where other people can chase their own impossible dreams. Often, the club comes before my own training.
I can’t change that now. The work is done.
There is also no “next event.” Not yet. That’s intentional.
I’ve learned how dangerous it becomes when another goal waits just around the corner.
This race isn’t going well… there’s always the FKT next month.
That’s when the demons find the door.
What I fear isn’t the blisters.
Or the sleep deprivation.
Or the physical pain.
Those are guaranteed.
What I fear is my mind deciding the race is over before my body ever gets a vote.
Sitting here, rested and clear-headed, every word feels obvious.
But ultramarathons aren’t run from the comfort of a chair.
They’re run on Day 3.
With three hours of sleep. Total.
Sunburned.
Hungry.
Sore.
Exhausted.
That’s when logic fades. That’s when stories become beliefs.
This time, that’s what I’m training for.
You know this now.
Remember it when you don’t.
To My Future Self
When the wheels wobble, come back to the present.
Things will get hard. They always do.
Something will go wrong. Probably several things.
When they do, don’t fight the emotions. Acknowledge them.
The fear.
The frustration.
Fortune-telling about everything that’s about to fall apart.
Then come back to the present.
Ask yourself one question.
What problem am I solving right now?
Then solve only that problem.
The blister.
The chafing.
The heat.
The missed nutrition.
The exhaustion.
Take care of yourself. You’ve solved these problems before.
Stop catastrophizing. Then keep moving.
Don’t think about mile 314.
That’s too big. Too far away.
Too easy to become overwhelmed by.
Think about the mile you’re in.
The next gas station.
The next Dollar General.
The next town.
The next sunrise.
Break the impossible into pieces small enough to finish.
The finish line isn’t reached in one giant leap.
It’s reached one ordinary mile at a time.
There is still a possibility you won’t finish. That’s the reality of a race like this.
Don’t pretend otherwise.
Think about it now, while your mind is clear.
Know where your line is. Know what would make you stop.
Know the difference between discomfort and danger.
If that moment ever comes, make the decision with a clear mind, not with a tired one.
Then let it go.
You’ve already done the planning.
You don’t need to race while carrying the weight of a decision that may never come.
Your job isn’t to decide whether you’ll finish. Your job is to keep moving until there is a reason not to.
Sleep deprivation will come. Rest when you need to.
Those minutes aren’t time lost. They’re time invested.
Rest isn’t quitting. It’s a strategy.
The next time you stand on a start line, you’ll still study the course. You’ll still obsess over pacing. You’ll still hunt down every supply and every detail.
That’s who you are. But this time you’ll prepare for something else.
The moment your mind tells you the race is over.
Because it probably won’t be.
When that moment comes…
Pause.
Breathe.
Solve the problem in front of you.
Then keep moving.
One race doesn’t define an athlete.
One moment of doubt doesn’t make you a fraud.
The competition isn’t the runner beside you.
It’s the story you’re telling yourself.
You already have everything you need.
Just fucking run.
