Chapter One — The Spark

It had been a long time since I had a relationship in my life where someone consistently poured belief into me.

Someone who gave me positive feedback every day.

Someone who told me they were proud of me.

Someone who checked in just because they cared.

After Rim To River the year before, I experienced that for a short time. For one month, I felt what it was like to have someone truly believe in me. During that month, something changed.

I started to see myself differently.

I realized maybe my dreams weren’t as crazy as I thought they were.

Maybe the things I had been telling myself were impossible were actually just things I had never been brave enough to attempt.

Sometimes it takes another person believing in you before you can learn to believe in yourself.

That friendship gave me the confidence to take the first steps.

And once I took those steps, there was no turning back.

I hired a coach.

I started a fundraiser.

I picked a date.

I committed to something that, at the time, felt completely impossible.

But somewhere along the way, that person became more of a memory than a constant presence in my life.

And strangely enough, that absence taught me something important.

The dream was never theirs.

The goal was never theirs.

The vision was always mine.

I was the one who planned it.

I was the one who dreamed it.

I was the one who was willing to suffer for it.

I will always cherish that month of my life before my 44th birthday. Looking back, those may have been the most meaningful candles I have ever blown out on a cake. Though the wish still hasn’t come true. 

But after that month ended, the work began.

And the work was lonely.

The training.

The injuries.

The setbacks.

The early mornings.

The doubts.

The countless decisions that had to be made.

Nobody was there every day telling me I could do it.

Nobody was there saying, “You’ve got this,” or reminding me that I could call if things got hard.

It was just me.

My thoughts.

My doubts.

My commitment.

My singularity.

And somewhere during that process, something unexpected happened.

The way I viewed running began to change.

At the beginning, I wanted to finish my runs so I could get back home.

Back to my normal life.

Back to everything familiar.

But somewhere along the way, that flipped.

I started wanting to finish everything else so I could get back to running.

Back to the woods.

Back to the simplicity.

Back to the place where all the noise disappeared.

The place where life became simple.

Move forward.

Eat.

Drink.

Sleep.

Take care of your feet.

Repeat.

The trail became more than a place I trained.

It became the place where I felt most like myself.