Finisher

I recently did something big. Something new. Something pretty unexpected. It was something that, until a few months ago, I didn’t even think I’d ever want to do. But when it hit me… I knew it had to happen.

Hold on. Let me back things up for a second, so I can share a little bit of context.

I am a runner. It took many years and many miles for me to actually say that. I would join local running groups for weekend runs, participate in 5K races (occasionally longer ones, too), join in with friends on local trails… but no matter my pace or distance, no matter how good I’d feel at the finish line, I’d always say “but I’m not a runner.”

It seemed scary to commit to actually calling myself a runner. I felt that what I was doing wasn’t as serious or important as what “real” runners did. That calling myself a runner was somehow rude or disrespectful to those “real” runners. That if I was really a runner, I’d clearly be faster. Or I’d clearly want to run marathons. Or I’d know more about gait and tempos and zones. Or that I’d have fancy gear and hi-tech sneakers.

That wasn’t me. What I was doing? Sure, I was running. But I wasn’t a runner.

It took a couple of years (and a lot of runner friends laughing at me) (kindheartedly, of course) for me to finally, begrudgingly, shyly, admit to kinda, sorta, maybe… being a runner.

Now, just because I could finally say the word, it doesn’t mean that my imposter syndrome disappeared.

See, when you tell someone you’re a runner, there are certain questions that you can always expect. The ones that held me back from the label for so long.

“What’s your mile pace?”

“How many miles do you run each week?”

“Have you ever run a marathon?”

And while my years of running allowed me to answer those questions with grace, reminding those asking that there are as many different kinds of runners as there are people running, it always made me feel like there was an asterisk on my statement. I’m a runner*.

My weekly mileage was inconsistent.

I hate running in cold weather. (I hate anything in cold weather…)

My longest race was 10 miles - and I had no desire to do anything longer.

Until.

Early November 2023. The New York City Marathon. So much footage on social media. The crowds. The signs. The excitement. The energy.

It looked electric.

Wait. What??

I’ve only ever thought “no way” when I’ve seen those images and videos.

What in the world was I thinking?

What if…

And just like that, a seed was planted.

And, because social media algorithms are absolutely terrifying, within two weeks, an ad came across my Facebook feed for the 10th anniversary of a pretty big half marathon through the streets of Philadelphia.

And I registered.

I’d never run more than 12 miles, and even was over 6 years ago. I hadn’t run more than five or six miles in probably a year. What was I thinking?

Honestly? I wasn’t thinking. What I was doing was feeling. I let my heart click submit on the registration form and I knew that it was what I needed to do, even though I hadn’t known until that very moment that I even wanted to.

So for four months I trained, only telling my sister and my two best friends what I was doing. Early mornings on the treadmill. On trails. Speed work. Endurance work. Miles. Time-on-feet.

The whole time wondering if I’d made a mistake. Wondering if I could do it. Wondering if I was too old, too slow, too late. Who in the world did I think I was fooling? Who in the world did I think I was?

The week before the race, it was clear that I was going to be facing another challenge during this run - late March in the Northeast can be fickle and it was clear that the weather was not going to be on my side. And again the fear and doubt grew loud. I could comfortably run in anything over 40 degrees (which, don’t get it twisted, is still cold!). But freezing temperatures and the longest distance I’d ever attempted all at the same time? Remember what I said above - I hate doing anything in the cold. But to attempt my longest run ever in those temperatures? Seriously?

I’m not kidding when I tell you I almost backed out.

So few people even knew I was doing this, no one would be disappointed… who would even know?

Me.

I would.

So at 0-dark-thirty on a sub-freezing Sunday morning, I woke up, layered up, and laced up.

Ready or not… scratch that. Ready is not a feeling. It’s a choice. A decision.

Ready it is. And so I went.

I’d love to say that the race was a blur, that I found my flow and was completely exhilarated and euphoric the whole time. But I don’t want to lie to you.

Instead I found a different kind of flow. There is something very powerful about being in a crowd that large, all there for the same reason. There is something surreal about seeing hundreds of people lining the roads for miles at a time, holding signs, cheering, encouraging total strangers to just keep going. I did my best to read each sign (two of my favorites: “on a scale of 1 to 10, you’re a 13.1!” and “you’re running better than the government!”), I tried to cheer on the runners around me, and I committed to actually being in my body, trusting my training, remembering the coaching, and allowing myself to feel everything - the ease and the difficulty, the exhilaration and the exhaustion.

I’m going to be honest - those were 13.1 of the longest miles I’ve ever run (I swear there was more than one mile between mile markers eight and nine…). The hills were all at the end of the course. There were moments when the wind picked up, taking away any warmth I’d built up with my movement.

But when I hit mile marker 13, only one tenth of a mile to go, the enormity of this accomplishment began to hit me. My finish line photos are… terrible. Because you can tell I was trying too hard to hold back tears.

And then I crossed the finish line. And the medal was placed around my neck.

This thing that a mere five months prior I not only didn’t know I wanted to do, I thought I specifically didn’t want to do… I’d done.

And let me be clear. Even with that medal around my neck, my imposter syndrome was still trying to sneak in. “All these other people did it - you’re nothing special.” “Look at all these people who finished before you - they’re better runners than you.” “If you were a real runner, you’d have done this years ago.”

But the truth is, those doubts? Didn’t stop me. None of those other runners were my competition. They were my allies. My crew. My team. They all deserve to feel proud and be celebrated. And so do I.

And that voice? I’m still working on teaching it the right way to talk to me. On proving to it that it can’t stop me from challenging myself, from growing, or from finding out just how strong I can be. It won’t stop me from trying. These 13.1 miles reminded me that despite the volume of that voice, despite its words, I can not only be a starter, I can be a finisher.