The Run That Rebuilt Me
The only thing that got me out of bed was my cute “set” or race kit for the race lol!
Last April, I lined up for the Desert RATS by UTMB ultra marathon in Fruita, Colorado, carrying more uncertainty than confidence. I had just left a job, stepped into a career transition, and was standing in that fragile space between chapters - where the old identity dissolves and the new one hasn’t solidified yet.
It felt like the race wasn’t just on the trail - it was happening inside me.
I hadn’t trained beyond 13 miles, and I absolutely didn’t feel “ready.” My private fear was that if I dropped out, it would confirm every doubt I had in myself during that season: that I wasn’t strong enough, resilient enough, or capable enough to make it through hard things - in running or in life.
They corralled us into the starting lineup just as the desert began to wake. The sun lifted across the high desert, casting that soft peach-gold light on the mesas, long shadows stretching across the earth. I looked ahead at the sun glow and the HOKA UTMB arch and tears filled my eyes. These tears were a mix of I can’t believe I even got out of bed to get to this starting line, and also tears of I am absolutely not ready for this. Truthfully I felt stupid, that it was even dangerous for me to test my limits in this environment without proper training.
There was no roar of a stadium, just a dramatic countdown then quiet footsteps shifting in sand, and that familiar pre-race quiet where everyone is alone with their thoughts.
I remember thinking:
You are absolutely crazy for doing this, but I am proud you showed up.
Miles 1–14: Hope & Surprise
The first stretch ran through open desert and sandstone canyons, the trail tracing ridgelines and dipping into washes. The Colorado River flashed into view - calm, powerful, indifferent - running parallel to us like a quiet reminder that movement doesn’t always look fast to matter.
For 14 miles, I felt surprisingly strong. Confident isn’t the word, more like steady. Present. Capable in a way I hadn’t felt in months.
For a moment, I believed I might actually finish this thing and I might even finish in good time.
The Turning Point:
Then mile 14 hit - and so did my IT band and knee pain.. Sharp, hot, electric pain. If you’ve ever had IT band syndrome, you know it doesn’t arrive politely and it doesn’t fade. Once it starts, it only escalates.
Every downhill became a negotiation. Every step a reminder of why I shouldn’t have showed up today.
From that point on, the question wasn’t can I run this?
It was can I stay in this?
The Desert Doesn’t Care - And That’s Why It Changes You
The miles unfolded in silence. Saguaros, rust-red cliff walls, distant snow-capped peaks. Canyon after canyon - ancient, unmoved, witness to millions of years of erosion and endurance.
It’s impossible to run through that landscape and not think about time, and patience, and how quietly strength is built.
I stopped at aid stations telling myself this could be the moment you bow out - and then left each one moving forward anyway. Not gracefully, but honestly.
Sometimes perseverance isn’t bold - it’s stubborn, raw, unglamorous, quiet.
The Final Miles: Limping Towards The Finish Line
By the last stretch - somewhere around mile 23 - I was basically limping through the desert, tears slipping out, there was no runner’s high, no cinematic music in my head. My pace was a shuffle stitched together by ego, hope, and a refusal to quit on myself again.
When the finish line came into view, I didn’t surge. I didn’t sprint. I just kept moving forward until my foot crossed it - broken form, wet cheeks, and all.
That finish was not triumphant. It was something better: transformational. I came out capable - in running and in life.
Why This Race Wasn't Really About Running
I didn’t need proof I could run 30 miles.
I needed proof I could keep going when everything in me wanted to stop.
Leaving my job, rebuilding my career path - it all felt like mile 14 on repeat: hopeful… until it hurt. And then the real work began.
Finishing that race taught me the kind of resilience that isn’t loud - the kind built on limping persistence, uncomfortable growth, and showing up for yourself before you feel like you deserve the victory.
Sometimes the finish line isn’t about speed - it’s about not abandoning yourself when everything feels uncertain.
If you find yourself in a spot where you feel like you need to prove yourself to yourself then sign up for a 50K ;)
If you’re somewhere between endings and beginnings…
If you’re learning to trust yourself again…
If you’re limping more than you’re soaring…
Keep going.
You don’t need to feel ready to arrive.
You don’t need to feel strong to be strong.
Sometimes the bravest thing is simply not stopping.
