I didn’t choose Eugene because it’s Tracktown, USA—though the legacy of legends who’ve raced there isn’t lost on me. I chose it because of a date.

April 26, 2023: the day I was diagnosed with breast cancer. The day everything changed.

As the one-year mark approached, I knew I didn’t want to spend that day sitting in my sadness. I didn’t want to relive the shock or fear. I wanted to reclaim it. I wanted to feel strong, alive, and stubbornly joyful. I wanted my body—this body that’s been through so much—to do something radical and life-affirming.

So I signed up for a marathon.

That may sound unhinged. And maybe it was. I had never even run a race before July 4th, 2024, when I tackled the Peachtree Road Race—6.2 miles. Nine months later, I was toeing the start line for 26.2 miles.

I found the Eugene Marathon by Googling races closest to April 26. It felt right. Beautiful, peaceful, meaningful. I signed up paid for my spot before I could talk myself out of it.

I had no clue how to train for a marathon. I didn’t know what a tempo run was or how to fuel for a long run. Thankfully, I randomly came across this app called Runna on TikTok. The content creator who was plugging the app has a code to try it out for two weeks for free and I figured, why not?I fell in love with it and kept my subscription going through my training. I loved Runna because all it asked me to do was plug in my race date, select how many days I wanted to train, and it generated a 20-week plan. Just like that, I was in.

Except it wasn’t just like that. It was hard. So hard.

I ran when it was freezing. I ran in the rain. I ran when I was tired, when I was sick, when I was hungover. I skipped out on parties and said no to weekend plans because I had a long run the next day and needed sleep, carbs, and quiet. I trained around 4 days a week, averaging 50 miles—and that’s considered low mileage for a marathon cycle.

No one tells you this part, but running the marathon isn’t the hard part. The training is. The training wears you down and builds you back up. It makes you question your sanity. It demands discipline when motivation is gone. It takes hours away from your family and social life and hands you back something more precious: belief in yourself.

So what does running a marathon actually feel like?

It’s a war between your mind and your body. A quiet battle of wills. There were miles where my brain rebelled:
“Why are we doing this?”
“You could stop right now.”
“We could be in bed.”

And there were miles where my body had nothing left: my legs turned to cement, the area under my glutes cramped, my stomach hurt from too many gels. I felt every step.

But then there’d be a whisper from deep inside:
“Keep going.”
“You’re strong.”
“Remember why you’re here.”

And I’d keep moving—one step, one breath, one mile at a time.

What the Marathon Taught Me About Myself

Between mile 21 and 24, something shifted. Not in my pace (because that wasn’t picking up), but in my understanding of myself.

I’ve always known I was resilient—life has taught me that again and again—but this experience showed me that I’m also deeply committed. Not just to goals, but to myself.

It’s easy to push through one hard moment. But training for a marathon? That’s 20 weeks of hard. That’s waking up early. Running on empty. Rearranging your life and still showing up for yourself. That’s a kind of self-trust I didn’t know I had.

I learned that I’m more than what’s happened to me. I am who I choose to become in response.

Running this marathon taught me that joy and grief can live in the same body. That pain can be purposeful when it’s on your own terms. That I don’t have to love running to love what it gives me: silence in my mind, time carved out just for me, permission to be fully present in my own body.

I don’t run for speed. I run to feel alive. To feel capable. To feel like this body—this once-fragile, post-surgery, post-baby, post-cancer body—is mine again.

Would I Run Another Marathon?

100% Yes.

As a matter of fact, I entered the lottery for the London Marathon a few hours after I completed my first. I also hope to run Boston next year for a charity, because I’m not even close to qualifying time, and that’s okay. Running isn’t about perfection. It’s about possibility.

Crossing that finish line in Eugene felt like crossing into a new version of myself. I’m not the same woman who got that call on April 26, 2023. I’m softer and stronger. I’m slower and more intentional. I’m proud in a way I can’t quite put into words.

To anyone sitting in their own version of April 26—a diagnosis, a heartbreak, a deep loss—I want you to know this:
You get to decide what comes next. You get to reclaim the story. You don’t have to run 26.2 miles to do it. But find something that reminds you you’re still here. Still strong. Still becoming.

Because healing isn’t just about surviving. Sometimes, it’s about crossing a finish line you never imagined for yourself.

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