Did you sign up for the marathon because you have a passion for running, or are you simply having a quarter-life crisis?

For me, it was the latter. Yes, I was a collegiate athlete and I cherished the experiences I had being part of so many teams throughout my life. But when it came time to hang up the cleats, I wasn’t necessarily torn up over it. I had a new job in a city I loved, and I was ready to ditch the whole "voluntary sore muscles" and "pressure to perform" routine. It didn’t take long after settling into my cozy East Village apartment to realize something was off. A year in, and I felt… empty. The excitement of my new chapter was fading into the dull hum of routine, and I didn’t know how to shake the feeling.

I was stuck in a rut. My 9-to-5 didn’t fulfill me nearly as much as I had assumed it would (shocker), and even with weekends free to roam the city, it wasn’t enough to convince myself that I was doing anything truly meaningful. I needed something I could throw myself into—something that would give me a lasting sense of accomplishment. By 23, I had tried a bunch of different hobbies to fill the strange hole I had become all too aware of: pottery classes, pilates, book clubs. But I couldn’t stay consistent long enough to get anything out of it. During this time, the content I scrolled on social media was becoming increasingly saturated with people running. Friends of friends I followed on Instagram—people I didn’t even really know—stood proudly with medals after completing a race. I found myself getting unexpectedly emotional, struck by the thought of someone pushing through so much physical and mental struggle to achieve something so inspiring. Could I do that?

I’m not a crazy person, so I decided to sign up for a half marathon first. I was mildly horrified when it wasn’t a breeze to run an entire mile without stopping. At first, my former-high-school-track-star boyfriend had to physically drag me outside to run, and every day I would ask myself why I was doing this. He stuck by my side for almost every run, enduring my melodrama like a true champ (thanks, Joey.) To be honest, the $160 entry fee was about the only thing keeping me going. I wasn’t as consistent as I would’ve liked to be, but by April 2023, I had done it—I ran all 13.1 miles. Just a few months earlier, I couldn’t run three miles without stopping, and now here I was, a half marathon medal in hand.

As I hobbled over to hug my parents, beaming with pride, the first thing that came out of my mouth was “I can’t imagine doing this twice!” The high lasted a few months, and by the end of the year, I had secured a spot for the 2024 NYC Marathon.

By this point, running had officially made its way into my personality. Even after completing the half marathon, proving to myself that I could set a goal and complete it, I still felt like it wasn’t enough. I’d tell myself I wasn’t a “real runner,” that I hadn’t done anything that impressive—until I did “the real thing.” Toxic, I know. So when I first signed up for the marathon, I was beyond exhilarated. I had completed a half marathon, so if I really set my mind to it, I could definitely handle the full. Plus, let’s be honest: the attention, the accolades—the notoriety—that was a driving factor. SUE ME.

As I’ve come to realize, at least for me, the idea of completing a goal is often so pretty and shiny that the rational part of my brain, which would normally consider the implications of said goal, is pushed to the wayside. Of course, I would have to spend much more time training, dedicating practically my entire summer to making sure I was in my best shape to be able to put my best foot forward. And to the surprise of absolutely no one, it was HARD.

The 8-ish months I spent training for the marathon was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. One day I was practically flying on the West Side Highway, breezing by finance bro after finance bro, secretly relishing in the fact that they were just passed by a girl–and they were probably pissed about it. The next day, I’d feel like each mile was stretching into eternity, like an hour would pass by for every step, and I'd drag myself home, questioning how the hell I was ever going to run 26 of these. I forced myself to be more consistent than I was during my half marathon training. Whenever I considered skipping a run, I pictured myself on mile 17. SEVEN. TEEN. MILES. And I wouldn’t even be close to the end. That usually scared me enough to lace up my shoes and head outside.

Looking back, I was never truly prepared for the high-highs and low-lows. The boomerang feeling of being unstoppable one day and then being confronted with the brutal reality that I was not built for this type of rigor the next was exhausting. Despite the mental chaos, the weeks went on and my mileage climbed– each run a small victory, tangible in my strava app that I would send to my dad after each one I completed.

ten miles done!! I feel great!

That pace is ridiculous. You ain’t playin!!!

just ran 2 miles and had to stop. I feel AWFUL

Yikes.

My regular runs in Central Park, my happy place, were among my favorites. But I also found myself exploring other corners of the city I thought I knew well. A stand out was a jog over the Williamsburg Bridge with a couple of friends on a steamy summer evening - a place I didn’t often venture to. After 6 miles, we stopped at a little pizza shop in Brooklyn as the sun was setting, sat in some lawn chairs placed outside the door, and ate lemon ices, laughing as the city buzzed around us. One of my worst runs took me to the west side with my friend Caroline about a week later. I can’t really place a poetic-spin on this one; we were chased by a homeless man for a block or two.

By late summer, it started to feel real. I remember thinking how cool it was that the playlist that fueled every training run would become the soundtrack of the marathon itself, a familiar rhythm to carry me through the real thing. And just as I felt like I was coming to terms with the ups and downs and falling into a rhythm with my training, my knee started to feel funny. I distinctly remember a 13-miler I was excited to run on a Sunday morning ended in tears at mile 6. As I limped home thinking about the fact that I was only 3 months out from the marathon, I started to panic. I had worked so hard to get to this point, the marathon was on the horizon, and now there was a possibility I wouldn’t even get to the starting line. This wasn’t FAIR. I had already told practically everyone I knew that I was training, not to mention I'd been collecting donations for the charity organization I was running with. Knee wrapped in ice, body pumped full of ibuprofen, I thought about what it would mean to quit. I knew it wasn’t an option. There was absolutely no way I was giving up, if not for the sheer embarrassment and shame I would feel, it wasn’t fair to me and the hell I had put my body through to get here.

So, I started going to physical therapy. Twice a week, a $50 copay every time—as if the injury wasn’t painful enough. My physical therapist, Pete, was around my age. The first time I saw him, he told me straight up I shouldn’t run the marathon this year. He said I didn’t have enough time to heal before race day, and with just over a month left, we were cutting it too close. At this point, we were a little over a month out from the marathon, and it would take at least 6-8 weeks for my knee to heal. But I told him that I had already made up my mind, even if I had to crawl to the finish line, I was going to do this race.

I committed to doing every exercise Pete gave me, 45 minutes a day. My first “run” post-injury wasn’t the triumphant comeback I had imagined. I jogged for about 4½ minutes, broke down in tears, and promptly left Central Park. The second and third runs went much the same. That’s when I realized: if I was going to get through this race, I needed to slow down my pace… a lot. It was a fair trade-off, I told myself. After all, my goal had shifted from “run an impressive marathon” to “just finish.” Then, by what I can only describe as a miracle, I ran my longest training session two weeks before the race—17 miles. It was slower than I wanted, but I did it. And little by little, the confidence I once had started creeping back. Two weeks later, I stood at the starting line.

It was a sunny, crisp November morning. I'd gotten only three hours of sleep, my stomach churned with anxiety, but there I was. Despite the pain, the tears, the setbacks, I had made it. I’m going to get cheesy for a moment, so bear with me: standing at the starting line alongside 50,000 other jitter-ridden strangers was a moment I will never forget. The mental and physical toughness it took to get there, for all of us, was nothing short of incredible. The feeling was profoundly human.

When the gunshot rang out and “New York, New York” by Frank Sinatra blared over the speakers, we began our first climb over the Verrazano. I felt amazing. This was everything I wanted the experience to be and more - my knee wasn’t acting up, my adrenalin was working overtime, and I don’t think a toothy-smile left my face for 3 miles straight. There was no crowd at this point, just the sounds of feet slapping the cement, the occasional “WOO” and “LET’S GO” from a distant fellow runner. It was almost peaceful, which is funny to think about looking back given the sheer volume of people I was running alongside.

I could hear the roar of the Brooklyn crowd before I even made it off the bridge. It had been suggested that I put my name on my shirt so people could cheer for me. It wasn’t the attention I was worried about (obviously), but the fact that I knew there was a good chance 40% of the people shouting my name would pronounce it wrong. Still, I’m glad I did it. There’s something about thousands of strangers shouting your name, even if they butcher it, that does wonders for the ego. I found myself waving, blowing kisses, and screaming back at them. It was all going exactly to plan—until mile 8.

That’s when the pain in my back hit. It came out of nowhere. Never once during training had I experienced back pain. Soon after, exhaustion followed. It didn’t make sense—I was running slower than usual, keeping my pace cautious for my knee, and I hadn’t even hit double digits yet. I tried to shake it off, focusing on anything but how tired I was.

At mile 12, through squinted eyes, I saw it: my name, spelled out in green letters on a poster ahead. My people! I pushed forward, running faster, and in perhaps the best surprise of my life, there was Ali—one of my best friends who lived 8 hours away—jumping up and down alongside my friends and family. If it weren’t for my friend Jack recording it, I don’t think I’d even remember the moment I jumped into her arms. This was the fuel that carried me through the whole race: thinking about the checkpoints where I’d get to see familiar faces.

The exhaustion persisted, leading to frequent stops at medical tents between miles 12 and 18. My energy gels weren’t cutting it, so the medical volunteers suggested shots of salt. They were gross. Every so often, someone would rub biofreeze on my knee and back, which helped, but each time I stopped, I couldn’t help but think about the time I was losing. I wanted to soak up the crowd, dance along to the bands, and cheer with the spectators—but my only focus was reaching the finish line.

The last 6 miles, from the Bronx through Central Park, were nothing short of humbling. By this point, it wasn’t just my knee that hurt—it was my entire body. I knew that if I stopped, even for a second, I wouldn’t be able to pick my pace back up. So, I shuffled on through the blurry fall trees, each step feeling heavier than the last. This was one of the most poignant moments of the race—it felt like everything had come full circle. Central Park, where I’d spent most of my training, was now the place that would carry me to the finish line. The cheers of nameless strangers made it feel as though the city itself was reminding me just how far I’d come.

Tears streamed down my face as I crossed the finish line, wrapped in the iconic orange space blanket, a volunteer draped my new bling around my neck. I closed my eyes, slowly limping to reunite with my family and friends.

I felt so loved that day. But as the dust settled, disappointment crept in. I now attribute this mostly to the fact that I scrolled through a wave of social media posts from others who ran the marathon that day. A MISTAKE. They proudly displayed their impressive time, proclaiming it was the best day of their lives, and knew I didn’t feel that way. I was embarrassed. Even though my goal was just to finish given the unexpected challenges I'd faced during my training, I was heartbroken over my final time. I was heartbroken that the void I tried to fill by running this stupid thing was still empty!

The next day, it was essentially ritualistic that all finishers would wait in a long line to get their medals engraved with their name and time. This was something I had been looking forward to—but not anymore. I didn’t want that constant reminder of my disappointment. Everyone I told this to said I was being ridiculous—and deep down, I knew I was. But I still didn’t want to face it.

A few days later I did get my medal engraved, only so that when I eventually earned another one, the time etched in it would be one I was proud of.

So, here’s what I’ve learned:

Your mid-twenties are a disorientingly magical period of your life where you are floating between childhood and adulthood - you’re likely paying your own rent, but your primary care doctor might still be your pediatrician. Your friends are getting engaged, LinkedIn is absolutely abuzz with “I’m happy to announce I am starting a new role” posts, and the milestones you feel you should be hitting still seem years away. If you look back to our parents' generation, most mid-twenty-somethings were already making headway into their careers, perhaps homeowners, married with some already starting to begin their own families. It’s a whole other conversation to explain why that’s out of reach for most of Gen Z these days, but I digress.

Signing up for the marathon is one way for us to grasp onto something we feel we can control. What I came to find out, however, is there were more factors I couldn’t control. The pain, the exhaustion, the setbacks—none of that was in my hands. That gut-wrenching disappointment over my time still lingers months later, but I’m starting to see it for what it is: a symptom of my struggle with comparison. I spent so much time comparing my journey to others’ that I didn’t have a chance to celebrate my own. It’s only now as I’m writing this that I’ve had the chance to reflect on the really beautiful parts of not only the race, but the growth I underwent as a result of the entirety of my training. My time wasn’t what I’d hoped for, but I finished. I ran 26.2 miles. That’s something a lot of people will never experience. And little by little, I’m learning to accept—and be proud of—the medal I already have.