I often get asked how I got started running, so I thought I’d share my story.
Technically, my running journey began in the late ’80s at Benton Jr./Sr. High School. Every spring, my best friend Jill and I would decide to run the 5K that was part of our annual field day. Each year we confidently declared that we were going to train for it… and each year, that never happened.
We would line up anyway and spend most of the race jogging just ahead of the truck that followed behind to pick up the stragglers.
We always finished—but we paid for it. For the better part of a week afterward, we’d walk around sore and wondering why we had done that to ourselves. Back then, running was something you survived, not something you loved.
Fast forward to the spring of 2002. I had been doing Weight Watchers for nearly nine months but couldn’t lose the last five pounds to reach my goal. After yet another frustrating weigh-in, I went home determined to try something different.
I decided to start running.
The path near my house was marked in tenths of a mile, so I ran one-tenth of a mile… and then walked until I could breathe again. I repeated that over and over. Slowly, I built up the distance until I could run the full 1.5-mile loop without walking. Then I kept going. Before long, I was regularly running as much as ten miles at a time.
Eventually, injury and surgery sidelined me, and I stepped away from running for a few years.
In 2011, as I faced the reality of an empty nest, I realized I needed something that was just mine. I returned to running and signed up for a 5K on January 1, 2012—my first official race. For a while, I ran mostly on my own. Then, in September of 2012, I joined a local training program.
That decision changed my life.
I found a community of supportive, motivating people who challenged me and helped me believe I was capable of more than I ever imagined.
And somewhere along the way, running stopped being just something I did for myself. I realized I wanted to help other people discover what movement could do for them, too.
In February of 2014, I earned my RRCA coaching certification, and the following month I began coaching with RunFit Kidz, helping kids learn that running and movement could be fun, empowering, and something they could carry with them for life. I also began coaching adults that year.
This September, I’m beginning my 13th year of coaching adults, and I’ve now been coaching RunFit Kidz for more than 12 years. In May 2024, I became the Director of RunFit Kidz, giving me the opportunity to help shape a program that introduces hundreds of young athletes to running, healthy habits, confidence, and the joy of movement.
Since joining that first training group in 2012, I’ve completed more than 200 races, including nine marathons. But these days, I don’t define myself—or fitness—only by miles and finish lines.
I strength train. I hike. I walk. I run. I coach. I keep learning. And I believe more than ever that movement should support the life we want to live, not become another way to judge ourselves.
I’ve also learned firsthand that our relationship with fitness changes as we do. I’ve moved through injuries, setbacks, menopause, celebrations, disappointments, comebacks, and now life as a grandmother—Ree. I’m stronger in some ways than I was 20 years ago and still working on others. I think that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.
And now I’m stepping into another new chapter.
Along with a group of incredible women, I’m helping build Fuel Your Fire, a women’s wellness community created to connect women with information, resources, practitioners, and—maybe most importantly—each other. It feels like a natural extension of everything I’ve learned through coaching: wellness is about so much more than exercise, and none of us should have to figure it all out alone.
When I look back, it still makes me laugh that all of this started because I wanted to lose five stubborn pounds.
Running gave me confidence when I needed it, community when I was searching for connection, and purpose when I wasn’t sure what came next. Coaching gave me the chance to pass those things along to someone else.
And over the years, my definition of wellness has gotten a whole lot bigger.
It’s running and strength training and hiking. It’s taking care of our bodies while still enjoying our lives. It’s finding people who make us better. It’s trying new things, starting over when we need to, and refusing to believe there’s an age when we’re supposed to stop setting goals for ourselves.
I’m still a runner.
But I’m also a coach, a strength-training enthusiast, a hiker, a community builder, a business owner, a wife, a mom, and Ree.
The other night, I was rocking my sweet little granddaughter Winifred in our rocking chair when I suddenly drifted back 36 years, to another baby and another rocking chair.
I think I became a mother in that rocking chair.
As long as I can remember, I knew I wanted to be a mother, which is somewhat surprising considering the example I had. My own mother was often angry and cruel, and when I was eight, she left, leaving behind a sad and confused little girl.
When I found out I was pregnant with Joshua, I was happy and excited. But as my due date drew closer, excitement began sharing space with fear. How did I know what kind of mother I would be? Would I somehow follow my own mother’s path and create a child who felt scared and unloved?
Joshua’s birth was tough, but he was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen. I loved him instantly. Still, that nagging fear didn’t completely disappear.
And then he turned out to be a colicky baby.
Most evenings were spent with Rich and me taking turns holding a screaming baby until he finally fell asleep. Soon after we arrived at Fort Bragg, when Joshua was a little over a month old, we bought a secondhand rocking chair. After that, I spent countless evenings in that chair, rocking him to sleep.
When Joshua was five months old, Rich was deployed for Operation Desert Shield. Suddenly, Joshua and I were on our own for the next seven months.
Those early days were filled with fear for Rich and plenty of uncertainty about whether I could handle everything on my own. But night after night, Joshua and I fell into a routine. The colic eventually disappeared. And somewhere along the way, something in me changed.
I realized I could do this.
I might not be a perfect mother, but I loved that sweet little baby desperately. Joshua and I were a team. In a lot of ways, I think we grew up together.
I rocked him to sleep almost every night until he was about nine months old. Then, for some reason I no longer remember, I decided it was probably time for him to learn to fall asleep on his own. I mentally prepared myself for crying and a long struggle.
Instead, I laid him down, and he went right to sleep.
Of course he did.
I walked back into the living room and sat down in that rocking chair by myself. As I rocked, with my beautiful baby boy sleeping peacefully in the next room, I remember realizing something.
I was a mother.
And I was a pretty good one at that.
Almost four years later, Courtney came along. I was a different mother by then—not because I had everything figured out, but because I trusted myself in a way I hadn’t when Joshua was born. That fear that I was somehow destined to become the kind of mother I had known had faded.
Was I a perfect mother? God, no.
I made mistakes. I’m sure there are things both of my children could tell you they wish I had done differently. But there is one thing I believe with my whole heart: Joshua and Courtney have always known how deeply they are loved.
And maybe that was what the scared little eight-year-old inside me had wanted all along.
So, 36 years later, there I was in another rocking chair, this time holding Joshua’s baby girl.
As I sat there rocking Winny, I thought about that scared 22-year-old in the secondhand rocking chair. Back then, when I was in the thick of it and trying so hard to be the mother my baby needed, I don’t remember ever looking ahead to a moment like this.
I wish I could tell that young mother that she was going to be okay.
That she wasn’t destined to repeat the past.
That the little boy sleeping in the next room would grow up knowing exactly how much he was loved. That another beautiful baby would come along a few years later and teach her even more about being a mother. And that 36 years later, she would hold her son’s baby girl in her arms and realize just how far they had all come.
I became a mother in that first rocking chair.
But sitting there rocking Winny all these years later, I think I finally understood just how much becoming Joshua’s mother—and later Courtney’s—had changed me, too.
Like a lot of people, birthdays always make me pause and reflect. I briefly entertained the idea of writing “58 Lessons I’ve Learned.”
Then reality set in.
Not because I don’t have 58 lessons to learn, but because I quickly realized that the most meaningful lessons aren’t the ones I’ve already learned—they’re the ones I’m still learning. Besides, if we’re being honest, none of us has time to read that!
So instead, here are eight lessons I’m still learning. They’re not lessons I’ve mastered. In fact, some of them I have to learn over and over again. But together, they’ve shaped who I am today and who I’m still becoming.
1. Your body is not your enemy.
Our bodies are changing every single day, and every stage of life brings new challenges. It can be frustrating when our bodies don’t respond the way they once did, but treating them like the enemy isn’t the answer.
What has helped me is shifting my mindset from trying to force my body to fit a certain mold to asking, “How can I best support my body right now?” Sometimes the answer is strength training. Sometimes it’s better nutrition. Sometimes it’s more rest or simply giving myself a little more grace.
For much of my life, I believed that a smaller body was automatically a better body. I don’t believe that anymore.
These days, I’d rather be strong than simply small. I want muscles that help me lift heavy things, legs that carry me through all the miles, and a body that’s healthy enough to enjoy whatever adventures come next.
For the first time in my life, it feels like my body and I are on the same team. Instead of fighting against it, I’m learning to work with it—and that’s been one of the greatest gifts of getting older.
2. Strength is so much bigger than muscles.
It’s no secret that I’ve become a big fan of building muscle. There’s something incredibly empowering about discovering that you’re stronger than you thought you were.
But over the years I’ve realized that strength has very little to do with what happens in the gym.
Real strength is having the courage to get back up after you’ve been knocked down. It’s trying again after an injury, a disappointment, or a setback. It’s choosing to believe that every challenge has something to teach you, even when the lesson isn’t obvious in the moment.
Some of the strongest people I know aren’t the ones who can lift the heaviest weights—they’re the ones who refuse to let life’s obstacles define them. They learn, they adapt, and they keep moving forward.
Ironically, I’ve found that as I’ve become physically stronger, I’ve also become mentally and emotionally stronger. And I think the reverse is true as well. The more resilient we become on the inside, the more confidence we have to discover what we’re capable of on the outside.
3. It’s never too late to start something that scares you.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that growth usually begins just outside of our comfort zone.
This year, I did two things that I never would have imagined just a few years ago.
The first was yoga.
I’d tried it here and there over the years, but never really enjoyed it. More than that, I wasn’t comfortable enough to walk into a studio and practice in front of other people. Then I found a welcoming community where I felt safe to be a beginner. Now, every class is an opportunity to learn something new, become a little stronger, and appreciate what my body is capable of.
The second was helping launch Fuel Your Fire.
A year ago, it wasn’t even on my radar. If someone had told me I’d be starting a new business at 57, I probably would have laughed. But saying “yes” to that opportunity has been one of the most rewarding decisions I’ve made. Working alongside an incredible group of women to build something we’re truly passionate about has stretched me, challenged me, and inspired me in ways I never expected.
Both experiences have reminded me of something important: being a beginner isn’t something to avoid—it’s something to embrace.
You don’t have to have everything figured out before you start. Sometimes all you need is the courage to take that first step and trust that you’ll grow along the way.
I’m so grateful I did.
4. Community changes everything.
Looking back, I realize that building community has always been woven into my life, even before I recognized it as one of my greatest passions.
When I joined a running group in 2012, I thought I was simply looking for people to run with. What I found was so much more. I found encouragement, accountability, friendships, and a group of people who believed in me long before I believed in myself. They cheered me on as I chased new goals, and when I decided to turn my love of running into coaching, they were some of my biggest supporters. Many of those friendships are still an important part of my life today.
Fuel Your Fire is another chapter in that story. Yes, we’re creating a women’s wellness business, but we’re also creating a place where women can connect, learn, support one another, and realize they don’t have to navigate life alone. That’s the kind of community I want to be part of—and the kind I hope to help build for others.
I’ve been incredibly fortunate to be surrounded by an amazing and diverse community of family, friends, runners, coaches, and now business partners. Every one of them has shaped who I am in some way.
One of the greatest lessons I’ve learned is that we were never meant to do life alone. Find your people. Cheer them on. Let them cheer for you. Community truly does change everything.
5. The scale tells one story.
This is a lesson I’ve had to learn over and over again, but I think it’s finally starting to stick.
When I look back at my relationship with the scale, I realize something surprising. The times when the number was exactly what I thought it should be were actually some of the unhealthiest seasons of my adult life.
For years, I gave that one number far too much power. I believed it could tell me whether I was succeeding or failing, healthy or unhealthy, worthy of celebrating or needing to “do better.”
Now I know that the scale tells only one small part of the story.
Don’t get me wrong—I still have days when that number gets into my head. Old habits don’t disappear overnight. But I’m learning to pay attention to other numbers, too.
The weight on the barbell.
The miles my legs can carry me.
My blood work.
My energy level.
The quality of my sleep.
The laughter I share with friends.
The adventures my body allows me to experience.
Those numbers tell a much richer story than the one staring back at me from the bathroom floor.
The scale may have a voice, but it no longer gets the final say.
6. Joy deserves to be scheduled.
Life has a way of filling every empty space on our calendars if we let it. Between work, family, responsibilities, and the never-ending to-do list, it’s easy to convince ourselves that joy can wait until everything else gets done.
The problem is… there will always be something else to do.
I’ve learned that if something brings you joy, it deserves a place on your calendar just as much as a meeting or a doctor’s appointment.
Sometimes that joy looks like coffee with a friend. Sometimes it’s a date night with my husband. Sometimes it’s a hike, a run, or a yoga class. And if I’m really lucky, it’s spending time with my granddaughter—or even better, having the whole family together.
Those moments aren’t distractions from life. They are life.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that joy isn’t something we stumble upon. It’s something we choose to make room for. And the more intentionally I schedule it, the richer my life becomes.
7. Never stop becoming.
For a long time, I thought there would come a point in life where I’d finally have it all figured out. That I’d reach a certain age and simply settle into who I was.
Instead, I’ve discovered that one of the greatest gifts of getting older is realizing that we’re never finished becoming.
I’m still chasing that elusive 50K. I’m still learning yoga. I’m still reading, studying, and learning everything I can about running so I can become the best coach I can be. I keep raising my strength goals because I’ve discovered I’m capable of more than I ever imagined. And I’m helping build a business that didn’t even exist a year ago.
None of those things are about proving something to anyone else. They’re about continuing to grow into the person I want to become.
I hope I never stop setting new goals, asking new questions, trying things that scare me, or discovering strengths I didn’t know I had.
Because as long as I’m willing to learn, I’ll keep growing.
And as long as I keep growing, I’ll never stop becoming.
8. The best gift I’ve received isn’t another birthday.
It’s perspective.
At 58, I’ve realized that I don’t have to prove anything to anyone anymore. I don’t have to chase someone else’s definition of success or compare my journey to anyone else’s.
I simply have to keep showing up.
To care for my body.
To keep getting stronger.
To say yes to new adventures.
To invest in the people I love.
To build community.
To make room for joy.
To keep learning.
To keep growing.
To keep becoming.
I don’t know exactly what this next year will bring, but that doesn’t make me nervous—it makes me excited. There are still races I want to run, places I want to explore, women I hope to encourage, and dreams I haven’t even imagined yet.
If these first 58 years have taught me anything, it’s that our lives aren’t defined by the number of birthdays we’ve celebrated, but by how willing we are to keep embracing what’s next.
Here’s to another trip around the sun—and to continuing to become the person I’m meant to be.
I’m officially in week 8 of my tirzepatide journey, and I thought it was time for another update.
Over the first seven weeks, I’ve lost 4.5 pounds. Is it the dramatic transformation that some people experience? No. But after spending a long time watching the same one or two pounds come and go without making any real progress, I’m grateful to finally be moving in the right direction.
Next week I’ll increase my dose for the second time, so I’m curious to see how my body responds.
Overall, I’d say my experience has been very positive. I have noticed that my energy level is a little lower than usual, but so far it’s been manageable. The biggest difference is that the food noise has definitely quieted down. I simply don’t think about food the way I used to, and I don’t have much interest in eating just for the sake of eating.
Ironically, that means I have to be much more intentional about making sure I eat enough to support my active lifestyle. Between strength training twice a week with my trainer, training for a fall half marathon, attending yoga at least once a week, and fitting in extra walks whenever I can, my body still needs plenty of fuel—even if my appetite doesn’t always agree.
One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is that I need to slow down when I eat. It’s surprisingly easy to eat past the point where my body is satisfied simply because I’m eating too quickly. When that happens, I definitely don’t feel my best afterward. I’ve also discovered that greasy foods and I aren’t getting along particularly well these days. My body lets me know pretty quickly when I’ve made that choice.
While I’m happy with the progress I’ve made, I wouldn’t say I’m thrilled just yet. From everything I’ve researched, many people don’t really start seeing more significant changes until months three through six. I’m hopeful that’s where I’ll begin noticing more of a difference—not just on the scale, but in my overall health as well.
As I’ve shared from the beginning, my goal has never been just weight loss. I’m hoping to improve my overall health while continuing to do the things I love—running, lifting, coaching, and staying active for many years to come.
I’ll continue sharing honest updates as I go, the good, the frustrating, and everything in between.
As always, if you have questions about my experience, don’t hesitate to reach out. I’m happy to share what’s worked for me, what I’ve learned, and what this journey has looked like so far.
For most of my life, grace was something you said before dinner.
Then, during a difficult season of my life, a dear friend used the word in a completely different way. As she listened to me talk through my frustrations, disappointments, and mistakes, she gently reminded me to give myself some grace.
At the time, I don’t think I fully understood what she meant.
Like many people, I had become very good at holding myself to impossibly high standards. I expected myself to get everything right, say the right thing, make the right decisions, and somehow never fall short. When I did make a mistake, I replayed it over and over in my mind, often showing myself far less compassion than I would ever show someone else.
It took me years to truly understand what my friend was trying to teach me.
The older I get, the more I realize that grace is not about excusing our mistakes or avoiding responsibility. It’s about recognizing that we are human. We are going to stumble. We are going to make poor choices, say the wrong thing, misunderstand someone, or simply fall short of our own expectations from time to time.
And that’s okay.
When a friend is struggling, most of us naturally offer kindness, understanding, and encouragement. We remind them that one mistake doesn’t define them. We tell them they’re doing the best they can. Yet so often, we refuse to offer ourselves that same compassion.
What if we did?
What if, instead of immediately criticizing ourselves, we paused and extended the same kindness inward? What if we acknowledged our imperfections without letting them become our identity?
I’ve found that life feels a little lighter when I do.
Giving ourselves grace doesn’t make us weaker or less accountable. It gives us room to learn, grow, and move forward. It softens the sharp edges of perfectionism and reminds us that our worth isn’t tied to flawless performance.
These days, I find myself using that word more and more—not just for myself, but when talking with others who are struggling. Maybe that’s because I finally understand what my friend was trying to tell me all those years ago.
Sometimes the most powerful thing we can do is simply offer ourselves a little grace.
For most of my adult life, I wore that word like a badge of honor.
I was the person who got up at 3:30 in the morning to run 14 miles before work. For six summers, after those early morning runs, I spent my days working as a nanny for four children, taking them hiking, exploring parks, and keeping up with their endless energy.
I never questioned whether I could do it all. It wasn’t easy, but it felt normal. It was simply who I was.
Then, a few years ago, something changed.
The things that had always felt easy suddenly felt impossible. Some days I could barely get myself off the couch. Work that should have taken an hour seemed to take all day. Certifications I wanted to pursue sat unfinished. Even when I did accomplish something, it felt hard-fought and exhausting.
Most afternoons I needed a two-hour nap just to make it through the day.
The physical exhaustion was difficult, but the emotional toll was even harder.
I wasn’t just tired—I was questioning who I was.
Because when you’ve spent years identifying as someone who is disciplined, productive, and dependable, it’s easy to assume that struggling means you’re somehow failing.
I started wondering if I had become lazy.
Maybe I wasn’t working hard enough.
Maybe I just needed more willpower.
When I talked to my doctor, I got the response so many women hear:
“It’s probably just menopause.”
But deep down, I knew something wasn’t right.
Eventually, I sought a second opinion and finally got some answers. It turned out there was more going on than menopause alone. A thyroid issue was contributing to many of my symptoms. Treatment helped me start feeling more like myself, and more recently, adding estrogen has brought even more improvement.
As my energy returned, so did many of the things I had been missing.
I’m training consistently again. I’m completing my workouts. I’m getting my work done. I’m studying for a new certification. My colorful to-do lists are back, and I still get an unreasonable amount of satisfaction from checking things off.
But something else has changed too.
For a long time, I thought discipline meant pushing through no matter what.
Now I’m not so sure.
Looking back, I realize that during those difficult years, I wasn’t lacking discipline. In many ways, I was demonstrating it every single day. I kept showing up. I kept searching for answers. I kept doing what I could with the energy I had.
That may have looked different than it did before, but it still required strength.
Today, I feel more like myself than I have in years.
But I don’t think I’m becoming my old self again.
I think I’m becoming someone new.
Someone who still values discipline, goals, and hard work. Someone who still loves training plans, certifications, and crossing things off a list.
But also someone who understands that productivity is not the same thing as worth.
Someone who knows that rest is not weakness.
Someone who has learned that sometimes the strongest thing we can do is listen to our bodies instead of fighting them.
For years, I thought discipline was about never slowing down.
Now I think real discipline might be learning when to give yourself grace.
There are days when that feels exciting and empowering… and other days when it feels absolutely terrifying.
Starting something new later in life comes with a unique kind of vulnerability. You’re old enough to understand the risks. Old enough to know things may not go perfectly. Old enough to hear all the voices that tell women at this age to stay comfortable, stay realistic, and stop chasing new dreams.
But deep down, I knew I wasn’t done growing.
And maybe that’s exactly why Fuel Your Fire came into my life at the right time.
One of the things I love most about this business is that it was created from real conversations between women who are living full, complicated, beautiful lives. Women balancing careers, families, aging parents, changing bodies, shifting identities, big dreams, and the constant pressure to take care of everyone else first.
Somewhere along the way, so many women stop asking themselves an important question:
What lights me up at this stage of my life?
That question matters.
Because I don’t believe women are meant to slowly disappear into the background as they get older. I believe we are still meant to evolve. To explore. To build. To learn. To connect. To rediscover parts of ourselves that may have been buried under years of responsibility and survival mode.
That’s the heart of Fuel Your Fire.
We want to create community-based experiences where women can reconnect with themselves and with each other. Spaces where wellness is looked at holistically—not just fitness or nutrition, but confidence, purpose, connection, joy, growth, creativity, and support. We want women to walk away feeling inspired, energized, and reminded that they matter too.
And honestly, this business is doing that for me already.
It’s reminding me that excitement still matters at 57.
Passion still matters at 57.
Dreams still matter at 57.
I think there’s this unspoken idea that reinvention belongs to younger people. That starting businesses, chasing big ideas, or trying something new should happen in your 20s or 30s. But I don’t think growth has an expiration date.
Sometimes the second half of life is where the real magic begins.
Not because we suddenly become fearless, but because we finally understand how precious time really is.
I also think a lot about my granddaughter when I reflect on this journey. I want her to grow up seeing women who continue becoming. Women who are willing to take chances on themselves. Women who understand that fear and courage often walk side by side.
I want her to know she never has to stop growing into herself.
Truthfully, I don’t know exactly where this journey will lead. Building something new is messy. It’s uncertain. There are moments of self-doubt and moments where I wonder if I’m completely out of my mind.
But there’s also energy. Purpose. Connection. Hope.
And maybe that’s the biggest lesson I’m learning right now:
It’s never too late to fuel your fire.
Not at 40. Not at 57. Not ever.
Because the things that excite us, challenge us, and call us forward are often the very things that keep us fully alive.
Grief is a funny thing. It can hit you at the strangest times.
Just today, I had finished my run and sat down to stretch when a wave of overwhelming sadness came over me. Like most people, I’ve experienced moments like this off and on for as long as I can remember. Sometimes these waves are tied to childhood, other times to more recent losses.
There was a time when I used to fight these moments. I didn’t want to feel them. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to understand that it’s important to embrace grief when it shows up.
Sometimes it’s the loss of someone I’ve loved that rises to the surface. I think of my grandmother, Mary, who I lost when I was six years old. I loved her deeply, and I know she loved me just as much. Other times, it’s dear friends—Joanna, Rachel, Catherine—whose absence I feel.
And sometimes, the grief is more abstract. It’s the loss of a relationship I never really had, like the one with my own mother, who chose to leave when I was just eight years old. Other times, it’s grief for something I thought might be part of my life, but never came to be.
Whatever form it takes, I’ve learned to let the grief come. I try to ride the wave instead of resisting it. There are usually tears. But eventually, when I’m thinking about the people I’ve lost, the memories begin to soften the edges, and sometimes even bring a smile.
Not all grief transforms that way. Some losses—like the relationship with my mother—still sit heavy.
Not all grief turns into something soft or beautiful. Some of it stays heavy. Some of it still hurts in ways that time hasn’t fixed—and maybe never will.
And I’m no longer trying to fix it.
Because grief isn’t a problem to solve. It’s a reflection of love, of longing, of what mattered—and still matters.
It’s part of me now. Not something I carry reluctantly, but something I’ve made space for.
Because every loss, every absence, every “what could have been” has shaped the way I see the world, the way I love the people who are still here, and the way I show up for myself.
Grief didn’t just break me open.
It changed me.
And at some point, I stopped resisting that—and started honoring it.
The worst of perimenopause and menopause hit me right around the time the world shut down in 2020. Looking back, it was the perfect storm. Overnight, routines disappeared, uncertainty took over, and many of the habits I’d built and relied on for years slowly unraveled. Things that once felt automatic – movement, structure, self-care – suddenly felt heavy and optional.
Even now, years later, and despite feeling so much better physically, and mentally, I have struggled to fully return to those healthy habits. I kept telling myself that once the motivation came back, everything else would fall into place. But the truth is, the motivation just hasn’t shown up the way I expected it to.
What I finally realized is that for where I am right now, discipline has to come first. Motivation can’t be the prerequisite anymore – it must be the result. I’m trusting that as I show up consistently, as I begin to see progress and feel more like myself again, the motivation will follow.
There’s a reason Nikes “Just Do It” campaign has stood the test of time. It’s simple, honest, and uncomfortable in the best way. Sometimes you don’t feel ready. Sometimes you don’t feel inspired. But you do it anyway.
I’m no longer allowing myself to sit around, waiting for motivation to magically appear, because experience has taught me that it doesn’t work that way for me. Instead, I’m choosing discipline – small, intentional actions done consistently, even on the days I don’t feel like it. To help keep that commitment front and center, I’ve given myself a small physical reminder: something I wear on my wrist as a cue to follow through.
This season isn’t about perfection or pushing too hard. It’s about rebuilding trust with myself, one disciplined choice at a time, and believing that motivation will meet me along the way.
At some point during most of my long runs, I stop, turn toward my phone, and strike what I lovingly call my superhero pose—hands on hips, chest lifted, standing tall. Sometimes I’m sweaty. Sometimes I’m tired. Sometimes I’m questioning every life choice that led me to this exact mile.
And every single time, I take the photo anyway.
The idea for this pose didn’t come from a running book or a coach. It actually came from an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. In the scene, one of the characters talks about “power posing”—standing in a confident, expansive posture for a short amount of time to change how you feel. The claim was that holding a superhero-style stance for just two minutes could increase testosterone, lower cortisol, and boost confidence.
Naturally, I was skeptical. Two minutes of standing still doesn’t exactly sound like a magic fix.
So I did what many of us do when something catches our attention: I researched it. And while the science isn’t perfect or unanimous, there is evidence suggesting that posture can influence mindset. Standing tall, taking up space, and opening your body can signal confidence to your brain—even if you don’t feel particularly confident in the moment.
Here’s the thing: I never stand in that pose for two minutes. Sometimes it’s ten seconds. Sometimes it’s just long enough to snap a photo and laugh at myself. But somehow, it still works.
Over time, the superhero pose has become a tradition—my own quiet ritual during long runs. It’s a pause that says, Look at you. You’re doing this. It’s a reminder that showing up matters, even when the run isn’t perfect, even when my body feels different than it used to.
And in the last few years, my body has changed—dramatically. Perimenopause and menopause brought exhaustion, weight gain, brain fog, and a sense of disconnect that I wasn’t prepared for. I didn’t always recognize the runner staring back at me in the mirror. Some days, I still don’t.
There are moments—mid-run, mid-mile, mid-thought—when I ask myself why I keep pushing. Why I keep training. Why I keep lacing up when things feel harder than they used to.
The answer isn’t about pace or distance or race goals anymore.
I keep going because running helps me feel like me.
The superhero pose is my way of honoring that. It’s not about pretending I’m invincible or strong all the time. It’s about acknowledging resilience. About standing tall in a body that’s changing. About claiming pride in the effort, not just the outcome.
So yes, I’ll keep stopping on my long runs. I’ll keep striking that pose. I’ll keep reminding myself—on tired legs and uncertain days—that strength doesn’t disappear just because things change.
Sometimes, strength looks like simply showing up… and standing tall long enough to remember who you are.
Coach Kareen 