You Cannot Run Far When You Are Untouchable

I finished a marathon last weekend, and if I'm being honest, I don't really know what to do now.

I spent months working toward the Kansas City Garmin Marathon on October 17. I built my weeks around long runs, planned my training, figured out how to fuel, and kept showing up even when I wasn't entirely sure I was ready for what I had signed up to do. There was always another run to complete, another week to get through, another reason to keep going. Even when training was hard, I knew what I was working toward.

And then I crossed the finish line.

Twenty-six point two miles. Months of work, over in one morning.

I am proud of myself. I don't want that to get lost in what I'm about to say. I did something difficult, something I had never done before, and no one can take that away from me. I earned that medal. I earned the right to be proud of myself.

But I think I expected the end to feel a little different.

I thought I would cross the finish line, celebrate, take a few days to recover, and eventually figure out what came next. Instead, I have found myself feeling a little lost. A little sad that it's over. Maybe even a little upset that all that work, all those months of having something to work toward, could come to an end so quickly.

I know the marathon isn't going anywhere. I still have the medal, the pictures, and the memories. I know what I did. But the training is over, and I don't quite know what to do with the part of me that spent so long preparing for it.

I think I miss having a reason to get up and go. I miss having something that was mine, something I could work toward and measure. I miss knowing what the next step was supposed to be.

And I think I'm having a harder time with that than I expected.

Maybe it's because I have spent so much of my life working toward something. Sports gave me structure for years. There was always a season, a practice, a competition, a goal. When college ended, I had to learn what being an athlete looked like without a team or a coach or a schedule telling me where to be. Running gave me some of that back. I had something to build toward again, and I got to decide how far I wanted to take it.

I took it pretty far.

Three half marathons in six weeks. Months of training. A marathon I wasn't sure I was ready for until I was standing at the starting line, with no choice but to find out.

Now what?

I have other things I want to do. There are places I want to see, people I want to spend time with, things I want to learn. I know my life is full of possibilities. But knowing that doesn't mean I immediately know where to put my energy. It doesn't mean I have to be excited about the next thing right away.

For months, I had a goal that required a lot of me. Now I have to figure out who I am when I'm not actively chasing it.

And, honestly, that feels a little uncomfortable.

I fell in love with how gently my eyes look at myself after running.

I don't mean that every run leaves me feeling good about myself. Plenty of them don't. But running has given me a reason to appreciate my body without immediately looking for something to change about it. It has given me a way to be proud of myself that has very little to do with how I look and everything to do with what I am willing to try.

There is something about spending hours running toward a finish line that makes it hard to keep believing your body is only something to be judged. My legs carried me through miles I had never run before. My lungs kept working. My mind kept asking me to take another step. And at some point, I stopped thinking so much about what my body looked like and started appreciating what it could do.

I wish I could say that kind of appreciation fixed everything. It didn't. I am still a person who can be hard on herself. I still have days when I feel like I should be doing more, becoming more, working toward something bigger.

But when I run, I mostly just feel gratitude.

It allows me to give myself grace that is nearly impossible for me to give myself elsewhere.

Maybe that's part of why the ending feels so strange. I am not just missing the miles. I am missing the person I got to be while I was running them. The person who was willing to try something difficult, who had somewhere to put her energy, who could look at herself after a long run and feel proud of the effort even when it wasn't perfect.

I don't want to lose that version of myself just because the race is over.

But I also don't know how to keep her around without immediately finding another version of a marathon to train for.

Running is vulnerability.

I am the kind of person who has always believed that being strong meant being able to push through anything. If something was difficult, I could work harder. If I was struggling, I could find a way to make it manageable. If I didn't know what I was feeling, I could usually find a logical explanation and move on.

Running has made me a little less certain that everything needs to work that way.

You can prepare for months and still be scared. You can do everything you are supposed to do and still have a hard day. You can feel proud of yourself and sad at the same time. You can finish something you worked incredibly hard for and still feel disappointed that it is over.

I think I am learning that being vulnerable doesn't just mean letting yourself feel things while they are happening. Sometimes it means being honest about what happens afterward, when the excitement wears off and you're left with feelings you didn't expect.

I don't want to pretend I am completely at peace with the marathon being over just because I know I should be grateful I got to do it. I am grateful. I am also a little lost. Both things are true.

And maybe I need to let them be true for a while without trying to turn the feeling into a lesson.

Running isn't permanent, but what we learn from it might be.

I won't always run this much. There will be seasons when my priorities change, when my body needs something different, or when I simply don't want to lace up my shoes. I don't know what running will look like in my life a year from now, and I don't think I need to decide that today.

What I hope stays is the way running taught me to trust myself. The willingness to try something without knowing exactly how it will turn out. The ability to be proud of myself for doing hard things, even when the outcome isn't perfect. The understanding that I can be vulnerable without being weak and uncertain without being incapable. And maybe, eventually, the ability to finish something without immediately needing to replace it.

That last one might take me a little longer.

I am used to having a goal. I like having something to work toward, something that gives my days direction and asks a little more of me. There is nothing wrong with that. I want to keep challenging myself. I want to keep discovering what I am capable of.

But I don't want to spend my entire life moving the finish line farther away just because I don't know what to do when I reach it.

I want to learn how to enjoy the life I am working so hard to build. I want to have hobbies that don't need to turn into accomplishments. I want to spend time with people I love without thinking about what I need to do tomorrow. I want to try things because they sound fun, not because they will make me a better version of myself. I want to leave a little room in my life for things I haven't planned yet.

Maybe this season isn't about finding the next big thing. Maybe it is about letting myself come down from the last one.

My legs are proof of a life well lived. My heart is proof that I am resilient. My mind keeps asking for more.

I don't want to silence the part of me that keeps asking for more. I like that part of myself. She has taken me to places I never would have gone if I had waited until I felt ready. She signed up for a marathon and found out she could finish it. She has reminded me that there is still so much of life I haven't experienced yet.

But I hope I can teach her that more doesn't always have to mean bigger. It doesn't always have to mean harder, faster, farther. Sometimes more can mean more time with the people I love. More afternoons without a plan. More patience with myself. More room to be a person instead of a project.

I finished a marathon, and I am proud of myself for it. I will probably spend the rest of my life finding little moments when I remember what I did and smile. I hope I never lose that.

But right now, I am also learning how to live without the thing I spent months working toward. I am learning how to let an accomplishment be an accomplishment instead of immediately turning it into a stepping stone toward something else.

I don't know what comes next. And for someone who is used to having a plan, that is not the most comfortable place to be.

But I don't need to know yet.

I can let the marathon be over without making it mean that something else has to begin. I can be proud of the girl who crossed that finish line and give her a little time to figure out where she wants to go next.

For now, I think that is enough.

The miles are behind me. The medal is mine. And the person I became while chasing that finish line gets to come with me, even if I haven't figured out where we're going.

Let this be a reminder to do something hard, give yourself grace, and to let yourself feel without trying to push it away just because it is uncomfortable right now. If I can do it, you can too.

All my love,

Neva