The Marathon That Meant Everything

This marathon was hard.
Not just 26.2 miles is hard hard — but carry-the-weight-of-everything hard.

I was stressed for two full weeks before race day. Like, full-body stress. I broke out in an actual rash. My nervous system was screaming. I felt the pressure of this race in a way I never had before. This one wasn’t just about finishing or time goals or proving something to myself.

This race meant something deeper.

I raised almost $8,000 for pancreatic cancer — which still blows my mind — but that wasn’t even the heart of it. This race was for my dad. And my dad was going to see me finish.

(What I didn’t know until mile twelve was that he would actually be there at the finish.)

Magic.
Core memory.
One I will carry forever.

Two weeks out, I ran my 20-miler and felt amazing. Strong. Confident. Grateful. I loved the route. I remember thinking, Okay. We’re doing this.

The next day, my right foot started hurting.
Then worse.
Then progressively worse.

I basically stopped running for what felt like the entire two weeks leading up to race day. My stress skyrocketed. My foot hurt. My legs hurt. My confidence tanked. I wasn’t sure I was ready anymore — but I had my eyes set on an under-5-hour marathon.

And I wasn’t ready to let that go.

Race night: I slept great.
Mentally? Ready.
Physically? Questionable.

My stomach hurt, but I blamed nerves… and the lovely timing of being a woman. Honestly, I’m usually stronger during those days anyway, so whatever. Stew dropped me off at the bus pickup earlier than last year. I hopped right on like a seasoned veteran. Warmed up. Walked around. Drank some water. Still had stomach cramps, but again — nerves.

Headphones in.
World out.
“Slow and steady. Slow and steady.”

Countdown. Deep breath.

And then we were off.

Foot in front of the other. Easy.
I know this course. I know the turns. I know the little kickers that sneak up on you. It was foggy, but familiar.

Three miles in — legs felt strong.
Five miles — stomach starting to roll.
Seven — yuck.
Nine — not great.
Eleven — bathroom. Immediately.

Stomach in knots. But okay. Just a blip, right?

I came out of the bathroom… and my leg completely locked up.

Game over.

The tears came fast.
Seriously? After all of this?
All the names I carried with me. All the reasons I showed up. What was I going to tell them? What was I going to tell myself?

I texted Stew.
I texted my sister.
I truly thought this was it.

Then I checked Stew’s location — the girls were still at their church performance. And then I checked my parents’ location.

Their dot had moved.

They weren’t home.
Wait… why was their dot getting closer to Sacramento?

I lost it.

That was all the encouragement I needed.

If I could just get moving again — even slower than goal pace — maybe I could unlock my leg. I could hobble for a bit. A few minutes of pain. Nothing compared to what so many endure every day.

I could do that.

And I did.

I started running again. Easier. Not pretty. Not fast. But moving.

Mile 17 — repeat of mile 11. Same situation. Longer stop. Same decision. I wasn’t letting my stomach write the ending to this story.

Mile 20.

I’ve been here before.
Over the bridge. Home stretch.

Run 1 minute, walk 30 seconds.
Run 2 minutes, walk 30 seconds.

The music was loud. The crowds were louder. And all I could think about was the finish. I was going to hug my dad.

A moment I didn’t think would be possible back in July.

And yet… here we were.

Every extra day is a gift. I am deeply, overwhelmingly grateful for that.

The last six months have been anything but ideal.

Training derailed.
Family emotionally wrecked.
Homeschooling.
Raising three kids.
Being told we’d have to move.
Losing jobs instead.
Starting work again.

A relentless roller coaster.

And honestly?
This marathon was nothing compared to the last six months.

The finish line was in sight.

One last turn.
Breathe.
Pick up the legs.

I saw the text: We’re in the bleachers by the finish line.

I couldn’t look. I couldn’t listen. If I saw them, I would fall apart.

Then — Bela Fleck and the Flecktones came on.
My dad’s favorite. My favorite.

The timing was unreal.

I sprinted.

5:07.

Fifteen minutes faster than last year.
(Sub-5 without the stops… next year.)

But first — Dad.

I saw my middle kiddo first. Stew lifting her over the fence. Then I saw him.

There he was.

Dad.

Tears. Relief. Everything.

Chapter closed.

We did it, Dad.
We ran the race we set out to run.
And we did it together.

Thank you for being there.

Always.