Running Toward Purpose: How Detours Led Me Back to My Dream

Some dreams take root quickly, while others take time to grow, waiting for the right moment to bloom. For me, running a 100-mile race has been one of those dreams—persistent yet patient, quietly whispering since 2018. The seed was planted even earlier, in 2017, when I volunteered at my first 100-miler. I was in awe that people could actually go those distances—watching the faint beams of their headlamps flicker through the trees, hearing the rhythmic crunch of footsteps on gravel, and feeling the quiet intensity as they pushed their bodies and minds to places I had never imagined possible. Watching runners push through when they felt like they had no more to give, supported by friends and strangers alike who cheered them on, I felt inspired. I knew, deep down, that one day I wanted to be out there, too doing 100 milers.

That awe carried me into 2018, when I crossed the finish line of my first, and only to date, 50-mile race—a race that tested me in ways I hadn’t expected. I still remember the hardest miles, when my legs felt like lead and my mind begged me to stop. But I also recall the sense of triumph that followed each step forward, knowing I was capable of more than I thought possible. my furthest distance at the time and still my second furthest to this day. I felt a mix of pride and wonder at what else I could achieve.

In 2019, I was drawn in by the powerful stories of endurance athletes who pushed their physical and mental limits on the trails, and I knew I still wanted to see what I was capable of. I envisioned myself crossing the finish line of a 100-miler, transformed by the experience. So, I signed up for my first 100-mile race.

Life, however, had different plans. What started as an ambitious goal evolved into a journey of reflection, resilience, and rediscovery.

Life happened, the pandemic arrived, and the world paused. With it came the loss of routine, structure, and a sense of normalcy. Everything felt uncertain, and the goals I had so carefully planned began to shift in ways I hadn’t anticipated. In 2021, I faced a heartbreaking loss—my mom passed away. The grief was profound and unrelenting, and running felt distant, like a stranger I couldn’t quite bring myself to meet.

During this time, I stepped off the racecourse and onto the sidelines. I crewed for a friend during one of her longest-distance races at the time, watching the highs and lows unfold mile after mile. I volunteered at aid stations, handed out water, ice, fuel, and words of encouragement, and learned from every runner who passed by. I marveled at their grit and vulnerability, their ability to smile despite exhaustion and tears. It wasn’t wasted time. Every experience was a piece of the puzzle, helping me understand that the journey isn’t just about miles logged but lessons learned.

Volunteering and helping others became a form of healing. It reconnected me to the running community, reminded me of the beauty of shared purpose, and helped me process my grief. I learned that showing up—even when it’s for someone else—can rekindle your own fire.

After everything, the pandemic, the loss, the rebuilding, I’m not the same person who first dreamed of running a 100-miler after that 50-mile race in 2018. Last year, covering 74 miles at a trail race called Hungryland lit a fire within me and reignited my determination to finish a 100 mile race. That experience reminded me of the grit it takes and reaffirmed my belief that I am capable of achieving that goal and so much more.

I’ve always said that running was something I hated—until I couldn’t stay away from it. It’s the discomfort, the challenge, and the sense of accomplishment that draw me back. But this time around, it’s not just about finishing. I’ve changed the way I approach training, embracing the mental and emotional preparation as much as the physical miles. Training for 100 miles isn’t just a physical feat; it’s a journey of self-discovery.

Instead of focusing solely on race day, I’ve learned to value the small wins along the way. A strong training run when the conditions are tough. Getting out the door when I’d rather sleep in. Choosing to push through a moment of doubt rather than giving in to fear. The 100-mile finish line may symbolize triumph, but the real growth happens in the ordinary moments—the early morning runs, the sweat-soaked afternoons, and the quiet nights where I replay my goals in my mind.

I found my sanctuary again in small, quiet moments, whether during a sunrise run or a reflective walk when the world was still asleep. The sound of my feet meeting the earth was steady and grounding, each step reminding me that I was still moving forward, getting stronger, even if the finish line felt far away.

I’ve also become more intentional about embracing discomfort. Being uncomfortable used to be one my biggest fears, but I’ve learned that discomfort won’t break me. The more I’ve leaned into the hard moments, the more capable I’ve become. I remind myself that when things feel unbearable, it’s temporary. Pain passes, strength endures.

Running for me now feels like an extension of my purpose. It’s not just about crossing finish lines but about carrying what I’ve learned back to other parts of my life. Running mirrors that same growth—a constant balancing act of courage, patience, and trust.

So, as I prepare to lace up for my 100-mile journey, I’m filled with gratitude for every detour that brought me here. I am exactly where I need to be, and I’m ready to see where the trail leads.

To anyone standing at the edge of a daunting goal: trust the process. The journey may not look like you planned, but it’s shaping you in ways you can’t yet imagine. And when you finally step up to the starting line, you’ll realize that every setback, every sideline moment, was part of preparing you for the adventure ahead.