For years I stood on Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn watching the NYC Marathon with tears in my eyes—completely overwhelmed by the runners and what they had accomplished. Their commitment, strength, and pure capability felt electric. I wanted so badly to be part of that world, even though “runner” wasn’t a word I would have used for myself. Back then, the dream felt as distant as wanting to be a rock star—something that just looked incredibly cool but wildly out of reach.
About twenty years ago, I found myself running 5Ks with work friends, pushing through with zero plan and even less strategy. I had never heard of a “Couch to 5K” program; it was simply a social outing that involved sweating. It wasn’t until my cancer treatments that I learned what it truly meant to set a goal—and follow a plan. Strangely enough, chemotherapy schedules and half-marathon training plans have a lot in common. You map out the weeks, you break down the tasks, and you cross them off one by one. You avoid looking too far ahead so you don’t get overwhelmed, but you always see how far you’ve come.
And as you move through that rhythm, something shifts. Your body adapts, your mind steadies, and you build the kind of resilience that doesn’t just get you through a race—or treatment—but gets you through life. That became my foundation as I went on to run several half marathons and eventually take the plunge into my first full marathon.
While training for my second NYC Marathon, I found myself in an unexpected emotional space. As I entered the taper—those quieter weeks before race day—I began to feel sad. Only when I flipped the calendar from March to October did I realize why: I had been loving the journey. This time, my goal wasn’t just to finish; it was to correct all the mistakes I had made the first time around. None of them were unique—I’ve read endless articles about each one—but I needed to learn them myself.
So I treated them as part of my training. Morning strength workouts. Hill repeats. Speed work. Proper fueling. None of it glamorous, and not all of it fun, but each one taught me something about who I am and what I can do. We all have this deep reservoir of inner strength, waiting to be tapped. The right goal, the right process, the right rhythm—it helps you access it. And once you find it, that strength supports you everywhere: on the days you feel slow, on the days your blisters burn, on the days your energy dips. You learn to pull from your core and keep going.
And now I know: this journey was never just about November 3 or the 26.2 miles. It’s been about the more than 70 runs, the 17 cross-training sessions, and yes—the piles of waffles, rice, and chocolate milk that fueled me along the way.
Setting this goal—and showing up for it—became its own kind of Detox. A way to rest my mind, refocus my energy, and recharge my spirit, one checked-off box at a time.
