Don't Call It A Comeback
Professional trail runner, writer, podcast host, teacher—these words grace every bio or media deck curated by my agent and me. They have defined me for the better part of the last decade.
I haven’t raced well since 2019, when the hip injury I finally surgically repaired in March 2023 started talking. Writer? Aside from a few heartfelt Instagram captions, I have hardly written anything in the last five years. Anytime I sit down at my computer, my mind wanders, and my cursor refuses to open the blank Google doc. When I try, it often feels so clunky and rusty that I discard the thoughts I’ve put to the page and try to forget I even tried.
OK, I’ll take podcast host- but still, amid the podcasting boom, starting my own often feels futile. And teacher? I haven’t stepped into a classroom since 2017, and while I frequently romanticize about going back, I don’t think I’m willing to pour my heart into a profession that often takes so much but pays so little.
Before marrying Carson, I felt like my life had fit into the running box and the home box. They were both parts of my life but completely separate. I could show up in one without thinking about the other. There was quite literally no crossover. It was weird. It was compartmentalizing.
Marrying Carson meant a literal merging of worlds. Introducing a past life fraught with messiness, chaos, and unresolved/impressively ignored trauma - a word I still cringe to associate with myself despite working on it with a therapist - to my neat life as a runner where I performed well, was loved and where I could be selectively vulnerable. I didn’t know that when I said yes to his somewhat spontaneous proposal, I was also saying yes to grueling and harrowing growth, forcing me to unhash the half-truths that neatly fit into my life as a high-performing athlete. He is worth it, but it has been a fucking ride.
I am often celebrated for my authenticity as an athlete and public figure, but in reality, only one side of me allows the transparency I tout. I think of the 2015-2020 version of myself as clear water in a creek, seemingly pure and safe at first glance until you see the tainted source upstream, contaminated but tucked away too far to face. The dam broke somewhere in the last few years, and now the creek is muddied- but you can only clean up what you know is there.
I’ve been quieter on social media in the last few years. How am I supposed to speak authentically when the version of myself being celebrated no longer exists? The girl who won Western States is no longer here, yet that version of myself is bought and sold every time I post—no wonder I feel paralyzed when I open the apps.
In her memoir Good For A Girl, Laura Fleshman urges women to tell their stories. My story has lived tucked away for many years because I didn’t want to be one of those women with “a story.” And yet, I find myself moved, heard, and seen by the stories of other women bravely sharing their demons. The half-truths I’ve built my running life on are collapsing, and inspired by Laura Fleshman, Kara Goucher, Amelia Boone, and several of my athletes who have trusted me with their demons, I feel ready to share mine.
In this blog, I want to share some of the hardships I’ve endured as a female athlete. I hope my blog posts are a blade of grass in a flourishing field of stories urging change. As cliche as it sounds, if ONE girl reads this and can identify red flags because of it, it will be worth it. If ONE coach reads this as a cautionary tale, these blogs will be a huge success.
Selfishly, I hope shedding this weight will help me to show up as the athlete I know is still in there, unencumbered by trying to hold two separate boxes, free to be herself. I have so much racing left to do, and while the last five years have been a shitshow in the running department, I still deeply believe I can run at a high level. I’m ready to own that again.
Tune in. Or don’t. These blogs are for me. <3