Reflections from a Snow Puddle on the Isle of Que

Bad Decision Number One was when I opted to try new “running” gel insoles in my ASICS on race day. I thought to myself, “It’s ONLY two and a half miles…what’s the WORST that could happen?”

Bad Decisions Two through Four? A sub-par warmup, an off-kilter diet, and an entire week free of training thanks to Mother Nature’s wintry fury. I guess that last one is still my fault anyway.

Oh, and starting out too fast. That’s Number Five.

All those bad choices added up to a perfect storm of misery and regret on this foggy February Sunday afternoon. Humidity aside, it was a good day for a race along the river in Selinsgrove. Turns out the Isle of Que is a nice spot for a run. I, however, was not enjoying myself as much as usual during this race. The aforementioned insoles which were supposed to prevent injuries were actually giving me shin splints in my left leg. Plus, the darned things were cramping my toes, leading to even more pain. I struggled to keep a decent pace as I dodged the snow puddles…until I failed to sidestep a deeper puddle and drenched my shoe.

Thus ended my quest for a good finish time.

I slowed to a walk, internally scolding myself for such a lousy performance. My dejected soul reflected in the puddles of melted snow. If I couldn’t run a pitiful two point five, how was I going to complete my second marathon in three weeks? I was actually supposed to run this course twice, to make a five miler, just for training purposes. At this point, I really didn’t feel like doing it again.

The others made sure I did it again.

During the second lap, I relaxed and my leg started to feel better. I completed the five miles, despite my less-than-stellar performance, and drove home satisfied.

The next day, I started my morning on the treadmill at the Y, pounding out another three miles. I have a favorite treadmill across from a window, where I can pretend I’m trying to reach the mountain ahead of me. It’s still dark outside, so I can see my reflection in the window–and the reflection of the girl on the treadmill behind me. The latter reminds me of where I started, and my own reflection reminds me of how far I’ve come. I can’t go back to the 240-pound, depressed, lethargic person I was before.

Every day, I decide whether I’d rather be more like the old me, or the new me. Would I rather sleep until 6:30, or be at the gym at 6:30? Would I rather eat whatever I wanted, or eat what benefits my body? The new me takes effort. It takes planning. Is it worth the work to feel great? Sure…but it isn’t always easy. Some days, it’s just easier to hit the snooze button and grab a cookie. Or ten.

Other days, it takes a puddle to get you back on track.


Photo by Mary Beth Pace looking out at the Susquehanna River from the Isle of Que.

My first marathon


It was somewhere between mile 25 and 26. The Third Street sidewalk decided that my body needed a break…or at least a few scratches and bruises. Before I knew what hit me, I was face-down and slightly stunned.

As I lay there, my mind drifted back to a dreary day in June 1994. My mom and I had pulled up to my grandparents’ house, where she and my Pop were attempting to pull my paralyzed body out of our car. Pop didn’t realize how heavy my dead weight was, and I fell to the gravel, badly skinning my knees. I could barely walk, and I definitely couldn’t get up from the ground on my own. Later that day, I was admitted to the hospital by my neurologist to begin treatment for what was being diagnosed as Guillain-Barre Syndrome.

My 14-year-old self probably wouldn’t have believed you if you told me my 37-year-old self would be running my first marathon. Actually, I’m not sure my present self could believe it either. A few months back, I blogged about The M Word, where I told you all that I intended on running the first Williamsport Marathon. Then, summer happened, and even though I was running frequently, my training was more triathlon-focused than long-distance running. Maybe it wouldn’t be a big deal if I chickened out, or maybe just did the half marathon instead.

Therefore, I waited to register. I also didn’t do any long-distance runs to prepare myself in case I decided to go for it.

As September rolled around, I was finally persuaded to train, with what little time I had left, to run the full 26.2 miles. I knew I could at least make it 13.1 of those miles, so I stood a chance at finishing the race. Even if I was walking, limping or crawling, I was determined to finish.

October 8th dawned with heat, humidity and rain. Fortunately, by race time, the rain had stopped, and I was comfortable in my tank and shorts. I was excited, but nervous, of course, because this would be the longest distance I’d ever attempted.

In the first ten miles or so, I learned that the water stations were few and far between. They were also not well-stocked–even with water. There was a total of one porta-potty on the entire course. I also discovered that there were no mile markers, which would have helped greatly while running such a long distance. Not to mention that the volunteers abandoned their posts after a certain point. At least they couldn’t yell at us for drinking right out of the gallon water jugs because the small bottles and cups were all gone. Desperate times call for desperate measures!

After a few hours had passed, there were no bystanders cheering us on. Traffic was open, which meant traversing some less-than-well-maintained sidewalks in South Side. As I lagged behind at my 13-minute mile pace, I started to get disheartened. What if they had torn down the finish line before I could get there? What if nobody was there at the finish at all?

My body was actually holding up very well, aside from my left instep, which made me take walk breaks more frequently. I don’t remember if I was walking or running when I tripped and fell.

There I lay on the sidewalk, bruises appearing on my knee, shoulder, arm and hands. I brushed the fine gravel from the scratches on my hand, knee and shoulder. At this point, I considered giving up. Nobody would probably be at the finish anyway. I could just lay there and admit defeat.

Then, I remembered why I was doing this–for the 14-year-old who couldn’t get up.

I rose to my feet, got my bearings, and with the help of a nearby crossing guard, made it to the intersection, and on to the final half mile of the course.

When I saw the finish line, it was hard to hold back the tears. It wasn’t the fanfare finish I’d dreamed of, with only two people, both volunteers, there to welcome me. I wasn’t choked up for the lack of people…it was the fact that there WERE people at all, waiting for me. I was overwhelmed at what I had just accomplished.

I am a marathoner.

Dark Horses

“I made my mistakes

I’ve seen my heart cave in

I got my scars

I’ve been to hell and back again

Born for the blue skies

We’ll survive the rain

Born for the sunrise

We’ll survive the pain”

I’m fighting back tears as I round one of the final corners of the run segment. Today, the words to one of my favorite Switchfoot songs seem especially poignant. After making a costly mistake on the bike, I was frustrated, and almost angry with myself…but I wasn’t giving up.

It’s not hard to jump out of bed at 5 am on the day of my favorite race of the year…the Lewisburg Sprint Triathlon. In fact, I think I anticipate it more than Christmas. After months of training and attempting to lose more weight, I am ready to put my body to the ultimate test. Or am I?

A little over a week ago, I was wading out into the Atlantic with a $5 piece of foam, hoping to catch a wave back to shore. The anticipation of the tri was on my mind, but I was confident that I could do better than ever this year. If I could conquer my fear of waves, I could beat the endless sea of hilly roads outside Lewisburg. Maybe I could even run the 5K distance without the dreaded “Tri Leg” that seems to seize my quads every time I do a tri.

Or, maybe I’d come home from vacation with a cold.

When I awoke with a sore throat on Monday, I knew I was in trouble. I started taking zinc tablets with the hope that they’d banish the virus from my system within a day or two. How can I possibly have a cold on the eve of my big race? It just wasn’t fair.

Tuesday was awful. I took the day off work, and couldn’t really sleep because I couldn’t breathe.

Wednesday, I returned to work, armed with tissues and cough drops. By the end of the day, my voice was almost gone. My prospects for Saturday were not looking promising.

Wednesday night, I was finally able to sleep, and I felt quite a bit better by Thursday.

By Saturday, my energy had returned, my symptoms were almost cleared up, and I was prepared to race. My body wasn’t at 100%, but I had to give it my best tri (pun intended).

As I set up my transition area, I noticed several mountain bikes on the rack next to me. There were also in the field of competitors, a handful of women that looked heavier than I was when I did my first tri in 2015. I knew that those who had to carry extra bike weight or body weight were in for a challenge, but I was glad to see them. If I could do it, so could they.

But today, I was no longer the novice. I had done this race twice before, and now looked better-equipped with a road bike, tri suit, and lighter body. Granted, I still felt slightly intimidated looking at the pros with their tri bikes and Ironman stickers in their cars. “We all have to start somewhere,” I reminded myself.

Finally, the race started. I had to wait quite a while to get in the water, and once I did, I felt like my strength wasn’t where it should be. I told the girls behind me to go ahead and pass, because I just couldn’t hold my pace.

The bike got off to a less-than-perfect start. I had to chuck my gloves to the side of the course because I didn’t put them on before mounting my bike. Oh well…my hands would be fine.

Then, the bite valve on my CamelBak took an early leave of absence, spilling water down my legs into my socks and bike shoes. Wet feet. No water. Not cool.

All the while, I’m psyching myself up for “The Hill From Hell,” which I know is coming up toward the end of the course. Last year, I was unable to climb it with my Cannondale hybrid. Would this be the year I crushed the hill?

The hill never came.

I thought the guy told me to go straight, when I should have turned. There were two men at that intersection, and neither one yelled after me to turn around. I pedaled for quite a while before I realized I was lost. The road markings were nowhere to be found, and the intersections weren’t manned.

Trying to keep my composure, I called the race director’s number, and told her where I was. I then tried to backtrack, and got lost yet again when I followed another cyclist who, as it turned out, was not in the race. Flustered, I called the race director back and told her my new location. This time, she sent a volunteer for me to follow back to town.

Somehow, my wrong turns had avoided “The Hill From Hell” altogether.

I was very happy to return to the transition area, where I quickly changed shoes for the run. My time would be lousy, but I had to finish the race…even if I was last.

When I did my first tri, my goal was to finish. I thought of myself as the “dark horse” that wasn’t expected to complete all three events. Ever since, my goal has been to beat my previous time…to get better each year. When that doesn’t happen, it’s a pretty crushing feeling.

Those last couple blocks, I had to play that song again…

“We’re singing 

Hey, you can’t count us out

We’ve been running up against the crowd

Yeah, we are the dark horses

We’re singing

Hey, it’s not over now

We’ve been down but we’ve never been out

Yeah, we are the dark horses”

And as I sprinted toward the finish line, with my parents there cheering me on, I felt as if I had beaten the odds once again.

And I will continue to do so, as long as God gives me strength.

Tens Moments

Ahh… summer in central Pennsylvania! Every weekend, you can find a short-distance race somewhere in the area. It’s a great way to explore new territory, meet new people, and test your (and your friends’) direction-following skills. There are a variety of 5K races (3.1 miles) around, but if you’re lucky, you’ll stumble upon a 10K, which is 6.2 miles.

When you attend a 5K, you see people of all shapes and sizes. At a 10K, however, the amount of runners with a reasonable amount of weight to lose (like me) declines rapidly. My competitors are generally at a healthy weight, which makes my challenge of placing in my age bracket even harder. They don’t have to carry around the equivalent of my two-year-old nephew for six miles. Er…six point two.

Something possessed me to run 10K races two weeks in a row. The first was planned. The second was not. Placeholder ImageAfter a fairly decent race last week, I decided to push my luck today, and go out a little faster than I had last week. My nutrition had been on point all week, and I was feeling pretty good overall. I started at a low-quick shuffle, and had few side stitch issues (which seem to plague me often).

We ran on the Lock Haven river walk, adjoining the Susquehanna. It was a beautiful day for a race, with a nice breeze, and an overcast sky. I love running beside the river, looking out at the mountains, and hoping to spot an eagle. However, these river levees have a drawback…ramps. Because this is Pennsylvania, and there’s hardly EVER a flat race.

Before my paralysis, I used to enjoy climbing hills as a kid. During CIDP, I could barely do stairs. As I dealt with residual weakness, I just learned to run up the stairs to keep my quads from hurting. Nowadays, I run up and down the hills around the circle where I work. Sometimes, it’s even fun!

But today, I learned that running full-speed up a hill around mile 4 of a 6.2 mile race is a bad idea. Don’t do that.

I had run up and down the ramps the entire first half of the race. Now, my legs were heavy and I could barely catch my breath. I had hit the wall, and my body wasn’t going to recover to finish as strongly as I wanted.

As the others passed me, the frustration hit in, and my emotions pounced on my failing resolve.

“Why do you keep doing this?”

“You’re slower and fatter than everybody else!”

“You don’t belong out here with actual athletes.”

I knew at that point that I wasn’t going to finish under an hour, like I’d hoped. In fact, I thought I might have to walk the rest of the way.

I turned toward the river and saw the shadow of a large bird. Just the shadow. It was probably a crow, but I imagined it to be an eagle. Suddenly, I remembered WHY I was doing this! I was out here because I was confirming my victory over CIDP. I was out here for those who are too weak to walk, let alone run. I was out here for my friends who still have to live with debilitating autoimmune diseases and the awful treatments they have to endure. I was out here to give others hope!

I could have given up and walked, but I slowed my pace and pressed on. And somehow, placed first in my age group! My time was a few seconds more than last week’s 10K, but I was satisfied with that. I had once again learned that it’s better to be the tortoise than the hare. Especially on hills!

The “M” Word

DSC_0055-XL“There are a lot of crazy people here today,” I thought as I ran past the Danville mental hospital. What sane person gets up at the crack of dawn on a cold, rainy May Saturday to run thirteen miles to the middle of nowhere and back? Well, at least I was in good company, with couple hundred other runners in the 2017 River Towns Half Marathon.

The day didn’t exactly get off to a great start. First, I misplaced my Philippians 4:13 dog tag that I wear when I race. Then, when I arrived in Danville, I discovered the contact solution had drained out of my left contact as it was soaking. After trying to rehydrate the crispy disk, I decided I’d have to wear my glasses, or go as One Eyed Jack. As if that weren’t enough, I lost the cover to my earbud as I stood at the starting line! Fortunately, my friend just happened to have an extra pair of earbuds, which saved my day.

Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling very confident as I started the race. I went out much faster than I should have, causing ankle pain in the first mile. The sky was an ominous black, and the air was a little chilly, but humid. I started to question why I was doing this race in the first place–or even running at all.

A few miles in, the sun came out, my leg muscles warmed up, and my outlook brightened. I thought, “ A smooth, easy road never makes an interesting story.” Even this well-maintained rural road wasn’t the easiest to run on, given the sloping pavement. Every couple minutes, I’d have to change my position on the road to find the most even spot. Otherwise, as I learned last year, my hips would be out of whack when I reached the finish line.

Thanks to a moderate pace and frequent walk breaks, I was able to hobble over the finish line a good half hour before last year’s finish time. My third half marathon was in the books. Now what? Do I even consider the “M” word?

Thirteen (point one, to be exact) miles is a long distance. Double that, and you have the “M” word. Do I dare to even THINK about training to run 26.2 miles? If my muscles can barely do a HALF, how would I survive a FULL?

This is the mental battle I’ve been waging for the past year.

When I trained for the Danville race last year, I’ll admit I was scared, but felt pretty confident that I could at least finish. I felt the same way at my first triathlon. But as I lose weight and get stronger, my athletic performance improves. I feel like, although I never may see a podium, I am a champion because of all that I’ve conquered. So what if I try and fail? Failure is inevitable in each of our lives. What is important is that we have the courage to get off the couch, turn off the TV, and make the attempt.

This year will be the first Williamsport Marathon in October. Lord willing, (and legs willing) I will be ready!

A Fool’s Homecoming

Ah, April Fools’ Day…that one day a year where child pranksters and the less-than-mature adults among us plot to get the best of their unwilling victims. In my humor-loving family, we’ve had a few memorable April Fools’ pranks on each other over the years. Sorry, Dad.

This year, I think the joke was on myself.

Back in February, my friend and I saw an ad for the Fools’ Run in Kutztown and decided to sign up for the 10-miler. I was ecstatic to be back in my beloved college town once again, since it had been four years since my last visit. We decided to drive down the night before and book a room outside Allentown instead of making the two-and-a-half hour drive Saturday morning. We loaded up a cache of bottled water, two pizzas (for the traditional carb load), and our running gear and spent the night preparing for our race.

This race was very important to me for several reasons. Since my last visit in 2013, I lost almost 90 pounds! I wasn’t there to merely complete the race, but to get the best finish time I possibly could. This was my homecoming, and it felt like an important milestone to me.

When I studied at KU, I could only imagine being the fit athlete I am now. Back then, I was just relearning what it meant to be “normal” without the chains of CIDP. I was ashamed of my body, and the rejection from the guys I liked didn’t help. I figured they thought I was only this imperfect, fat body, and I didn’t deserve to be loved because I wasn’t skinny. Who I was inside didn’t matter…only what I looked like. And if Christian guys were like this, then there was no hope for me.

I wish they could see me now.

With all of this on my mind, I readied myself for the start of the race. There were probably at least 200 people there of all shapes, ages and sizes. I took off running, and quickly learned that a mile in southern PA feels slightly longer than a mile in the Susquehanna Valley. Maybe it was the hilly terrain, but then again, we have hills up here too.

The sky was overcast, with the sun peeking out for a few minutes at a time. The temps were in the 40’s and it was pretty windy. I wore my neon green nylon windbreaker, which I ended up taking off less than halfway through the run. The roads were wet from Friday’s rain, so I made sure to watch my footing on the tricky, tight downhill curves. Even though I hadn’t been training much outside, all of my cross-training at the gym had really paid off. My only injury was a shin splint on my left leg, which didn’t really bother me until after the race.

I was hoping to finish the race in an hour and 45 minutes, but the steep hills on the way back made me slow to a walk for a few intervals. Fortunately, I had enough energy to barrel down the final stretch and finish just before two hours. It was a really good time for me, and I felt so amazing afterward!

A few hours later, on our ride home, the muscle soreness started to kick in. Stretched quads are never fun, but they are a badge of honor. After all, there was a time when my legs didn’t work.

Some people say that runners are foolish. We willingly risk muscle pain, shin splints, side stitches, bad knees, and the chance to be hit by cars. We leave our warm beds to wake up at crazy times, brave the cold wind, and step out into the unknown. Are we fools? Probably. But we’ve also experienced the thrill of the finish line, the pride of a job well done, the runner’s high, the cheer of strangers and volunteers, and the comradery of other crazy fools doing what we love. And for me, 90 fewer pounds on my frame. That alone is worth more than any medal I could ever earn.

At the same time, I am learning to love and accept my body the way it is. Because nobody’s body is perfect. And because I’ve earned these beautiful calf muscles…and nobody can take that away from me!

Burn Out Bright

If you only got one shot

If you only got one life

If time was never on our side

Before I die I want to burn out bright

One of my favorite Switchfoot lyrics resonates with me today as I log another hour on the treadmill. I just learned a few years back that the term for my (permanent) CIDP remission is called “burnout.” I have no idea where the term came from, but I suppose it means there are others like me who have recovered. Needless to say, I am determined to burn out; to shine my light as a witness to my faith. To use my body to glorify the One who healed me-who gave me another chance.

Looking out at the snow-covered mountain that I’m always running toward, but never catch, I’m happy to be training inside today. Winter has come back with a vengeance, and I need to get in some miles before my first spring race in April. At least I only have to do a few today.

A few months ago, one of my racing buddies asked me to do the One City Marathon with her in Newport News, VA. That race was today. The thought of long runs in the Pennsylvania winter just didn’t sound appealing enough to sign up for a 26.2 mile race in the spring. Actually, the thought of a full marathon intimidates me ANY time of the year…but that’s a story for another blog post.

I finished my slow 4.5 miles, swam laps for a while and picked up a few groceries before heading for home. As I glanced back to the aforementioned mountain, I saw a flash of white fly by. Although I’m not certain, I thought it could have been an eagle, headed toward the river. Yet another reminder of how much I’ve been blessed. I’ve been given wings to run and not grow weary!

Upon my return home, I received some sobering news: the 36-year-old daughter of my childhood neurologist suddenly passed away. I didn’t know his family…in fact, I was unaware that he had a daughter my age. He had relocated to New Jersey years ago, and his daughter lived in Brooklyn, but her obituary had made the Sun Gazette. Even though I felt sorrow at the news of his loss, I was glad to read that he was still practicing neurology. He is definitely one of the reasons I am still alive.

None of us know how long we have left on this planet. I’ve had several friends and loved ones pass way, way too soon. I’ve also seen others beat stage 4 cancer, and are still alive and well. Life is unpredictable.

The future is a question mark

Of kerosene, electric sparks

There’s still fire in you yet

Yeah there’s still fire in you…

When you reach life’s finish line, can you say you’ve given the race all you’ve got?

Off the Deep End

In the process of cleaning out my gym gear yesterday, I found several sets of swimming ear plugs and nose clips. I laughed to myself, thinking about how much I hated those nose clips. They never stayed on my nose, although they did keep me from snorting water. For some reason, I decided to keep them, because they remind me of how far I’ve come as a swimmer.

Ever since I was little, I’d jump at every chance I got to go swimming. I was terrified of deep water, so I’d always stick to the shallow end. Even in junior high, when we were required to learn to swim in gym class, I stayed in the shallow end. I did learn to swim, with not exactly the best technique, but I could propel myself through the water.

As I got older, and my body recovered from CIDP, I realized that I would need to overcome my fear of deep water if I was to ever realize my dream of diving or snorkeling in the ocean. The local YMCA opened in 2008, and I joined with the anticipation of swimming all the time. That’s when I decided I’d need those nose clips.

Obviously, I had no clue what I was doing. The freestyle I had learned in junior high was not very efficient because I was afraid to put my head in the water. Swimming laps was really tough, and quite frankly, I didn’t enjoy it. Eventually, I developed my own form of breast stroke that allowed me to feel more comfortable and graceful in the water. And yes, I did swim in the deep end…but I was terrified that I was going to sink somehow.

In 2015, I started thinking about doing my first sprint triathlon, but I knew my swimming needed a lot of work. Fortunately, the Lewisburg tri has a pool swim (as opposed to open water), so I thought it would be possible for me to complete it. A friend from my Weight Watchers group who was an experienced triathlete offered to critique my swimming and give me some pointers.

Let’s just say I needed more than pointers.

For starters, I wasn’t kicking from my hips, my breathing was all wrong (even though my head was actually IN the water), and I was basically a freestyle mess. I left the pool feeling as if my swimming would never be good enough to compete.

Did that stop me? No!

From that chilly spring day up until the date of the tri in August, I worked really hard on my swimming. I started training with a kickboard, which I absolutely hated, because I kicked and kicked and didn’t go anywhere. I did the drills that my friend gave me. My endurance was still terrible, but I started to feel a little more confident in my swimming ability.

Needless to say, the swimming was the easiest part of the triathlon for me that warm August day. The water was cold, but I was able to warm up in the dive (like 12 feet deep) pool before the race started. The fact that I was comfortable in such deep water was a testament to how far I’d come. Yes, it took me a while to swim those 6 laps, and I did have to rest because I was breathless. But when I climbed out of that pool, I think I’d felt the greatest sense of accomplishment ever!

In 2016, I discovered a technique called Total Immersion. It has changed my swimming completely! Now, I feel so much more graceful in the water, and my endurance has improved tremendously! I also learned that I can breathe every 4 strokes and be comfortable. My tri swim times have been slowly improving as well. Oh…and TI swim training requires NO kickboard! Did I mention my hatred of kickboards?

One of my dreams when I reach my goal weight is to get my SCUBA certification. Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to dive the Great Barrier Reef, and someday I hope I get the chance. For some strange reason, I’d also like to learn to surf (first, I’ve got to improve my sorry boogie boarding skills). Sometimes it takes a while for us to reach our dreams, but we should keep on pursuing them! Never give up, and don’t let fear keep you from trying new things. You might just find a new passion!

The Art of Being A Misfit

I’ve never been popular. Ever. In fact, I’ve always been kind of a…geek. In elementary school, when everyone else was playing with Barbies, I was obsessed over rocks and seashells. I proudly wore my Petra Unseen Power tour shirt to school in junior high, to be incessantly mocked for my faith and choice of music. As I started to feel inadequate, I became more withdrawn and afraid of people. I didn’t really care about style or fashion until my mid-twenties, and of course, being overweight didn’t help matters. Even in the church world, I couldn’t fit in–never in youth group, and definitely not as a single, 30-something female with no kids.

It is a strange feeling to never have a true sense of belonging. But yet, it is liberating to march to the beat of my own drum. Maybe that’s the artist in me. I don’t even really need to TRY to be original…it just happens. Unfortunately, the new or different isn’t always accepted, and others try to push me into their mold.

This is for those of you who feel like you never fit in. Don’t try to be like everyone else, because you’ll never be happy being anyone but yourself. Be creative, and don’t worry if your work isn’t accepted. The right people will be blessed by your being true to who you are.



When I was 9, I played AYSO soccer on a team called the Rockets. Since I wasn’t the most aggressive kid, the coach put me on defense. One particular game, an opponent kicked the ball toward me, and in trying to stop it, I somehow spun it into our own goal. That’s right–I scored a goal for the other team. Needless to say, despite our winning the game, I didn’t get to go out with the other kids for ice cream that day.

Unlike that display of, um, athletic coordination (or lack thereof), most of us don’t accidentally reach our goals. In fact, sometimes it takes a lot of hard work.

In 2009, I was about 28 pounds away from reaching my Weight Watchers goal. I had lost 70 pounds over 4 years, and thought I could make it the rest of the way on my own. Why not? That goal was so close…I could almost taste it! I had the knowledge and experience to get me there. But I was very wrong. I reverted to my old way of eating, and when depression hit, I buried myself in food. Without the support of others on a weight loss journey, and the accountability of the scale, I regained everything I had lost–and then some.

I once again had become that person that I had tried so hard to leave behind.

In January of 2014, I realized that I couldn’t be fat and miserable anymore. I set out to change my lifestyle and attempt to lose the weight for good. Before me was a daunting task–I had 115 pounds to lose–practically another small-framed person!

I changed my eating habits and started exercising again. In April, I started racing again, even though I was well over 200 pounds. As I lost weight, I ran more, and my 5K times gradually got better. My energy and endurance improved, and I started to feel better about myself. My progress was slow, and I had setbacks, but I kept pressing on toward my goal.

Now, it’s January 2017. I’ve lost just over 81 pounds, and I have 34 more to lose. I feel like I’m in the last couple miles of a half-marathon. I can’t see the finish line, but I know it’s there, and I’m getting closer to it. I know the reward waiting for me is greater than the struggles I face getting to the finish.

The problem is, the finish line isn’t the end. Once I hit my goal weight, I would like to maintain it for the rest of my life.  I will have to continue the pattern I set in motion three years ago. Sure, there may be days when I feel like I can’t eat one more apple. There might be the occasional lapse in judgment when I can’t control a craving. But I have to remember why I started this journey in the first place. I hope that I will always recall how awful I felt at my heaviest when I’m tempted to binge.

It’s going to be hard work, but it’s going to be worth it.