Doing the Hard Thing Anyway: Reflections on My First Marathon

As a therapist, I have the honor of helping people grow — helping them step into their strength, heal old hurts, and rewrite the stories they tell themselves.

Week after week, I watch clients show up for the hard work of change. They practice, stumble, try again, and keep moving forward.

This year, it was my turn. To stretch into something hard, scary, and new. To take on something that felt completely outside my comfort zone.

So, I did something I wasn’t sure I could do: I ran a marathon.
(Yes, all 26.2 miles of it.)

Not as a lifelong runner. Not as someone who had it all figured out. As a beginner. As someone who, a year earlier, wasn’t even sure she could run a mile without pain.

I'm sharing a few lessons I learned along the way — not because you need to run a marathon, but because you might be facing your own version of a hard thing. Something that feels overwhelming. Maybe something that scares you just enough to mean it matters.

Wherever you are, I hope this reminds you:

You’re stronger than you think. You can do hard things.

Here are a few lessons I learned along the way:

Lesson #1: The Voice in Your Head Probably Isn’t Telling You the Truth

This one hit me hard.

I work with so many clients whose dominant inner voice is critical, mean, or just plain wrong. Teaching people to talk back to that voice — to offer themselves compassion — is hard work.

And during this process, I had to do that work too.

Early on in my running journey, I realized I had some strong (and completely unhelpful) ideas about what a "real runner" was.

Spoiler: I didn’t think I was one.

After months of scrolling TikToks and Reels, I thought you had to run 10 miles at a sub-8-minute pace, barely breaking a sweat, wearing sleek gear that showed off a gazelle-like physique. (And honestly, no hate to anyone who fits that description — love that for you.)

But that’s not me. I need walking breaks. I get sweaty and red and tired real quick. I love my shorts with built-in tummy control.

One of the first times I heard someone else call me a runner, I was stunned. It came from a sweet friend — the kind of runner I thought you had to be — and she called me a runner like it was obvious.

It took me a few days to sit with that. Maybe the standard I was holding myself to wasn’t fair. Maybe I deserved the same encouragement I offer to other people.

Imposter syndrome showed up loud and clear when I joined two different run clubs. The voice in my head told me I wouldn’t fit in. That I wasn’t enough. That I might even get laughed out the door.

That same voice showed up during the marathon too — I hit a mental wall way earlier than I expected — trying to convince me I couldn’t finish.

But what was on the other side of that voice?

A community of people who didn’t care about pace or speed. People who cared that I showed up. Proof, week after week, that I was capable of more than I believed. And eventually, the finish line — where I sprinted across with every last drop of energy.

If I had listened to that voice, I would have missed all of it.

I’ll walk the walk right now. I encourage clients to say the true yet uncomfortable things that the inner critic likes to drown out, so here it is.

Hi, I’m Kristen. I’m a runner and I’m a marathoner.

Lesson #2: The Hard Moments Don’t Define You — And They’re Not the End

When you’re stuck in something hard, it’s easy to believe that’s all there is — that the pain is permanent, the fear is final, and the struggle is proof you’re not capable.

But that’s not the truth.

Hard moments are part of the story. They’re not the end of it.

If you stop in the middle of the hard, you never get to see what could be waiting for you on the other side.

During training, there were so many moments that made me want to quit:

• Garage treadmill runs when my anxiety kept me from running in front of others. (Social anxiety is a real b*tch.)

• Early mornings when the cold seeped through every layer and I questioned why I was even doing this.

• Long runs where my body hurt in places I didn’t know could hurt.

• Tears that came before, during, and after my runs from physical pain, from fear, from overwhelm.

If you had dropped into any one of those moments, it would have been easy to believe the story ended there. That I wasn’t cut out for this. That I couldn’t finish what I started.

But those moments weren’t the whole story. They were just a part of it.

They shaped me. They stretched me. They taught me how to keep going, even when I wasn’t sure I could.

If I had stopped when it got hard, I would have missed one of the best moments of my life.

The same is true for you. Especially for you.

The hard parts are real. The doubt is real. But they don’t get to decide the outcome.

You’re stronger than the hardest moment you’re in. You’re still writing your story — even when it doesn’t feel like it.

Lesson #3: When Things Go Wrong (And They Will), It Will Be Okay. You Keep Going.

Mental flexibility is hard. All-or-nothing thinking is such an easy trap.

As a recovering perfectionist, I love a good plan. And I love when plans go exactly right.

You know what doesn’t go exactly right? A goal that spans 18 weeks of life happening.

At first, I tracked my training with an app that showed a perfect "100%" score each week. It was addicting. Until I got sick and had to take time off — and the percentage dropped.

It hit my ego harder than I expected.

I had to figure it out and keep going. I switched to a less demanding training plan (which was not easy for my pride). I had to accept that missing days — or even a few weeks — didn’t mean I was failing. It meant I was making smart decisions.

One of the biggest "this isn’t going how I planned" moments came during my 20-mile training run — the one I was most excited for.

Instead of a strong, sunny run with my group, it was freezing, raining, and snowing. (If you were in Oklahoma that Sunday in April, you remember.)

My jacket wasn't waterproof like the reviews promised. (Thanks, Amazon.) My shoes were soaked from puddles — like, water squishing with every step, soaked. Most of the group stayed home, so I ended up running mostly alone.

From mile 16 to mile 20, I was miserable. Tight, freezing legs. Tears. Repeating over and over:

"I have to keep going."

I had no quick way back to my car, no way out but through.

And during the marathon itself, at mile 18, my headphones died. No music from my perfectly curated playlist. No guided run from the Nike Run Club app. Just me and my heavy breathing for the next 8.2 miles.

I freaked out for a while. I was on the phone with a friend repeating, "What do I do now?"

And then — I kept going. I tucked my phone in my pocket, turned my music up loud, and settled in for a gritty finish.

Out of the blue, I came across a friend, and we paced each other to the finish line.

When things don’t go according to plan (and they won’t), it will be okay. You figure it out and keep going.

I’m writing this the day after crossing the finish line — still riding the adrenaline high, still sore, still moving like a baby giraffe. (My clients this week are definitely going to get a kick out of it.)

But underneath all the aches and exhaustion, there’s something deeper:

A reminder that growth isn’t about being fearless or perfect. It’s about showing up. It's about doing the hard thing anyway — even when you're scared, even when it gets messy.

I wish everyone could feel what it’s like to get to the other side of fear and doubt, and realize:

You made it. You didn’t give up. You’re stronger than you knew.

If I would have stopped when it got hard…

I would have missed this moment.

So let me ask you:

What’s your hard thing? What feels daunting, maybe even impossible — but still within reach if you give yourself enough compassion, enough persistence, enough room to grow?

Tell me: What's your marathon?
I'd love to hear. Drop it in the comments or send me a message. I'm cheering you on.