When I look back on my training block and my first 100-mile attempt, I’m proud—mostly for the sheer effort and the courage it took to show up and go for it. There’s something admirable about throwing oneself into something so daunting. That said, I began to realize after the race was over that both the training buildup and the race itself started to wear me down in ways I hadn’t anticipated. The most obvious sign was the chest pain I experienced before the race, likely from the stress it was causing me.

Was I ready for this? Should I have even attempted it? In hindsight, I wasn’t ready, and maybe I should have chosen a different 100-miler or even a different distance at that time. But I wouldn’t trade the experience of those 30 hours for anything. Still, somewhere along the way, I lost my ability to smile through the process, and that’s something I’ve come to reflect on deeply.

A phrase that gets thrown around in the recovery community, and in life in general, is: “Smile, or you’re doing it wrong.” At first glance, it seems like a simple mantra, but there’s a deeper connection there. If we can’t smile while training for a 100-miler or while getting sober, what’s the point of doing it? It’s not that we have to be head over heels in love with the process every single day, nor do we have to be thrilled to face the grind of fighting off cravings or the pain of uphill repeats. But there has to be an intrinsic value tied to what we’re doing, a joy we can find along the way, even in the smallest moments. Without that, burnout is inevitable.

If every day is met with a “Here we go again,” mindset, we’ll eventually give out. It may take years, but the risk of physical and mental exhaustion is real and no one can escape it. Even if you manage to sustain an effort that lacks that internal drive for years, you owe it to yourself to learn how to engage in a way that is fulfilling now—saving yourself from strain later. Even if everything in society and our loved ones are telling us we are on the right path, it doesn’t mean much unless we can feel that, “rightness,” for ourselves. Our perspective is always our choice, and if we can find one that puts a smile on our face, even in the hardest moments of sobriety or endurance training, we’re on the right track.

This isn’t to say that joy should come easily in the face of adversity, but rather that we should look for the moments when it does or look for it after the pain is gone. The act of showing up for a race or a day of sobriety with the intention to smile through the process, no matter how difficult, is an act of self-care and self-compassion. A choice that requires effort, insight, and strength. Finding joy in the challenge, even just a glimmer of it, is what keeps us moving forward. And when we can do that, we turn the experience into something more than just survival—we turn it into growth, meaning, and ultimately, fulfillment.