The training block hadn’t gone to plan—none of it had. When I signed up for the 50K edition of this race back in February, I had high hopes: a sub-3:45 finish and peak fitness by race day. Canyons 50K was supposed to be my A race of the year. But things unraveled. Fires in L.A. closed off my usual training grounds. A cross-state move loomed. Work was shifting, school deadlines piled up, and a respiratory infection hit hard. The stress compounded into something heavier than expected. About three weeks out, I made the tough but necessary call to drop to the 25K. I knew my fitness wasn’t where it needed to be—and more importantly, I wasn’t sure my lungs or body could even carry me to the finish line if I chased that original goal. So I let it go. No expectations, no pacing charts, no dreams of breakthrough performances—just the intention to race with what I had, and maybe, even enjoy it.

It was a cold, rainy morning—the kind that soaks through your gloves and makes the air feel heavier. As I stood waiting at the start, the elite field began to gather, quiet and focused, each runner eyeing the line like it owed them something. The metaphorical gun went and we sent out hard, as it always seems to these days. The group dove straight into a fast, slick downhill. I stayed close enough to the front to feel the heat of the lead pack, but I held back, choosing control in the early phase. By the time we hit the flats, I had dropped into what was likely 18th place, letting others burn their matches early.

Then came K2—the first real climb—and that’s where things shifted. I started picking people off, one by one, reeling back the runners I’d let go. I moved into 8th, then tucked into a small chase pack and settled into 13th. That’s where I stayed most of the day, locked into a gritty rhythm with three other runners, each of us pushing and pulling up the final descent before the long climb back toward the finish.

With three miles to go, we were trading spots between 10th and 12th, every step a small battle. But just as we crested the final hill and hit the flat road to the finish, a sharp cramp tore through my hamstring. My stride faltered. I crossed the line in 12th—less than thirty seconds from the top ten. Close enough to taste it. Just far enough to leave me hungry.

I stayed true to myself in this race. I didn’t overreach, didn’t force something that wasn’t there, and I crossed the line uninjured, having run a smart race. Given the strength of the field and the disruption leading up to it, I finished in a position I can stand behind—respectable, measured, and earned.

The more I race, the more I find myself valuing the quiet victories: staying within my limits, running with clarity, letting a race be just a race. There’s something almost sacred in that feeling—when something once overwhelming begins to feel familiar. Routine, even. That kind of comfort doesn’t come easy. It’s built mile by mile, through every hard-earned finish, through the choices to keep showing up even when things haven’t gone perfectly.

Sure, there were flickers of “what if”—moments where I caught myself wondering how it might have played out had the block gone to plan, had the fires not come, had the lungs been stronger. But those thoughts passed quickly. I’d done what I came to do, and I did it with intention.

It’s easy to romanticize the big days—the PRs, the podiums, the breakthroughs—but there’s something equally valuable in the solid, unspectacular finishes that remind you this is just what you do. No drama, no magic, just forward.

As they say: done and dusted. And ready for whatever’s next.