Amidst the chaos of moving, renegotiating employment, and beginning another semester of my doctorate program, I managed to sneak in two races—one on the bike, and another shorter trail race. They were my first opportunities to compete in Utah, something I had been looking forward to. But if I’m being honest, both efforts were fairly unremarkable. My training had been inconsistent at best, and my mental energy was being pulled in too many directions to give either race the focus I usually do.

And yet—there was something refreshing about that. To show up at the starting line with no pressure, no grand expectations, no overanalyzed taper strategy or nutrition plan. Just me, my body, and whatever was left in the tank. In some strange way, it felt like a kind of rebirth. After spending the past year so deeply invested in the structure and precision of my training—tracking every mile, dialing in splits, chasing PRs—this looser, more instinctual approach felt like a return to something I didn’t know I was missing. It was like seeing the sport with fresh eyes again.

There’s a purity in that—an ability to engage with racing not as a performance to perfect, but as an experience to inhabit. It reminded me why I started doing this in the first place: not to prove anything, but to feel something. To get lost in motion. To reconnect with the part of myself that finds clarity, honesty, and joy when the rest of life feels uncertain.

If endurance has taught me anything, it’s that there’s room for ebb and flow. Some seasons are for intensity and structure; others are for softness, experimentation, and coming back to the basics. The sport is patient. It doesn’t ask for perfection—it asks for presence. And the more you show up, even imperfectly, the more it teaches you what it needs in return: rest, care, attention, and, above all, respect.