Starting.

Back in 2002, a friend and I decided to run a full marathon. For anyone who isn’t familiar with the history of this race, apparently— back in 490BC— the citizens of Athens defeated Persia when they tried to invade Greece in something called the Battle of Marathon. Once the battle was won, some poor guy got sent as a messenger to share the news! Legend has it that he ran the entire distance—42km—without stopping. Once he arrived, the messenger burst into the assembly shouting, “We have won!”

AND THEN HE DIED!

When I first told my Dad about these plans, he sat silently on the other end of the phone before replying, “You know, they have cabs for things like this!”

Valid point, Dad...valid point!

Anyways, I bring up all of this because it took me nearly two years of training to complete my first and only full marathon. I have a medal to show for it and a few good stories. But more so, few things have given me a deeper understanding about endurance in life than learning about endurance in running.

The final months leading up to the race were the most intense and during that time alone, I had run 863km worth of training runs. That is what it took for me to get to the start line—the line I seldom ever considered an accomplishment because it wasn't the finish line. And looking back, I think it’s easy to see life this way. We move forward, we chase dreams, we pursue goals and we don’t stop to recognize that the pursuit, in and of itself, means something.

Finishing is hard. Starting is harder.

Life is so many tiny, incremental victories that we hardly notice because we are so busy defining ourselves by these invisible markers that tell us when we’ve made it.

Jobs, possessions, relationships. And how many of us have crossed the finish line only to be brought to our knees in exhaustion, hurting, and depleted from the pursuit? By no means am I suggesting that aiming big isn’t a good thing, but what about everything that came before the end goal? What about all the tiny steps where you stumbled, where you wondered, where you would have preferred to give yourself a root canal than move one more muscle? What about the moments when you chose to keep going?

THIS. This is what matters.

But I understand the struggle because medals aren’t being handed out for the 863km that came first. We seldom find people cheering us on as we work our way to the start line. No one holds up signs reminding us how close we are to the beginning. When it comes to the start line, the world doesn’t notice.

But there’s also another thing the world doesn’t notice; it doesn’t notice the pieces you’ve lost out there in pursuit of the person you’re trying to find. It doesn’t notice the character that was built while the walls were breaking down. It doesn’t notice the healing that happened as the hurt fell beneath your feet.

The world doesn’t notice the distance you’ve gone because the world is not the one looking back.

That’s the thing about the start line—it’s ours. We can share pieces of our lives with the world; we can collectively stand in one spot and work our way to the end. But most of that race, most of that work, is going to be ours—in our time, on our terms, at our pace.

And let me assure you that life will be full of beautiful finish lines. It will be full of incredible accomplishments, praised victories and shiny medals. Sometimes we’ll get there, and other times we won’t. But life will mostly be full of the 863kms that come first—the unseen, the unheard, the unaccompanied.

Whatever you might be moving through right now; starting that business, raising those children, saving that relationship…please know this; you’re doing the hard part. You’re doing the brave part. You’re doing what matters. And what you’ve started—with all the distance that lies ahead and all that may come with it—is worth more medals than the finish line could ever give you.

Keep going. I'm cheering for you!

Gen xo

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