Last fall, I finished my fourth half-marathon in just over a year. I felt invincible. Each race was faster than the previous one. I had committed to training, joining a local club and pushing myself against serious runners. I thought I had hacked exercise: all I needed to do was keep signing up for races! They essentially functioned as deadlines—the only work-related rule this life-long freelancer understands.
And I loved running. I loved falling into a rhythm with each step and breath, focusing on different body parts to distract from the burning in my lungs. I loved long jogs through my favourite park, watching the foliage change from bushels of golden rod to purple asters in September. I loved how my mind would wander, usually coming up with some sort of clarity I didn’t know I was looking for. I loved the simplicity of following a training plan: I didn’t have to think about what to do, I only had to do it. I even grew to enjoy evening group workouts in dark December drizzle, getting over my fear of the cold, red thighs stinging as they thawed in the shower. Of course, like most runners, I also loved the feeling of stopping running, of keeling over and panting, letting endorphins do their magic. Running made me feel powerful—like I could achieve anything as long as I continued to show up.
I craved more of a challenge, so I signed up for a 30-kilometre race taking place on March 30, 2025. Around the Bay is the oldest long-distance race in North America, charting a chilly course around the Hamilton harbour. It was the perfect stepping stone to something I never thought I’d be capable of two years ago: running a full marathon. If I could race 30 kilometres this spring, I could probably handle 42 come fall. Plus, the late-March date would be a great way to force myself to continue to train during the toughest months of Toronto’s winter.
Well, it turns out winter was bleaker than usual this year, with Toronto receiving some of its heaviest snowfall in years. The streets were covered in thick slush for months. I was learning to tolerate sub-zero runs, but trying to navigate through slippery ice and snow was a different challenge—one that stressed all the stabilizing muscles in my ankles and calves and made it impossible to attempt speedier paces. Once the snow eventually melted, murky mini lakes submerged every other sidewalk. I’d get home and wring out my socks, pruney toes looking—but not feeling—like they’d been soaking in the tub. Crisp outdoor air is one of my favourite parts of running, but there was nothing enjoyable about 20-kilometer battles through icy headwinds and gray, gritty muck.
At the same time, I was dealing with the longest-running sickness of my life. From New Year’s Day until the beginning of March, I was drowning in phlegm, with a deep, hacking cough and nose constantly full of green snot. It wasn’t Covid, and a chest x-ray confirmed it wasn’t walking pneumonia, either. Since I never spiked a fever, I continued to run when I could, wheezing when I went too fast and spitting gross substances out on every streetcorner (apologies to nearby pedestrians).
Finally, the first week of March, my symptoms lifted. I felt healthy, and the roads were looking runnable. I was excited—I was heading into the two biggest training weeks in my schedule, and was looking forward to clocking some serious kilometres.
But alas, a few days later I woke to chills and aches. I spent the next six days popping Advil and powering through a lengthy flu. Not to be too dramatic, but I felt mentally and physically defeated, like a battered penguin who just spent winter huddling against Antarctic gusts, only to jump into the ocean and be devoured by a shark.
I considered running the race anyway, adjusting my expectations and sticking to a slower pace. I hate bailing on anything—whether it’s dinner with a friend or an unreasonably long, cold run. Integrity, to me, means sticking to my word. And to be honest, I was terrified that if I took a break from running, I’d never start up again. But life’s a balance, and in this case the teeter-totter was tilting heavily toward the side of quitting.
I posted a note in my training group’s Slack chat, and my bib for the sold-out race was snapped up within minutes. Now, I could focus on resting, enjoying more relaxed jogs and building strength. I had no intention to stop running.
A week later, my back seized up after piggy-backing my four-year-old daughter through some muddy fields. It slowly worsened over the next few days, until there was a constant ache, with stabbing pains any time I tried to round my spine. I shuffled around the house like a stilted mannequin and booked appointments with my physiotherapist and chiropractor. Lots of cupping and excruciating release later, and my back started to improve.
Just as I could finally tie my shoes without moaning in pain, my right knee decided to stop working. I Googled my symptoms: a deep ache above the patella, sharper when bending the leg any amount or going up stairs. A stiff, locking sensation after periods of no movement, followed by an uncomfortable pop when I tried to straighten my leg. Arthritis, meniscus tears and something called “Runner’s Knee” popped up on the screen.
Also known as patellofemoral pain syndrome, Runner’s Knee happens when certain muscles or tendons in the quad or IT band are too tight, and basically pull the kneecap out of alignment, causing it to fall off its “track.” The pain would wake me up at night, and I limped around the house, crawling up the stairs on all fours. Running was off the table.
When people refer to a “runner’s body” they usually mean tall and slim. But there’s a lot more involved. While I might meet the BMI criteria, my ankles pronate significantly, leading to collapsed arches. My knees turn inward, too, so my patellae naturally track toward the centre of my body, rather than over my big toe. Speaking of toes, mine are extra-long, and years of squishing them into figure skates and ballet shoes as a child has twisted and bent some of the joints. My pelvis tilts forward, resulting in a slight pinch in my lower back. My lower-right back muscles are extra-tight, from years carrying my daughter on my left hip. All these physiological tendencies make injury more likely.
When I mentioned my newfound patella problem to my podiatrist, he said, “Well, running is traumatic,” he said. “You might want to stop.” My chiropractor didn’t tell me to stop, but he did say: “With runners, it’s never the engine that falters, but the body. No one stops a marathon because they run out of breath.”
I heard marathon open-water swimmer Diana Nyad (played by Annette Bening in the Oscar-winning film Nyad) speak at a conference recently. The epitome of someone who doesn’t give up, she finally achieved her dream of swimming the 180 kilometres from Cuba to Florida at age 64. It took 53 non-stop hours, through sensory-deprived nights, without so much as a hand on her spotting boat. She had attempted the swim four times before, but had to stop for various life-threatening reasons, like poisonous box-jellyfish wrapping their tentacles around her neck or aggressive sharks lurking below. Sometimes, she never even made it into the water—one year their team was denied Cuban visas, and another the trade winds were so strong Nyad could feel dust from the Sahara Desert in the Florida air.
Every time Nyad had to postpone her swim, she and her team got to work figuring out how to overcome whatever obstacle stopped them that time. She eventually swam with a silicone face mask to protect against deadly jellyfish stings, and hired divers to bop the noses of the sharks when they got too close. To make sure she had enough calories to continue, her team dangled pasta into her mouth as if she were a seal at Seaworld—and followed the noodles with gels to create a super-powered energy mixture.
Around the Bay went ahead as planned this year, even though there was a freak ice storm that bent pine trees in half and left many towns without power. In Hamilton that morning, runners were pelted with freezing rain as they traversed slippery ground and faced off against strong winds. But they all showed up. I saw photos on social media the next day, and despite the awful conditions, each runner’s face was still plastered in a proud grin.
When Nyad was growing up, one of her swim coaches told her to always finish each race knowing she couldn’t have done it, “a fingernail faster.” She’s now 75, and while she’s no longer swimming competitively, she uses the same philosophy in other aspects of her life. She wants to live like she swam—leaving it all on the table, with no regrets.
This slog of a winter has taught me to value my body while it’s working. I still live under the general assumption that things are going to keep getting better and better, for a while. But life changes quick. One day we are young and healthy, and the next we are middle-aged, with a “bum knee” or “bad hip.” It’s like what the Buddhist monk in The White Lotus said about life and death. We are all individual droplets of water rising out of the ocean, flying upward. But one day our droplet will reach its peak, its inflection point, and start to fall, returning to the sea. Only hindsight will show us when.
It's now spring, and the running conditions are ideal. The days are long, the streets are green again and the air smells like florals and fresh rain. But most of my workouts take place on a mat inside my house. I lift weights and do my physio-recommended exercises to keep my patella tracking properly and build up my hip and ankle stability. My knee still clicks every time it straightens, and while the pain is thankfully now minimal, too much repetitive bending doesn’t feel great.
Despite everything, I still have a nagging desire to run a marathon. I am hopeful that the right combination of training and physical therapy can get me there. It might not be this fall, as I had originally planned, but Nyad’s perseverance illustrates how life itself is a marathon, a long game, and even the bleakest barriers can be overcome eventually.
In the meantime, you can find me meticulously analyzing my alignment and obsessively foam-rolling my quads.
Isn't this the truth on everything: “Well, running is traumatic,” he said. “You might want to stop.” My chiropractor didn’t tell me to stop, but he did say: “With runners, it’s never the engine that falters, but the body. No one stops a marathon because they run out of breath.”