A colleague once told me she'd completed an Ironman. I had to ask what that actually meant. A 2.4-mile swim, 112 miles on the bike, and then a marathon — all in one day, all of it finished before midnight.
At the time, it sounded impossible and definitely not for me. I could barely swim a lap. I didn't run or cycle. Then I forgot about it entirely.
Eight years ago, a good friend talked me into going for a run. I was busy and I needed the exercise. I completed about one mile, in my basketball sneakers, and was winded.
Last month, I finished my first full Ironman.
How did I go from a one-mile run to an Ironman? I just didn't stop what I started.
As we continued running, we naturally ran further. Then we decided to sign up with other friends for a half marathon, mostly for fun. Learning about structured running plans made a full marathon seem reasonable. Then a first triathlon, out of curiosity, and mainly to give my knees a break. None of it was planned, and each step turned out to be an extension of what I was already doing. By the time I signed up for an Ironman, it wasn't a leap. It was the next logical step.
What looks impossible from a distance is usually just a lot of small steps away.
That's one of the lessons I learned, and there were others. Whatever you're in the middle of right now — a book, a business, a degree, a health change, a relationship you're trying to rebuild — I hope some of these are useful.
Start where you are, and give yourself a way to see progress.
We all have different starting points and limits. For me, it was running continuously for a mile. I didn't think about the mile as a smaller version of a bigger goal. It was the goal, and completing one mile well is what made more miles possible.
As I followed the training plan, each week of running slightly extended what my body could handle inside the same hour I already had. I wasn't finding more time — I was increasing my capacity and doing more with the same amount of time. That's the part people miss when they look at a big goal and do the math on their calendar. The constraint usually isn't the hours you have. It's what you can do with them — and that's trainable.
The mile also gave me something to track, and tracking it turned out to matter. My motivation didn't come from wanting it badly enough — it came from watching the number move. Three miles when two used to be hard. Finishing a mile in less time. Seeing that progress made me want to go out again, and going out again gave me more progress to see. Enthusiasm, for me, typically follows progress, and progress comes from getting started.
Which means you don't have to feel ready, and you don't have to want it enough yet. I certainly didn't. A friend asked, I said yes, and a mile was just where my body gave out. The starting point doesn't need to be the right one, only an honest one — whatever you can actually do today, rather than what you feel should be within reach.
The trap is comparing where you are to where you'd like to end up, deciding the gap is ridiculous, and never starting. The better question isn't how do I get from here to there? It's what's the thing in front of me that starts the compounding? Then do it long enough that it stops being a decision you have to make.
Work with how you're wired, and know what you can't teach yourself.
One thing I figured out over these eight years: signing up for a race is what makes me focus.
I noticed it by seeing the opposite. In the stretches when I had nothing on the calendar, training was easy to push off. And when I did train, it wasn't really training — I'd go to the gym and do roughly what I'd done the week before, which feels productive and gets you nowhere in particular. Once I'm signed up and there's a specific date, that changes. The plan for each week becomes clear. With only a limited number of Saturdays, Saturday's long ride has a job to do.
But deadlines work for me. They might do nothing for you. I know plenty of people who get stressed out by deadlines. Figure out what works for you — maybe it's telling someone you don't want to disappoint, or taking on the challenge with a friend. There's no right answer here, and that's the point. The mistake is borrowing someone else's method, watching it fail to take, and concluding you're not the kind of person who can do these things.
So look at your own evidence first. Think of two or three things where you had strong follow through. What was in place? A deadline? A person? A group? Money on the line? Real curiosity? Whatever shows up more than once is your lever, and you can use it on purpose instead of hoping it turns up again by accident.
Knowing your lever gets you moving. It won't tell you what to do once you're moving, and that's a different problem.
The clearest example for me was swimming. When I signed up for my first triathlon, I could barely get across one length of a pool without being completely exhausted. The date on the calendar is what made me deal with that rather than hope it would sort itself out, and it pushed me to get some swimming coaching.
I learned that the difference wasn't fitness. It was technique. I'd assumed I was a bad swimmer because I wasn't strong enough in the water, when really I just didn't know how to move through it efficiently. You can't solve that by kicking harder. I could have practiced swimming poorly for years, gotten more tired, and taken it as proof I wasn't built for swimming. What I needed wasn't more effort. It was someone who could see what I was doing and tell me what to change — which is the part you can't do for yourself, no matter how motivated you are.
If you're in the same spot with swimming, I'd recommend the Total Immersion approach; it completely changed how I thought about moving through water.
Do what you want, not what you like.
I like sleeping in. I like fries at lunch. I like almost anything more than waking up at 5am for a long bike ride. Those are things I like. Finishing an Ironman without being destroyed was something I wanted. So I got up.
Nearly every training day came down to a contest between something I liked and something I wanted, and the thing I liked was always more comfortable and more convenient. What helped me was naming which one I was reaching for — only one of them moved me closer to a strong finish.
But the thing I was really practicing wasn't discipline. It was getting my mind to take direction from me rather than the other way around. My mind produced excellent arguments: you're tired, you deserve a break, one day won't matter, you'll double up tomorrow. They're persuasive because they're built by someone who knows exactly what you'll fall for. The skill is being able to hear all of it and still do the thing you decided.
The workout was rarely the hard part. The hard part was the twenty minutes beforehand, going back and forth over whether today counted. The debate you have with yourself is expensive. It burns the same energy you were about to spend, and you usually end up training anyway, just later and in a worse mood. At some point, I learned to recognize when I was negotiating with myself and practiced short circuiting that conversation.
Showing up isn't the same as going hard, though. Being tired is real information — it's just information about how to train, not whether to. Some days that meant an easy effort instead of the planned one. Some days it meant resting on purpose, as part of the plan, rather than as the result of losing an argument with myself.
None of this is about proving your worth by how much you can push through — taken too far, that's just self-punishment, and it can do real damage. The point is narrower. You want to be someone whose own decisions get carried out. There's a real difference between intending to do something and committing to it, and the gap between those two is where most goals quietly die. Close it enough times and you start to trust yourself — which is worth more than any single thing you finish.
The cost shows up before the benefit does.
There were months when I felt slower than I'd been a few weeks earlier and quietly wondered whether I was training wrong, or whether I just wasn't built for this distance. My confidence dipped right when I was putting in the most work.
Here's what I learned: training doesn't make you stronger. Training makes you tired. You get stronger afterward, while you recover, if you give it enough rest and food and time. So the weeks where I felt the worst were often the weeks I was working hardest. You pay the cost before the benefit shows up, and the benefit tends to arrive around the time you've stopped paying attention.
Knowing that didn't make those months feel better. But it changed what I concluded from them, which turned out to matter more. Feeling slow stopped being evidence about me and started being information about where I was in the cycle.
I'd like to say I could always tell the difference between a rough stretch and something actually being wrong. Mostly I couldn't. What helped was having a plan I trusted and people I could ask, so the question didn't have to be settled by whatever I happened to feel that week.
So if you're struggling with something that matters, that isn't necessarily evidence you chose wrong. More often it means you're working at the edge of what you can currently do. That's uncomfortable by design, and it's the only way capacity grows.
Find a pace you can hold, and the fuel to hold it.
For most of the eight years, I thought about training almost entirely in terms of fitness. Get stronger, build the aerobic base, log the miles. Pacing and fueling barely registered — they sounded like details you'd sort out later, once the real work was done.
That's fine for a half-marathon and even a half-Ironman. At Ironman distance it falls apart, and a coach at my local triathlon club was blunt about why. The day is long enough that you can be genuinely fit and still not finish. You go out at a pace that feels easy. You don't eat enough in the first few hours because you don't feel like you need it. Then somewhere on the run you run out of gas — not tired, empty — and once you're there, no amount of fitness or willpower gets you back.
I saw it on the course. People who passed me climbing a hill, clearly stronger riders than I was, lying on the side of the road thirty miles later.
So he taught me to hold an effort that feels too easy for the first several hours, and to eat and hydrate on a schedule rather than by appetite. Both feel wrong at the time. Both are the reason I was still moving at hour thirteen.
I think about this constantly now as I pursue other ambitious projects. For anyone in the middle of something long, what sinks people is rarely a lack of capability or effort. It's not going the distance — starting too hard and having nothing left before the thing is done.
So it's worth asking: is your current pace one you can sustain for what you're actually pursuing? And what's refueling you along the way? For some it's sleep. For others, supportive relationships, or unstructured time.
Pacing and fueling matter more if you're going a long way, and taking that seriously changed the question I ask myself. It's no longer how much can I get done this week. It's what capacity am I building over the next few years.
Learn to relax when things go wrong.
For most people, the first time you do the Ironman is the first time you do the full distance. I swam, biked, and ran a lot, but I'd never done all three back to back at that distance. So a good part of race day was going to be things I hadn't experienced before, and no amount of preparation was going to change that.
It started early. I took a foot to the head during the swim, which happens in a mass start and still comes as a surprise.
I'd also come into the race with a strained hamstring, which changed the plan before it started. I rode the bike conservatively and stopped more than I'd wanted to, not because I was tired but because I wasn't sure the leg would hold.
It held. By the time I started the run I felt good. The hamstring was tight but fine, I had enough in the tank, and for the first time all day I thought I was going to finish comfortably.
Then, about halfway through the marathon, I felt a sharp pain in my right knee.
I stopped. I walked. I started doing the math on the cutoff, trying to work out whether walking thirteen miles would get me in before midnight, and whether running on the knee would do real damage. I didn't have good answers to either. I also wasn't sure whether the leg would simply stop working and take walking off the table too.
What got me moving wasn't resolve. It was something smaller: I dropped my shoulders, slowed my breathing, and accepted that my knee was going to hurt. Then I took a step, and another, and tried a few different paces until I found one it would tolerate. Nothing about the situation changed. The knee hurt for the rest of the race. But I could keep going, which was the best thing I could hope for.
When something goes wrong, relaxing rarely feels like an option. It feels like the opposite of what the moment calls for — you want to do something, fix it, take action. Tensing up at least feels like a response. But most of that energy goes into the reaction rather than the problem, and on a long day, energy is the thing you have least of.
The specific problem you'll face is one you probably haven't rehearsed. What you can rehearse is how you meet it — and it's worth practicing when the stakes are low. The delayed flight, the email you didn't want, the plan that falls through, the bad weather. Those are chances to notice the tightening and let it go before it costs you anything.
The rest of that marathon was stop, walk, run, and repeat, with the crowd's encouragement and adrenaline carrying me for most of the way. I finished, and finished stronger than I expected to given the knee. Seeing my family at the line was the best part of the day. Unfortunately for them, they had to help me walk my bike and carry my gear back to the hotel, which tells you something about how strong the finish actually was.
Snap back to the moment.
Lake Placid is a beautiful course — too bad I spent long stretches of it in my head.
I'd look at my watch at mile 85 and wish it said 110. I'd replay the fries I'd eaten the day before and blame them for my stomach issues. I'd wonder whether the hotel exercise bike I'd used on vacation the week before explained the pain in my knee.
And here's what I noticed: the more I did that, the longer the day got. Time crawled whenever I was thinking about where I wanted to be instead of just being in it. When I was actually in it — the road, the effort, the lake off to my right — time moved. I'd felt the same thing during training. Whenever I focused on how much was left, it felt like a burden. When I came back to the thing I was doing, the hour just passed.
Staying present sounds easy. It isn't. What helped was asking myself a question, over and over: What am I doing right now? Running. Toward the finish. That's it.
What surprised me wasn't that things went better when I was present. It was how rarely I noticed I'd left. The tell for me is a heaviness that doesn't match what I'm actually doing. Catching that, and coming back, is what I'm practicing daily.
It's on you, and it's a team effort.
Nobody could do my training for me. Not my family, not a coach, not a well-built plan. If I didn't get out the door, nothing happened. On race day, I was the one at the start line and the one crossing the finish. It's easy to look at that and think you did it all yourself.
Triathlon looks like an individual sport, and it turned out not to be one. Almost none of the eight years happened without other people in them.
My family gave up weekends so I could disappear on long training days, and nobody made that an argument. Friends helped me pick out a bike and rode some of the long ones with me, which is the only reason a few of them happened at all. The coaches who fixed my stroke and drilled me on fueling prevented me from hitting the wall mid-race. And on race day there were volunteers who'd signed up to spend their Sunday helping strangers. One of them peeled the wetsuit off me after the swim, which would otherwise have cost me several graceless minutes and a good deal of composure.
None of that was help I went looking for. Most of it I didn't ask for and some of it I didn't notice at the time. But it's the reason the whole thing worked, and it's changed how I think about my own effort. Since then I've started looking back at other things I've finished and counting the people who contributed. There are always more than I would have guessed.
Challenge the story you're telling yourself.
I opened with what I said when I first heard what an Ironman involved: not for me. I wasn't weighing it and deciding against it. I'd dismissed it immediately.
That's usually what stops us. Not the difficulty of the thing — a quiet belief about ourselves that closes the question early. I'm not athletic. I'm not a writer. I'm too old to start. I'm not that disciplined. Those feel like observations. Mostly they're claims we've never actually checked.
I'd believed a version of this about age, too. I assumed my peak years were a decade or two behind me and that everything from here was a slow decline. But I'm a better swimmer, cyclist, and runner now than I've ever been, and I got there well into my forties. Not faster — better. Skill doesn't seem to decline on the same schedule as speed, and I hadn't considered that.
Natalie Grabow didn't learn to swim until she was 59. At 80, she finished the Ironman World Championship in Kona, the oldest woman ever to do it. What I find striking isn't the finish. It's that at 59 she must have had every reason to think swimming was something for other people, and she went and learned anyway. Almost nobody who finishes a hard thing had a special starting point.
I'm not sure any of us fully knows what we're capable of. What I am sure of is that most of the limits I've assumed about myself were never tested — they were just sentences I'd accepted at some point and stopped questioning.
It's worth asking what you've already ruled out, and whether you've ever tested it.
One last thing
Rather than asking what you'd like to accomplish, here's a question I think is more useful:
What are you already doing that's worth continuing?
I didn't set out to do any of this. I went running with a friend and kept going. Somewhere in your life there's probably something you do inconsistently, don't take very seriously, and would be glad to still be doing in eight years. Protecting that is probably worth more than anything new you could add.
The first step is usually smaller and less impressive than you'd expect. Mine was a mile, and it left me winded.
Finally, none of these lessons showed up during the race. They showed up afterward, when I sat down and asked what had actually gotten me there. That's been true every time — after my first book, after my second, and after paying close attention to someone worth learning from, like William Zinsser. The experience by itself doesn't teach you much. Reflecting on it is what turns one into the other.
So whatever you've finished recently — a project, a hard season, something that didn't go the way you wanted — give it an hour and a blank page. Ask what you'd tell someone who was about to do the same thing. You'll know more than you think you do.
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