For years, my life was defined by spreadsheets, deadlines, and the relentless pressure of a demanding career. The thrill of closing a deal or hitting a target had slowly morphed into a gnawing anxiety that followed me home each night. Somewhere along the line, the vibrant, energetic person I once was had faded, replaced by someone constantly tethered to their inbox, feeling increasingly out of control.
What many of my colleagues didn’t know was that before the power suits and presentations, my world revolved around miles, not meetings. I was a successful distance runner in high school and college, the rhythm of my feet on the track and the burn in my lungs a familiar comfort. But as my career took off, running became a distant memory, a forgotten passion sacrificed at the altar of ambition.
The breaking point wasn’t a dramatic event, but a slow realization that I was living a life that no longer felt like my own. I was successful, by societal standards, but utterly unfulfilled. The stress was taking a toll on my health, my relationships, and my overall well-being. I knew I needed a change, a radical shift to reclaim the person I had lost.
That’s when the trails started calling.
It began tentatively. A short hike here, a gentle jog there. The scent of pine needles underfoot, the feel of uneven terrain, the breathtaking views from mountain ridges – it was like a long-dormant part of me was waking up. The trails around Kalispell, Montana, with their rugged beauty and challenging climbs, offered an escape from the concrete jungle of my former life.
As I spent more time in the backcountry, those old instincts began to resurface. The muscle memory from years of training kicked in. I started running further, tackling steeper climbs, and losing myself in the quiet solitude of the wilderness. There was no phone buzzing, no emails demanding attention, just the rhythm of my breath and the crunch of my shoes on the trail.
Then came the ultramarathons. The idea initially seemed daunting – running distances I hadn’t even considered in my younger years. But there was a pull, a desire to test my limits in a different way, to push beyond the mental and physical barriers that my stressful career had erected.
My first ultra was a brutal but beautiful experience. There were moments of doubt, pain, and the overwhelming urge to quit. But somewhere deep down, that competitive spirit from my younger running days reignited. It wasn’t about winning or even setting a personal best (though I surprised myself). It was about the sheer act of perseverance, of moving forward despite the discomfort, of reconnecting with that part of myself that knew how to endure.
Each ultra since has been a journey of self-discovery. The hours spent alone on the trails have become a form of therapy, a space to process the stress of the past and to cultivate a sense of inner peace. The challenges of navigating technical terrain and pushing through fatigue have built a resilience that has spilled over into all aspects of my life. Work-related stress still exists, but it no longer defines me. I have learned to set boundaries, to prioritize my well-being, and to approach challenges with a newfound clarity and mental toughness forged on the trails.
Trail running and ultramarathons weren’t just a return to an old hobby; they were a lifeline. They allowed me to shed the weight of years of stress and to rediscover the strength, resilience, and joy that had been buried beneath layers of professional pressure. I traded the boardroom for the backcountry, and in doing so, I finally found myself again. The trails taught me that taking control of my life wasn’t about climbing the corporate ladder, but about putting one foot in front of the other, on my own terms, in a direction that truly nourished my soul.
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