It's been a little over a week

since I ran Des Moines Marathon and the farther I get from it, the crazier I feel that I actually did it. Marathon number 4 was no joke but man I’m proud of myself. 

When I set out to run this marathon, I knew I was pregnant. I knew I would be about halfway through the pregnancy on race day, which meant I’d be up 10-15 pounds from my normal race weight, extremely exhausted, and needing to use the bathroom every 5 minutes. But that little voice in the back of my head kept saying “You did one with Zoe and what a sweet thing this would be to share with BOTH your girls.” So I signed up. 

Training went as expected. I decided to forego any official speed training and just focus on mileage while my body focused on growing a baby. Going into race day I knew I could cross that finish line, but was pretty nervous about what paces I’d be able to hold (and whether I’d have to take my first ever in-race bathroom break). 

The race was set to start at 8:00 and my goal was to run with the 3:45 pacers. Well 8:00 came and I was just walking out of the port-a-potty by the start line. Panic set in as I tried to make my way through the chute to my pace group and ultimately failed. They did wave starts so I started the race around 8:09 and with the 4:20 pacers instead of my goal group and anxiety and adrenaline took over. The first 5k I ran wayyyy too fast in an attempt to “catch” my pacing group. I saw my mile splits and knew I was going to regret coming out of the gate so quickly (spoiler alert: I was right) but had a hard time slowing myself down between the panic, anxiety, and adrenaline coursing through my body. By the time I reached mile 4 I had caught my pacing group. But I made another mistake. In other races I’ve run, they had two pacers per pacing group. Thinking this was the same, I caught up with the “back” pacer and thought since I was still feeling good, I’d try to catch up to the “front” pacer and settle in there. After a few more miles of running between the two pacers, I realized the pacer I had my sights on up ahead was actually the next pacing group, the 3:40. This race only had one pacer per pacing group. So now I started the race late, I hammered the first 5K (in an awful way) and was still running faster than I should have been, and I’ve been trying to catch up with the wrong pacer. Not a great start. 

Shortly before mile 6 I saw my family for the first time. Both my brothers, my sister-in-law, and my wonderful husband were there to cheer me on. They were such an encouragement, and it was early enough in the race that I still felt great and could flash a smile and hand out a high five. Around mile 10 we got to run around the infamous blue oval, the Drake track. Words cannot express the emotions I felt being on that track where so many greats have run. I never had the opportunity to run at state in high school or at the Drake relays. As I hit the track for the first time, I was overwhelmed with gratitude and a sense of pride that I finally had my moment. It took everything I had not to cry. At mile 12 I saw my brother and SIL again. It was so incredible being able to share this accomplishment with my family. Jake told me my other brother and husband would see me at the finish. 14 miles to go. I could do this. 

At the halfway point I checked my watch. I was running a great race so far, and sitting comfortably between the 3:40 and 3:45 pacers. I was ahead of pace for my initial goal. For now, my goal was to stay there as long as I could. Not move up, but not fall back. And for a while, that worked. Around mile 18 I started to falter. My legs could feel the aggressive start, my hips were killing me, the weather had warmed up tremendously, and I was questioning everything about signing up for this race. By mile 19 I had slowed down enough that the 3:45 pacing group had caught me. It was perfect timing, too (thanks, God!) because I was *just* about to give up and walk. So I dug in and held pace with the pacer. He was such an encouragement but I knew it was a matter of time until he lost me. Between mile 21 and 22 I started to fall back. I kept him in sight for a while, but my paces began to slow a bit. I had hit the wall, and I hit it hard. It was all I could do to keep running. By mile 23 I was reminding myself that I can run 3 miles in my sleep. (Not in that shape, though.) I vowed to keep pushing through. I was almost done. My pace slowed even more and I could no longer see the pacer. I watched my time and crunched the numbers. My late and fast start had ruined me but had also given me some wiggle room to still hit my time goal outside the pacing group. If I could hold a 9:30 pace for the rest of the race, I could finish in under 3:45. Under normal circumstances, that’s zero issue for me. But how I felt, my body completely drained… it was going to be a miracle. I should also mention that throughout the race I had multiple friends and family texting me encouraging messages. I could see them come through on my watch, and I lived for those messages throughout the race but especially in those last few miles. It was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other. 

Around mile 25 I saw Jake again. I knew I was almost done but my body was already done. I almost cried as I told him I didn’t know if I could finish. He assured me I could, even if it meant walking. He ran with me for a minute as I rounded that corner and continued to speak encouragement to me. I dug a little deeper and reminded myself that I’m not here on my own strength, but God’s. As the finish drew closer, I could feel every last bit of effort drain from my body. Where I normally can kick at my finish, I could barely speed up at all. I stared down the chute at the finish line… the light at the end of the tunnel. As I crossed, I saw my time. 3:44:37. I had done it. By God’s great grace I had not only finished this marathon at 20 weeks pregnant, I had beat my goal somehow. 

The struggle to walk was immediate. I waddled more than walked as I tried to make my way to my family. My brother Jake caught up with me and we both got emotional. I had done it. I had finished the race. He told me how proud he was of me and how strong I was for doing that. And then he walked with me as we found the rest of my family. I can’t express how precious it was to have them there. To have their support, their encouragement. To share this moment with them. I’m not always the best sister or daughter or wife or mom, but they were there for me that morning anyway, cheering me on and celebrating my accomplishment.

Recovery from this marathon was harder than I remember any other recovery being. Finishing this marathon was harder than finishing any other marathon, too. I’m sure pregnancy played a big part in both of those. But as I take a step back and reflect on the race, God has taught me so many things. The power of grit and endurance even in the face of the seemingly impossible (and trust me, towards the end it definitely seemed impossible). The lessons in starting controlled and steady and holding fast, because life isn’t a sprint. The power of encouragement at just the right moment, and being there for people even when they haven’t always been there for you. The joy of sharing success with loved ones, even if they don’t fully understand your brand of crazy. But most of all, I think God just reminded me that when I’m empty and I have absolutely nothing left to give, He’s there. I have felt that way many times in my life, but never so physically and never so completely as I did the last 3 miles of this race. And yet, God was still using me. Still shaping and molding me. Still fueling me. And still there to pick me up and keep me going. And sometimes, it’s just as simple as putting one foot in front of the other, and trusting that He’s got the rest.