LEFT. RIGHT.

That is the mantra I keep coming back to.
Simple. Rhythmic. Honest.

Left. Right.

It is how I have always brought myself back when things get loud. When my head starts racing faster than my legs. When the miles stretch and time bends. When the only thing that matters is the next step, and then the next one after that.

Tomorrow I toe the line for a 50K.
And I am scared.

Not the reckless kind of scared. Not the unprepared kind. The kind of fear that comes from caring deeply. The kind that shows up when something matters enough to hurt. The kind you only feel after you have been reminded how fragile all of this really is.

This race feels different.
Not because of the distance.
Not because of the competition.
But because of everything that led me here.

After COVID, my body is not the same body I used to know. The numbers tell the story clearly, even if I wish they did not. My VO2 max dropped from 70 to 60. My threshold pace moved from 5:09 to 6:11. Metrics I once leaned on now feel like quiet reminders of something lost, or at least something changed.

I can feel it too.
Fitness does not lie.

I know what it feels like to be sharp. To feel untouchable. To feel like effort turns directly into speed. Right now, it feels familiar yet far away. Almost as if I am new again. Almost as if I have never run before. My body remembers the motion, but my confidence lags behind. Health has a way of doing that to someone. It asks questions before it gives answers. It creates uncertainty where certainty once lived.

And that uncertainty has been loud.

The last two weeks have been filled with questions, overwhelming anxiety, and moments where my own thoughts felt heavier than any long run. I questioned my readiness. I questioned my heart. I questioned whether I was chasing something that no longer wanted me back.

But here is the truth I keep coming back to.

I am here because I love this.

Not the validation.
Not the numbers.
Not the finish line photo.

I love the process. I love the discomfort. I love the pain that teaches instead of destroys. I love the challenge of finding out who I am when things are stripped down to their simplest form. One foot in front of the other. Left. Right.

Ultra running has always been a mirror. It does not lie to you. It shows you exactly who you are, especially when things get hard. And yes, ultra runners question things. We question our sanity, our motivation, our limits. But we do not question because we are weak. We question because we are growing.

Tomorrow is not about proving anything to anyone else.
Tomorrow is about love and growth.

On race morning, before the chaos, before the clock starts, before my heart rate spikes, I will say thank you. I will say thank you to my friends. To the people who checked in on me. To the ones who talked me down when anxiety tried to convince me I was broken. To the ones who reminded me that it is okay to be scared after a health crisis. That fear does not mean weakness. Fear means you care.

It means you love it.

We live in a world that tells us to hide fear. To pretend we are always confident. Always ready. Always fearless. But the truth is this. Fear is not the enemy. Fear is information. Fear is your body and mind saying, this matters. This is important. Pay attention.

I am scared tomorrow because I love running. Because I love competing. Because I love testing myself against something that cannot be negotiated with. Distance does not care about excuses. It does not care about your past PRs or your Instagram highlights. It only cares about what you can give in that moment.

And I am ready to give what I have.

Not what I had years ago.
Not what I wish I had today.
What I have now.

This version of me is different. Maybe slower. Maybe less explosive. But also more aware. More grateful. More grounded. I am not chasing perfection. I am chasing presence.

When the anxiety shows up tomorrow, and it will, I already know what I will say to myself.

Do not worry. You love this.

When my breathing tightens and my chest feels heavy, I will remind myself that I am here because I choose to be. Because I enjoy the challenge. Because discomfort is not danger. Because pain in this space is information, not a warning.

I will come back to my mantra.

Left. Right.

That rhythm is older than fear. Older than doubt. Older than numbers on a watch. It is the simplest proof that I am still moving forward.

There is something powerful about competing when you are not at your peak. When you know your fitness is down. When your ego has nothing to hide behind. This is uncharted territory for me, and that is exactly why it matters. This is where growth lives. This is where identity is refined.

Before all of this, before COVID, before the hospital visits, before the uncertainty, I defined myself by performance. By metrics. By outcomes. I told myself that improvement was linear, and strength was permanent. Life corrected that belief quickly.

Health can be taken.
Fitness can fluctuate.
Confidence can waver.

But love for the craft endures.

Tomorrow, I race with love. Not recklessness. Not anger. Love. Love for the miles. Love for the quiet moments when the course stretches out and it is just me and my thoughts. Love for the version of myself that keeps showing up even when fear tries to negotiate a way out.

I remind myself of this truth.

Besides death, all failure is psychological.

Pain does not define failure. Slowing down does not define failure. Struggling does not define failure. Failure only exists when you stop believing you are capable of growth. And once you die, psychology does not matter anyway. So while I am alive, while I can still move, while I can still choose effort over comfort, I will keep choosing to show up.

Tomorrow is not about winning.
It is not about proving I am back.
It is not about pretending I am fearless.

Tomorrow is about honoring the love I have for this sport and the person it has shaped me into.

If you are reading this and you are scared too, scared to race again, scared to try again, scared to trust your body after it betrayed you, know this. Fear is not a stop sign. It is a checkpoint. It is asking you if you are willing to proceed with awareness instead of arrogance.

You do not need to feel invincible to move forward.
You only need to remember why you started.

For me, it has always been this.
The challenge.
The pain.
The discovery.

Left. Right.

Tomorrow, I step into uncertainty not because I am confident, but because I am committed. And that commitment, built on love, is stronger than fear could ever be.

I am ready to learn again.
I am ready to grow again.
I am ready to race with love.

Left. Right.

And whatever happens after that, I will accept it knowing I showed up honestly, fully, and without hiding from the truth of where I am right now.

That is enough.