A few years back, I followed a runner who had a lot of things the running world puts on a pedestal.
She had a doctorate—academic, not medical—and she was fast. Not pro, but faster than most. She’d qualified for Boston more than once and once had the red bib to prove it. Her posts were a steady stream of training updates, hormone curveballs, and philosophical takes on pace.
There was something bold about how she shared it all. Honest, even when it was messy.
We crossed paths in DMs. She asked me how long it took to return to running after my hysterectomy. I told her I wasn’t the best example—I came back too quickly. That was the truth. I didn’t sugarcoat it.
Not long after, her tone online started to shift.
She began posting about her intervals and aerobic efforts, about letting her body “tell her” marathon pace. That no coach or formula could dictate it. She wrote that her hormones were clearly changing, months post-surgery and how she couldn't find her groove again. She said she knew something was off. Something was changing.
She started naming how hard it was to be a Masters runner and not get faster. She coined her own category for it—something like “Super Masters.” She was trying to hold space for it, but it felt like her words had sharp edges. Not just reflections. Defenses.
Sometimes, it felt like the posts were aimed at someone. Maybe me. Maybe someone like me.
Either way, I stopped following.
Not because she was slowing down—that’s common. Not because she was being honest—that’s important. But because there was an undercurrent that said, “If I can’t do it, then maybe you shouldn’t be able to either.”
That energy? I’ve seen it before. It shows up when identity gets tangled up in speed and race results. When someone’s sense of self is rooted in being the exception, and their body stops cooperating.
I get it. I really do. But here’s what she didn’t know:
All of my marathons—every single one—have been post-hysterectomy.
I didn’t bounce back because I’m special or lucky. I took the long way. I made mistakes. I got curious. And then I started doing things differently. I learned how to train in a way that supports my nervous system, not fights it. I gave myself room to adapt.
And yeah, I’ve taken over 25 minutes off my marathon time since then. I went sub-4. Not in my 20s. Not before menopause. After.
I’m not chasing a red bib. I’m building something more durable.
She may have been fast, but I’m free.
So if you’ve been told the best is behind you, or that your pace is the measure of your worth—or if you’ve ever looked at someone else’s race photo and thought, “Maybe I missed my chance”—you haven’t.
You’re not broken. You’re not too late.
You might just need a new conversation with your body.
I’m still having mine. You’re welcome to join.