There was a runner I used to follow who checked every box the running world loves to worship.
She had the doctorate, the Boston credentials, the red bib photos, the steady drip of interval splits and philosophical training takes. She was smart, fast, and very convinced she had running locked down. Her posts had an honesty people admired. She shared her messiness, her rough patches, her hormone shifts, her race recaps. It was bold in its own way.
Around that time, I was navigating surgical menopause, trying to figure out how to run in a body that suddenly didn’t play by the old rules. We crossed paths in the DMs once. She asked how long it took me to return to running after my hysterectomy.
I told her the truth:
“I came back too fast. I wouldn’t recommend my timeline.”
She didn’t love that answer.
And not long after, the tone of her posts shifted.
Suddenly every run was framed as a battle between her intuition and the pace charts. She insisted no coach or formula could dictate her marathon pace. She talked about her hormones months after surgery, how she couldn’t find her groove, how she “knew something was off.” She renamed herself a “Super Masters” athlete as if she needed a new category to make sense of slowing down.
But it didn’t sound like empowerment.
It sounded like self-protection.
Like she needed a story that made her the exception, even as her body changed anyway.
Scrolling her feed started to feel like standing too close to someone unraveling and trying to hide it. The reflections had sharp corners. Some posts even felt like they were aimed at someone. Maybe me. Maybe anyone who wasn’t falling apart the same way she was.
So I unfollowed.
Not because she was slowing down—everyone slows down sometimes.
Not because she was frustrated—honesty is healthy.
But because there was a quiet message underneath it all:
“If I can’t stay fast, then nobody else my age or stage should be able to either.”
And here’s what she didn’t know:
Every marathon I’ve ever run has been post-hysterectomy.
I didn’t bounce back because I’m special.
I rebuilt myself. Slowly, intentionally, and a little stubbornly.
I learned how to train differently. I learned how to support my nervous system, not bully it. I respected recovery. I fueled like an athlete. I stopped chasing old versions of myself and started building a sustainable one.
And since then?
I’ve taken more than 25 minutes off my marathon time.
I broke sub-4.
Not in my twenties.
Not before menopause.
After everything fell apart.
I’m not chasing a red bib (though I'd love to have one).
I’m building something that actually lasts.
She may have been fast.
But I’m free. And maybe I'll continue to get faster, too.
If you’ve ever felt like you missed your chance, or like you’re “behind,” or like your body’s changes erased your athletic identity, hear me clearly:
You are not done.
You are not late.
You are not excluded from progress because your path looks different.
You might just need a new conversation with your body.
I’m still having mine.
You’re welcome to join.
Want support navigating this chapter?
If this story hit a nerve, you’re not alone. So many menopausal and surgical-menopause athletes are rebuilding without a roadmap.
If you want guidance that actually understands the physiology and the lived experience, explore:
Mastering Menopause: The Athlete’s Guide
Your full roadmap for training, fueling, strength, hormones, and performance in midlife.
Mastering Menopause Guide
Related reading:
If this resonated, you’ll also want to read my deeper dive into the gaps in care for surgical menopause athletes:
The Missing Chapter: Why Surgical Menopause Deserves More Than a Footnote