An ultrarunning mindset can be a blessing or a curse. After completing dozens of ultramarathons, it’s not hard to predict the mental and physical perseverance it takes to push through a challenging race. Part of crossing a finish line is enduring the miles when your body and/or mind are shutting down, and the will to keep going doesn’t seem possible. In ultramarathons, revival after a rough day or night on a course and moving forward is a constant, a magical transformation that I’ve experienced firsthand and also witnessed in others. So, when I started to feel off while nursing a hip injury, I was positive it would pass. I knew from experience that it was possible to push through physical and mental discomfort and arrive on the other side.
In 2010, I started running ultramarathons because it was a way to connect with myself and the world around me as my mom’s battle with cancer neared the end. After landing in Houston, Texas, I would head over to MD Anderson Cancer Center, where my dad was with my mom, and after visiting with them, I’d venture out for a run through Hermann Park, over to the Houston Museum District and often run a lap around Rice University’s campus. If I arrived late in the day, after a visit with my mom and a meal with my dad, I’d head to the gym, put on my headphones and put in miles on a treadmill. Running transported me from the fact of my mother’s failing health and work responsibilities, and helped me transcend to a lighter version of myself. I had a yoga and writing practice, but running was freedom. Ever since I started running along the streets of New York City in the 1990s and found my way from 5ks to marathons, I was hooked.
Ultramarathons were my therapy leading up to my mom’s passing, and a conduit for healing and growth for my dad and me. My dad loved joining me at ultras and had his own adventures on the sidelines. When he died in June 2023, I had every intention of moving forward to honor his spirit and seek my own sanity, and for months, I was full speed ahead. But then a persistent hip issue came up last year, and I struggled to find my way back, leaving me feeling disconnected.
Warning Signs
In the fall of 2024, I assured myself that the shortness of breath I experienced during the slow jogging as my hip healed was the result of being out of running shape after months of various treatments along with the emotional and stressful sale of my father’s home. It was just a phase, and I was sure I’d move past it, just like I had always moved past obstacles during 100-milers.
Next came chest pains. After three hernia surgeries over the last decade, I just assumed it was gastro related. Following an “All is well, see you in five years,” post endoscopy and colonoscopy, I was convinced I was fine. I practiced my ujjayi/yoga breathing each time shortness of breath occurred, counting to six as I inhaled, followed by deep and lengthy exhales, and kept going with daily runs, long workdays and lots of travel. When the shortness of breath started to show up in bed at night or after waking up in the morning, I wondered if I had developed asthma. I reminded myself that it had been a tough year full of change and focused on getting my hip strong to run long and far again, all while staying calm and optimistic, and pushing forward.
In December, on a 10-hour flight to Paris, I had sharp and constant chest pains. There were a few moments when I prayed that the plane wouldn’t have to land early because of me. Hours later, when I arrived in Paris and met up with a close friend, I was relieved that I had survived. I’m not sure why I didn’t speak up, but it was the first time I wondered if my symptoms over the last few months were tied to my heart. I felt off much of the trip, run-down and exhausted, and walking up to 10 miles each day versus running, it was becoming clear to me that I was having heart palpitations, which I assumed were the result of 20–30-degree temperatures making my body work harder. I laid low and let the “I’m fine” ultra mindset dominate—I had convinced myself it was anxiety and that I could get myself through this phase.
However, back in Florida, and back to work the first few days of January, I wasn’t right. I began to feel dizzy throughout the day, had numbness in my arm and began to pay attention to my heart rate, which was skyrocketing beyond 160bpm (beats per minute) each day. I finally went to the emergency room.
Diagnosis
The emergency room doctor ruled out blood clots, checked my lungs and did a full blood work up to see if my thyroid was acting up. The findings were an irregular heart beat and a magnesium deficiency, and after an IV and a prescription for magnesium, the doctor talked to me about Atrial Fibrillation (AFib) and ensured I had a cardiologist appointment at the hospital for the next morning. The following day, the cardiologist set me up with an echocardiogram and carotid artery ultrasound, and I left wearing a Holter monitor close to my heart for 14 days. Just 24 hours later, the cardiologist called to tell me the monitor showed I was going into AFib. Over the course of the next two weeks, it became clear that every time I was jogging or active, I was having heart palpitations. I began daily monitoring of my heart rate, which, according to my smartwatch, ranged from 45–175bpm.
When I met the electrophysiologist, a cardiologist who specializes in heart rhythm disorders, we skimmed through the history of how I had been feeling the last few months, the results from my tests and Holter monitor, and he diagnosed me with AFib. He asked questions about what might be causing the condition, and I shared that my father had been diagnosed with AFib at age 85. He had a pacemaker implanted a few years later. What I didn’t say was that my dad’s discomfort and complications from AFib over the last few years of his life made it the one diagnosis I dreaded.
When the electrophysiologist learned I’ve been running for the last 30 years and an ultramarathoner for the last 15 years, he stopped writing notes and looked up at me. He made it clear that my heart had mileage and that I would need to make changes moving forward if I didn’t want to keep having issues. By the time I left, we had agreed to a cardiac ablation and heart study a few weeks later.
I am typically self-aware and in-tune with my body and mind, I’m active, I eat a plant-based diet and my alcohol and caffeine intake are minimal. It’s not that I missed my body’s messages, it’s that I believed I could overcome them, like I do when everything falls apart at a race and something in me shifts, and then I’m fine again. In that vein, each time I was feeling off, I told myself whatever was going on would pass and that I was fine.
The Night Sky
During my first few 100-mile races at Javelina Jundred, Fort Clinch 100 and years later at Vermont 100, one of my favorite aspects of running trail ultras was marveling at the abundant star-filled night sky. It always grounded my connection to the earth, and I often stopped moving in the middle of the night and listened to my breath, taking in the stars above, like guardians illuminating my way. It always made me feel closer to my mom and took me out of my little life and propelled me into the collective brightness of the universe. Between the earth and sky, it never mattered where I was going. Those moments were the heart of each ultra I ran—the stillness and serenity in the movement that I craved. I was exactly where I needed to be.
Over the years, at each race, I made time to stop and take in the dazzling night sky, reflect and be with myself, if only for a few moments. The night before my heart procedure, I stood on my balcony and amidst the lights of the city around me and searched for the stars above. The physical act of looking upward shifted me from the mundane: the worries halted about when or if I would be able to run again, missing upcoming days of work, what my future looked like—all of which had been playing over in my mind.
My life changed dramatically over the past year. No, I hadn’t run endless miles and hadn’t crossed finish lines lined with spectators, but I had grown braver, stronger and more resilient. I thought about how I would sum it all up to my parents whose spirits I intuited were out there, and what came to me was not about looking back, but a promise for the future: I wasn’t done yet. My heart had lost its rhythm—that same heart that drove me to push and pray and move forward every step of my journey, even when I was struggling. Now it was my turn to repay the favor and make it a priority to rest and heal, let my heart find its rhythm, trusting that maybe, down the road, the best was yet to come.