What I Continue to Learn About Me

At mile 37, I realized something I didn’t expect to feel:

I could quit.

Not dramatically.
Not because something went wrong.

Just… quietly.

I could get to the next aid station, sit down, and be done. No one would be disappointed. No one would think less of me.

And that thought didn’t scare me.

That’s what scared me.

On March 21, 2026, I ran my first 50-mile race—the Mount Mitchell Heartbreaker in Asheville, NC.

Three mountains.
10,000+ feet of climbing.
14 hours and 21 minutes.

I could list the stats. I could talk about training. I could tell you how prepared I was.

But none of that is the truth that stuck with me.

The truth is—I didn’t know who I was going to be when it got hard.

For most of my life, I’ve had an answer to that.

I’m the guy who doesn’t quit.

I’ve said it a hundred different ways:
“I don’t have the luxury of quitting.”
“Too many people are counting on me.”

And it’s true.

As a business owner, a husband, a friend—I show up. I push. I keep going.

Even when I’m tired.
Even when I don’t want to.

Especially then.

And if I’m honest… there’s something about that identity that feels safe.

Because it’s not really a choice.

But this was different.

No one needed me to run 50 miles.

No one’s life changed if I finished or didn’t.

No one was counting on me out there.

Which meant…

If I kept going, it would only be because I chose to.

The race started at 5:30 AM.

It was dark. Cold. Quiet.

Within half a mile, we were climbing straight up a mountain. My calves were burning almost immediately, and I remember smiling—like, this is it, this is what I came for.

For a while, it felt simple.

Hard, but simple.

I saw my wife Katie Belle at mile 10.5 Aid Station.

She handed me electrolytes, smiled, and looked at me like she believed in me without hesitation.

That moment hit me harder than I expected.

Not in a dramatic way—just this quiet feeling of I’m supported.

And I moved on.

Somewhere after that, things got quieter.

Less talking.
More space between runners.

At some point, I realized I hadn’t seen anyone in a while.

And then it was just me.

For miles.

This is the part people don’t really talk about.

The physical pain is there—but it’s not the hardest part.

The hardest part is the space.

The silence.

The way your thoughts start getting louder when there’s nothing else to listen to.

That’s when the question I was here to answer showed up:

Who will I become when I want to quit?

And for the first time, I didn’t have a confident answer.

Because quitting started to sound… reasonable.

Not weak.
Not dramatic.

Just reasonable.

“You’ve already done enough.”
“You don’t have anything to prove.”
“You can come back and try again.”

And the thing is—those thoughts weren’t wrong.

That’s what made them dangerous.

I realized something I hadn’t said out loud before:

A lot of the reason I don’t quit in life…
is because people are watching.

Or depending on me.

Or expecting something from me.

But out there?

None of that existed.

It was just me.

And I didn’t know if that was enough.

I kept moving.

Not fast. Not strong.

Just… moving.

And somewhere in that, something shifted.

Not all at once. Not in a big moment.

Just this subtle reminder to myself:

I wasn’t doing this to prove anything anymore.

I was doing it because I chose it.

Because I wanted to see if I would stay.

Near the last aid stations, volunteers kept saying the same thing:

“Why are you still smiling?”

And I didn’t know how to answer them.

Because I didn’t feel happy in the way people expect.

I was tired. My legs hurt. I still had miles to go.

But there was something else there.

Something steadier.

I think the best way I can explain it is this:

For the first time, I wasn’t pushing because I had to be who I’ve always been.

I was choosing to be there.

And that felt… authentic.

I crossed the finish line in the dark.

If I had been one minute slower, I would’ve needed my headlamp again.

Katie Belle was there. Fonz was there. People were watching.

And I still had that same smile.

Not because I crushed it.

Not because it was easy.

But because I stayed.

I used to think the question was:

“Do I quit or not?”

Now I think the real question is:

“Why do I stay?”

And I’m still figuring that out.

But I know this much:

For most of my life, I stayed because I felt like I had to.

This time…

I stayed because I decided I was worth it.

And for some reason—

that feels harder to admit than running 50 miles.