03/15/2026
Thanks for all of the support for Harrison and I when we ran the Austin Marathon a few weeks ago. I wanted to share a reflection I wrote that morning.
My first marathon was 24 years ago. Buffalo. 2002. I was a medical student then. My dad had passed in 1999, and I was still trying to understand what that meant. Not just that he was gone — but what it meant to move forward without him.
I remember standing at the starting line of the Buffalo Marathon feeling something close to fear. Not panic. Not dread. Just a deep, quiet overwhelm.
I wanted to run it under four hours. That felt important. Monumental even. I had never run more than 20 miles in my life. I didn’t really know what mile 21 or 22 would do to me. I just knew I had trained, and I had shown up.
As we stood there waiting for the gun, I noticed a man in front of me. Written in red marker across the back of his white shirt were the words:
“This is for you Dad.”
I carried that with me for almost the entire race.
Those four words steadied me.
They gave me strength when my legs began to tighten.
They gave me courage when the noise in my head grew louder.
They gave me a kind of calm when the run — and life — inevitably began to hurt.
Grief has a way of stripping things down. Losing my dad at a young age pushed me into the arena sooner than I might have otherwise gone. It eliminated some fears. It taught me about work. It taught me about resilience. It taught me that life will knock you down whether you feel ready or not.
So you might as well step to the starting line.
Now, 24 years later, I’m doing the same thing — but this time with my 17-year-old son, Harrison.
It’s hard to believe I’ve been running these things for nearly a quarter century. Some fast. Some slow. Some for myself. Some for other people. Each one different. Each one teaching me something new.
But nothing is quite like the first.
And today, I get to watch him experience that.
There is a particular buzz at a marathon start that is unlike anything else. Thousands of people who have trained quietly for months. Early mornings. Long runs. Doubt. Blisters. Sore knees. Missed parties. Quiet discipline.
All just to get to the starting line.
That, in many ways, is the point of life.
Have the courage to begin.
Do the work to start.
After that, you never really know what’s going to happen.
At least you tried.
At least you stepped into the arena instead of watching from the sidelines.
Theodore Roosevelt called it “the man in the arena.” The one whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood. The one who strives valiantly. The one who errs, who comes up short again and again — but shows up anyway.
Marathons are simply a controlled version of that speech.
Mile 22 comes for everyone.
In a race, it’s where the legs burn and the mind bargains.
In life, it’s the diagnosis you didn’t expect.
The loss you didn’t plan for.
The disappointment that knocks the wind out of you.
You can never fully prepare for mile 22 until you are standing in it.
That’s the joy.
That’s the pain.
That’s life.
A few years ago, I stood on a starting line with my 17-year-old daughter. Passing along the planning. The process. The small rituals that make long distances possible. Now I get to do it again with Harrison.
It’s less about the finish time now.
I don’t care if he runs under four hours.
I don’t care if I do.
What matters is that he trained.
That he committed.
That he learned to sit inside discomfort without running from it.
I hope running gives both of my children what it gave me — discipline when things feel chaotic, clarity when life feels loud, and resilience when the world is not kind.
Because the world is not always kind.
At the end of the day, that is what really matters. Teaching them how to deal with it. Teaching them that when mile 22 arrives — and it will — they are stronger than they think.
Twenty-four years ago, I ran for my dad.
Today, I run beside my son.
And somewhere between those two starting lines, I’ve realized something simple:
The courage to begin is everything.
After that, you just keep putting one foot in front of the other.
