Marathon Mentality

“Life’s a marathon, not a sprint.”

It’s a concept I’ve wrestled with my entire life. I’ve always been impulsive—whether you chalk it up to being a Virgo or just the impatience of an only child, I’ve never been great at waiting for something to happen or pacing myself toward a goal. I don’t know yet if this is my greatest flaw or my secret superpower.

This entry is going to get a little personal—and fittingly, a little longer—but I think sharing it will help you understand why the idea of REROUTING means so much to me. Shifting your mentality—changing why you do something in the present—requires looking at life as a marathon, not a sprint. Embracing that marathon mindset can be the difference between building a future that feels abundant or one that feels bland.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve fallen into black-and-white thinking: all or nothing, perfect or pointless. In sports and in life, I’d tell myself, “If I can’t do it perfectly, why bother doing it at all?” That mindset created a pattern of burnouts—always right before reaching the finish line—because I didn’t yet understand the value of pushing through plateaus or leaning into the slower, less exciting seasons of growth.

From ages 12 to 16, I was a rower—something I don’t talk about nearly enough, given how formative it was. Rowing taught me what it meant to push myself to the absolute limit, to dig deep for intrinsic motivation, and to be part of a team. But back then, it was all about the end goal: the 2024 Olympics. That dream drove me harder each year, eventually earning me an invitation to the Olympic Development Program in 2019.

And then—COVID hit. Overnight, everything stopped. No one could tell me when the Olympics would resume or when I’d be back on the water. The uncertainty crushed me, and instead of finding a way forward, I quit. At the time, I couldn’t see the point of working so hard without a guaranteed finish line.

COVID was a turning point for so many people, and it was my first real moment of rerouting. Quitting rowing left a huge void—time, energy, and identity all suddenly unanchored. To fill it, I turned to the one sport I figured wouldn’t require much contact with others: horseback riding. I had ridden before, but this time was different. I set my sights high and dove headfirst into the equestrian world.

Two years later, a devastating accident forced me to step away again. Recovery took time, and with it, my focus on the long-term slipped. I quit once more.

It wasn’t until my senior year of high school, when I began training with a personal trainer at my local gym, that something shifted. I want to take a moment to shout him out—because Drew’s coaching changed everything for me. He taught me the value of doing things for my future self rather than chasing a maxed-out, extravagant goal. That lesson stuck.

Carrying that mindset into the next chapter of my life, I graduated, moved away to college, and discovered running—not as a punishment or a pathway to glory, but as something I did purely for myself. Running became my peace of mind. I entered a few races, even completed a half marathon, but for the first time, I didn’t put unrealistic expectations on myself. And that change—running for me, not for a finish line—completely transformed how I see my life’s timeline.

Now, I look to the future for inspiration, not for a destination. I’m excited for what could be, rather than pushing for what I believe should be.

Because here’s what I didn’t understand back then: the real growth happens in the in-between—miles into the marathon, not at the finish line. And that’s true for all of us. When we sprint through life, we miss the lessons hidden in the slow seasons, the resilience we build when things aren’t easy, and the small wins that quietly add up to something bigger.

Think about it: how many times have you set a goal—whether in fitness, career, or even relationships—and felt frustrated when the results didn’t come fast enough? That’s sprint mentality. Marathon mentality asks us to zoom out, to pace ourselves, and to trust that the work we put in today is compounding, even when the finish line feels impossibly far away.

So now, when I catch myself slipping back into sprint mode—impatient, frustrated, wanting it all right now—I remind myself of what rowing, riding, and running have each taught me in their own way: the in-between matters. The plateaus, the setbacks, the slow miles are part of the story, not detours from it. And if I can keep showing up for myself—not for perfection, not for a finish line, but for the version of me who’s still out there running her race—then I know I’m on the right path