Failure.

Fail.
Fail. Fail again. Fail again. And again. And again. And again.

Because, why? I am a human.

This past weekend, I lined up for the US 20k Champs in New Haven, CT. I was fit. Arguably the fittest I’d ever been, based on the workouts I had nailed. I was healthy. My coach believed in me. On paper, everything pointed to a great day. But something inside felt off. A false sense of confidence. A heaviness I couldn’t shake, even in the days leading up to the race.

The gun went off. I find myself in the front. I don’t want to lead, but I think: whatever, just set the pace and tuck in behind the guys ahead of me.

5:13 for the first mile. Perfect. Coach had said no faster than 5:15s early on. I try to settle in, find a rhythm, keep my mind free. But right after that first mile, the thoughts creep in. Frustrated already? At mile one? I tell myself there’s nothing to worry about, but I can’t stop the flow of intrusive thoughts.

Then comes the breathing. The anxious kind. My heart rate spikes, my face flushes, my legs grow heavy. What is happening? Am I serious?

This is the kind of thing I can usually push through in the early miles of a workout. If anything, I expect it to hit at mile 8, not mile 2.

I try distracting myself, watching the crowds, listening to music from the cheer stations. It helps for a few moments, but the thoughts always return. The pack slips away. I tell myself: slow, steady. Work back as I gather myself. But my body won’t go.

I glance at my watch: 5:30 pace. Panic. How can I be running this slow? I run this pace easily in training.

I try not to spiral. I tell myself: maybe it’s just a rough patch. Sometimes I’ll feel better as the miles go on. And a couple of times, I do close the gap. But I fall back again. The cycle repeats until I panic and pull off.

I am furious. How is this happening to me again? Am I cursed on the roads?

Jogging back to the hotel, I cry. Call my parents. Call my coach. Then run some more, tears still coming.

DNF. I feel embarrassed. Pissed. Sad. But strangely, not mad at myself. More at the situation. Because I know my worth isn’t just in winning or PRs. I know who I am outside of running. That reminder softens the blow. And I also know this isn’t the end of the story. I see what needs to change, and I believe I’ll find my way back to feeling fully like myself in races again.

And maybe, in a way, this race is a blessing in disguise. It forces me to finally admit: this isn’t just a bad stretch or bad luck. This is something I need to address head-on.

Because the truth is, this didn’t come out of nowhere. I began struggling mentally in races after two bad ones in a row this past spring. I had never really struggled like this before. In training, I am thriving, so there’s no reason to doubt myself. But in races, I don’t feel like me — mentally or physically. Part of it comes from going through some hard personal things, but ever since then, my confidence on the roads hasn’t been there. I thought it would fade with time, or a break, or another shot at racing. But it hasn’t. And that’s why I know now that I need to train my mind with the same focus I train my body.

It’s funny, because I used to pride myself on being the opposite of a “workout warrior.” I wasn’t just good in practice — I am consistent in races too. That’s who I am. So feeling this gap between training and racing has been hard.

My coach is the one who has encouraged me to start seeing a sports psych he highly regards, who I am going to work with regularly. His belief in me makes it easier to commit to this work, and even after just one session, I can feel it helping me unlock my full self, my best self.

What I’ve realized is that consistency in training doesn’t guarantee success. If anything, failure is part of the deal. I’ve failed countless times (setbacks that broke me down to nothing…races where I questioned if I even belonged in this sport), and every single time it’s forced me to grow stronger. Looking back, I wouldn’t be here without those moments. They’ve shaped me just as much as the accolades, maybe more.

So I’ll keep showing up. Keep doing the work. Not just physically, but mentally. The breakthrough always comes after the hardest stretch. It always has.

If you’re reading this and you’ve failed, quit, or felt like your own mind betrayed you, know this: you’re not alone. It doesn’t mean you’re weak. It doesn’t erase the work you’ve put in.

Failure is often the spark that lights the next breakthrough. The moment where everything clicks again. So if you’re in a low spot, don’t give up. Keep showing up. Keep believing. Your moment is coming too.

At the end of the day, you’re human. That means you’re capable of falling, of failing, of hurting. But it also means you’re capable of rising, of learning, of breaking through in ways you never thought possible. That’s what makes the fight worth it.