beyond 'Staying Hard': The secret to lasting Resilience
If you're looking for inspirational stories, motivational quotes, or personal mantras to strengthen your mental game, a quick Google search will flood your screen with declarations of grit, perseverance, and toughness.
I, too, am drawn to these words. I share them before challenging myself, and if you stick around during my season of building to what I hope is another go at the Leadville Trail 100 in August, you'll see that in action.
But what about the side of grit we rarely talk about?
When Grit Becomes a Burden
Our running culture glorifies the grind. The ethos of pushing through pain, overcoming all odds, and suffering for the goal has helped many—myself included—exceed their limits and achieve more than they thought possible.
However, there's a darker side we don't talk about enough.
When we adopt a "stay hard at all costs" mindset, it can turn rigid and dangerous. Burnout, chronic injury, and emotional fatigue aren't signs of weakness—they're red flags. And if we don't listen, they get louder.
Real strength lies not in pushing naively forward but knowing when to back off. Listening to our bodies is not a betrayal of toughness—it's a mark of wisdom.
The Danger of Black-and-White Thinking
Over time, I've learned that either/or thinking is unhelpful. Life isn't a choice between being "hard" or "soft." We don't have to choose between quitting at the first sign of struggle or marching onward, no matter the cost.
True endurance—both in sport and in life—requires nuance and adaptability. Sometimes, being brave means staying the course. Other times, it means sitting down and saying, "This is enough."
We have to develop our own internal compass: Is this challenge one to push through—or is it one where the cost is too high? I wish I could say I've mastered this, but I haven't. At 47, I've pushed through injuries that clearly demanded rest, blinded by my ego and the need to prove to myself how tough I am. Over time, both in sport and in life, I've learned that real 'toughness' means listening to my body and asking the hard questions about why I feel compelled to ignore the obvious signs urging me to slow down, back off, or rest. As I'll write about throughout this blog, this journey of balancing grit and grace? I'm still learning too.
What I Learned at Mile 93
I first glimpsed the complexity of toughness in 2008 while volunteering at the Hardrock 100. At the mile 93 aid station, Kyle Skaggs, former course record holder, came flying through, barely breaking stride. He was leading by six hours on his way to a legendary course record. He looked smooth, even joyful. But then came the back-of-the-pack runners.
One man collapsed into a chair, incoherently rambling about creatures in the dark. Another had to be rescued from the side of a mountain, signaling SOS with her headlamp. Both of them finished. Both of them pushed through what most would consider impossible.
These are the moments that shape ultra-running—and they're also the moments that demand deep self-awareness. Watching the race unfold hour after hour showed me how different mental toughness can look. Hardrock is a graduate-level 100-miler, and what struck me most was how many runners stayed grounded in their why, making deliberate decisions about whether to keep going or call it. Over those 48 hours, they each added to their story—not by pushing through broken bones to prove something, but by honoring their limits with integrity.
The Hardest Call: My DNF at Quad Rock
Fast forward to 2021, when I was racing the Quad Rock 25 in Fort Collins. The year prior, I'd won the race and set the Masters course record. I came back hungry to beat my own time and to run the descents more fearlessly. I landed wrong at mile 10 on a relatively smooth part of the trail. My ankle exploded in pain. Was it a stick? Or was that the sound of a bone? I still had a mile to the aid station. I hobbled there, ankle swelling like a grapefruit. The volunteers encouraged me to push on: "No one wants to DNF." Could I have finished the remaining 15 miles? Maybe. But I knew what I had to do. I called Mike, sat in a chair, and let it go.
Later, I learned I'd snapped my fibula. My race season was over before it began.
The Unexpected Gifts of Letting Go
That summer, though marked by injury, offered hidden joys. I cruised around Lake Powell on a second-hand bike, paddle-boarded with my daughter and our dog, and took my first tentative post-injury steps in Leadville. Later, I went on to race and thrive in New Zealand with a healthier, stronger body. Sometimes, the end of one season is the beginning of another—if we're willing to pause and listen.
What Message Are We Really Sending?
I often think of a well-known athlete who openly boasts about powering through injuries, never stopping, never softening. I understand the appeal of that kind of toughness—it's inspiring, especially to those reinventing themselves or overcoming adversity. But it's also dangerous.
If we only ever glorify pain, suffering, and refusal to quit, what are we telling those still figuring it out? That they're weak if they listen to their bodies? Is their worth measured by how much they can endure?
That's not a message I want to pass on.
Redefining Strength
There is incredible value in knowing the difference between discomfort worth enduring and pain that signals danger. Discomfort is often where growth lives. But when the drive to prove something takes over, it can become obsessive—even self-destructive.
Strength is not a refusal to bend. It's the wisdom to know when to be unyielding—and when to step back with care.
To all athletes—and all humans—do the work. Learn your limits. Know when to test them. And understand that listening, resting, and letting go is the bravest, hardest thing of all.
I hope this post encourages you to rethink toughness, not just as pushing harder, but as knowing when to pause. What does sustainable resilience look like for you?
