A Doorway
28 Days of Asking: The End
There are moments in a long day of racing or training when you stop performing and start existing.
Mile 18 of a long run. Hour 8 to 9 of an Ironman. Somewhere past the point of plans dissolving, raw instinct takes over.
I’ve been there enough times to know what waits on the other side of that wall. Not the podium. Not a finish line medal.
A deep feeling for life.
The most resonant experiences of my life haven’t come from the highest highs. They’ve come when everything gets stripped back.
Crossing the finish line of my first Ironman, I felt cracked open. It was a true victory, and the dominant feeling was bittersweet. I suffered, I met my goal, and the experience was over.
We celebrated for the next 24 hours. I felt alive, capable. And at one point, I sat down on the porch and cried in a way I never had before.
I thought I had arrived. I thought the doorway was a one-time exit from the struggle.
I didn’t realize the Ironman only unlocked the door. New York was the city that forced me to walk through it.
I moved to NYC with ambition, a vision, and Henry on the way. We were building a family and a business at the same time, in a city that can completely knock you on your ass. The stress was constant. The stakes felt enormous.
I wasn’t racing. I was just trying to survive the week.
And I started to see it again. That pressure, real pressure, the kind that squeezes you hard, has a way of showing you what’s underneath. Who you actually are when comfort isn’t available.
In those early years, I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror. I was reacting with a desperate, frantic energy. Snapping at the people I loved. Chasing wins that didn’t matter. Trying to outrun a feeling of unworthiness that followed me from the office to the home.
I didn’t want to feel those feelings. So I did whatever I could to push them away. And inevitably, they came back.
Eventually, after enough mistakes, tears, and honest desperation, I started to look more clearly at what it truly means to be healthy. Not just athletic. Intimately self-aware.
I’ve come to see that my health is a vehicle for clarity. Or, put another way, a lack of health contributes directly to being unclear. Disconnected. Unsure. Misguided.
When my body is regulated, when I’ve slept, moved, breathed, recovered, I can feel more. More present with my kids. More honest in hard conversations. More patient when things fall apart. More alive when things go right.
When I’m depleted, I’m just surviving. Managing. Getting through.
Which brings me to the last question of this 28-day experiment.
What is worth it?
Here’s where I land.
Not the goal itself. The goal is just a direction. What’s worth it is the capacity you build to feel your life fully.
The yoga class that grounds me. The early morning walks with the dogs. The difficult conversations that make connection feel real. The failures that make the wins feel earned. The moments with your kids when you’re actually there because you did the work to show up.
Health isn’t the destination. It’s the requirement.
And somewhere past the point where the plan dissolves, that’s where you find out what you’re made of.
That’s worth it.
