Even though the title is a huge spoiler, I promise this is still worth a read! But before we dive into the chaos that was race weekend, we need to back up and set the stage.
I ran my first marathon in June of 2023 with my best friend. While I trained hard and had hopes of a sub-4 finish, my main goal was just to enjoy the experience—and I did both. I crossed the finish line in 3:52, completely exhausted but already dreaming about the next one.
By fall of 2023, after lots of reflection, I officially set a new goal: qualifying for the Boston Marathon.
Step one: get a run coach.
Together, Alex and I mapped out a solid 12–18 month plan. In spring of 2024, I’d run a half marathon, aiming to hit my marathon goal pace for as much of the 13.1 miles as possible. Then, go for my first BQ attempt in the fall. If everything went perfectly, I’d race before the September cutoff. If I didn’t feel ready, I’d push it off a bit to later in the fall, even though it would be in the next qualifying cycle.
Realistically, I was mentally prepared to need 2–3 attempts.
But first—the spring half marathon.
A little over a week out from race day, I finally saw a chiropractor after six weeks of worsening back pain. I couldn’t even wash my face or put on socks without crying. The diagnosis: a slipped disc in my lower back.
By some miracle (and four adjustments in one week), I made it to the start line and ran pain-free with two friends.
That week leading up to the race was an emotional rollercoaster. One moment I felt strong and hopeful for a PR, the next I was in so much pain I wasn’t sure I could even sit in the car for the five-hour drive to the race.
I vividly remember laying on the couch Thursday night, unable to eat dinner because of the pain. But by Friday morning, I felt better. I got one more adjustment and woke up Saturday morning ready to run.
Truthfully, it was a great race all things considered. But after barely eating for a few days, I hit a wall around mile five. I still managed to finish just 60 seconds shy of a PR.
While I was proud to run pain-free, I couldn’t help but feel disappointed. I had worked so hard and still came up short. So Alex and I regrouped: I’d run another half in early fall as part of marathon training and go for my first BQ attempt later in the season.
And that’s when things got interesting.
All summer, I trained harder than I ever had before. Nashville’s heat and humidity were relentless, but I kept pushing—visualizing myself crossing the finish line with a BQ time. That image kept me going through every brutal long run and tough speed workout. Every time I wanted to quit or bail on a workout, that’s all I could think about: qualifying for Boston. I could feel it in every cell of my body, how incredible it would feel to achieve that goal after so much work.
As race day approached, the heat started to lift. Crisp mornings hinted at fall. I just needed the weather to break in time for race day. But with each passing day, I worried the heat would hold on too long.
About a week out, I told my best friend Aly that I was doing my best to stay positive—but something about this race didn’t feel right. I couldn’t explain it, but I just didn’t have a feeling the stars were going to align to give me a great race.
I shifted focus to the mental side of racing: visualizing success, repeating affirmations, trying to manifest the best outcome. But I couldn’t ignore that my resting heart rate was elevated, I wasn’t sleeping well, and my training runs were getting harder.
I started wondering if I was getting sick.
Then came Friday morning. I was walking my dog, Oakly, thinking about the sleepless nights and strange fatigue when a random thought popped into my head:
What if you’re pregnant?
And the moment the thought landed, I knew.
We got home, and I took a test. Within seconds, two pink lines appeared. The second one never faded.
I was in total shock.
I showed my husband, Anthony. He hugged me and cried. (I completely forgot to set up my phone to record it—something I wish I had captured.)
Then, we did what any newly pregnant couple would do: we dropped Oakly off at a friend’s house, loaded the car, and drove three hours to St. Louis so I could run a half marathon.
That night, I barely slept. I stood at the start line the next morning exhausted, overwhelmed, and anxious—none of it related to racing.
By mile 3 or 4, when I saw Anthony on the course, I was already more tired than I’d ever been at any point in a race—even at the finish of a full marathon.
I slowed down and told myself to forget the time goal. Just run and process. Great in theory. In reality? I was overwhelmed, on the verge of tears, and could barely catch my breath.
To this day, I’m not quite sure how I made it through that race. Even without the emotions, the day was hot and aid stations were sparse.
After showering back at the hotel, I hugged Anthony and finally broke down. Every emotion from the past 36 hours poured out of me.
In the end, I finished less than 30 seconds off a PR but more than 10 minutes off my goal time.
And just like that, my journey of qualifying for Boston hit pause. And my journey of running while pregnant began.
