If you were training for a huge marathon PR, one that would be a building block for qualifying for the Boston Marathon, and then found out you were pregnant — would you still race?
That was exactly my predicament.
ICYMI, I was training for a BQ when I found out I was pregnant the day before a benchmark half marathon. Just five weeks later, I was slated to run a full marathon, ideally between 3:25–3:30, to set myself up for a spring BQ.
Let’s break down those five weeks and how I made it to the start line.
The Decision
First, I owe the BIGGEST shoutout to Anthony, my husband, and Alex, my run coach and friend. I changed my mind no fewer than a hundred times about whether I’d run this race. Every day — every hour, really — I bounced between racing and not. Both of them were endlessly patient with me, and it did not go unnoticed.
My options:
- Drop out completely
- Drop down to the half marathon
- Go for the full
Pretty quickly, I ruled out the half. I had just done a half, and if I was going to do this, it would be the full — even if it was much slower than I’d planned.
Our conversations kept circling back to the same thing: They fully supported whatever I decided. But gently, they reminded me I might regret not at least attempting the full. Anthony, being the experienced runner he is, pointed out that the half and full shared a course until mile 8. I could see how I felt, and if I needed to bail on the full marathon, at that point I could.
Training While Pregnant
Even without deciding for sure, I kept training like I was racing. I was incredibly fortunate — my first trimester symptoms were minimal. No nausea, no food aversions, and my energy stayed steady.
But every speed workout, tempo, and long run reminded me: I was still pregnant. I struggled to hit paces and often needed extra rest just to let my heart rate settle.
The long runs were the hardest — sometimes physically, but often mentally. Running has always been my therapy. But this season felt different. My mind turned against me, and I didn’t have the tools to fight back fast enough.
One 3-hour run turned into 45 minutes, broken up by a 20-minute cry session. I wasn’t used to missing runs or not being able to crush workouts, and it became a battle just to keep going. Quitting was an option that lingered in the back of my brain. Everyone would understand. But I just couldn’t let go.
The Last Long Run
I decided my final long run would be the deciding factor. If I made it 18 miles or more, I’d run the marathon. If not, I’d drop out.
Anthony biked alongside me with my water, fuel, and moral support. It was a miserable run. The mile reps felt awful, and I spent the final miles fighting back tears. I ended just over 17 miles, falling short of my goal, even if it was an arbitrary one.
Anthony didn’t say much at the time, but the next day on our weekly coffee date, he told me — gently — that he thought I should at least attempt it. Deep down, I knew he was right.
Race Day
We drove to Indiana the night before the race, and even over our pre-race pizza, I told Anthony there was still a chance I’d wake up and decide not to run.
But I’m stubborn.
When my alarm went off, I reminded myself: It might be a long time before I’d get the chance to do this again. So, I got up and got ready to run 26.2 miles. Pregnant.
Race mornings are always tough for me food-wise, and pregnancy made it worse. I managed to choke down peanut butter toast, a banana, and some Gatorade, but water wasn’t happening. I just hoped it wouldn’t catch up with me later.
Standing in the start line corral was surreal. Here I was — pregnant, about to run a marathon. And then just like that, the gun went off.
The Race
It was oddly freeing to run without expectations. If I needed to slow down, I did. If I felt good, I sped up. No watch anxiety. No pressure. Just running.
A few miles in, my pace had me on track for a 3:45 finish, which calmed me. My body was still showing up. My training was still there.
I saw Anthony around mile 7 and told him I was going for the full. The half/full split came at mile 8 — and while I felt good, it was jarring knowing there was no turning back.
At mile 13.5, out of nowhere, I got side stitches. The lack of water caught up with me. I rarely get them, and never in a race. For four miles, I alternated walking and deep breathing, and jogging, trying my best to alleviate them. But I was getting a little panic-y and frustrated.
At mile 17, I found Anthony again. He walked with me, helped reset my breathing, gave me more water, and sent me on my way. Stitches gone, I settled back in.
But the lack of long runs caught up around mile 20 — as it does for most. I still felt good and stayed positive, though my 3:45 was now out of reach. I was on track for sub-4, and I was thrilled.
I saw Anthony one last time at mile 22, then spent the final 4.2 miles in survival mode — but so deeply thrilled knowing I’d finish.
The Finish
I crossed the line in a daze, found Anthony, and burst into tears.
I did it. I really did it.
I was exhausted, mentally and physically drained, but overwhelmed with gratitude, pride, and relief.
As a bonus, I finished in 3:54, just 90 seconds off a PR. Not the 3:30 I’d trained for, but I’ve never been prouder of a finishing time. That race will always be special.
There will be other PR attempts, other days to chase limits — but this was a reminder that running is about so much more than finishing times.
It’s about joy, courage, mental battles, and just showing up.
