As a girl who grew up absolutely despising running, I never thought I’d sit here and call myself a marathon runner. But here I am, 18 years old and an official marathoner.
In July of 2025, I ran my first marathon at just 17 years old. It was a complete test of my discipline, endurance, and both mental and physical limits. Through all of the pain, I learned more about myself and distance running as a whole than I ever imagined. I found a deep passion for running, but most importantly, I found a new sense of appreciation for some of the most important people in my life.
I truly could never have accomplished any of this without my community that constantly uplifted me. There are so many people I could mention and so many amazing things I could say, but for now, let me just focus on the one who was at the root of my running journey: my dad.
From the day I was born, I was a daddy’s girl. My dad was my prince charming, my superhero, my protector and everything in between. Any problem I had, my dad could fix. My dad could do anything, and he was always there for me, no matter what.
To this day, none of this has changed. My dad is always there. My dad can always make me smile. But now that I’m older, my perspective has changed a little bit. Instead of only thinking that my dad can do anything for me, I now see the bigger picture: with my dad by my side, I can do anything. This was something I learned through running, particularly during my very first marathon. Running has taught me many lessons throughout the years, but this might be the most valuable one of all.
Growing up, my dad ran half-marathons, marathons, ultramarathons, triathlons, you name it. Though they are vague, I have multiple memories of my mom loading me and my brother up into our double stroller and going to watch my dad run. Being so young, I couldn’t comprehend just how much my dad was accomplishing at the time. To look back on it now, it is truly inspiring. He worked full time, was fully involved in his three children’s lives, was the best husband to my mom—all while training for these races.
As I got older, I became more and more fascinated by his stories and accolades. I had always thought of my dad as a superhero, but this was like seeing him have real-life superpowers. I was so inspired, I wanted to be just like him: hardworking, determined, and strong. There was only one problem: I hated running.
When I tell you I despised running, do not take it lightly. There was nothing in this world more unbearable than the idea of running to me. I could not comprehend intentionally forcing yourself out of breath, let alone enjoying it.
However, sometime after my sophomore year of high school, I started running pretty regularly, purely because I thought it would make me better at my other sports. I did not enjoy it in the least bit, but the stubborn athlete in me still forced myself out the door begrudgingly a few times a week.
In the midst of my running misery, my dad was right by my side, always. If I was going for a run, he was going with me. If I complained, he was there to tell me a joke. If I felt discouraged, he was reminding me that I was up and running, something most people weren’t doing. My dad was truly the only one who could make me smile in the middle of a run, when I was at my most miserable.
Running became something for me and my dad to bond over. My dad stopped running marathons long before I started running, but he still joined me for a jog whenever I said I was going. Over time, I started to look forward to our runs together, forgetting how miserable running made me feel. I was happy to get to do it with my dad. It was our time, even if we didn’t speak a single word to each other. We were together.
I’m not exactly sure how or what happened, but soon the idea of a run sounded rewarding rather than burdening. What had started as a way for me to spend time with my dad had somehow become a new passion for me. The more I realized how much my perspective of running had changed, the more tempted I was to see how much I was capable of.
In my senior year of high school, I signed up for my first half-marathon: the Detroit Free Press International, the same race I had watched my dad run when I was younger. I once found his finisher’s shirt in his closet, and from that moment on I wore it like it was my own. It was a reminder to me of how special this race was going to be. Of course, my dad was running next to me for countless training runs, always reminding me how proud he was of me.
That first race will always hold such a special place in my heart. I was so emotional. This was something my dad had done before, and soon it would be an experience I could share with him. I was going to have my own finisher’s shirt, just like my dad.
After that race, you could say I “caught the running bug.” It was not long after that I was signing up for my first full marathon, equally terrified and excited. I quickly learned that marathon training was hard, but my dad was my support system, through and through. He was always there for advice, for encouragement, and to tell me how proud he was of me, long before I even ran the race.
When race day came, I was terrified, but my dad was right there to remind me of how capable I was. He spent the entire morning driving through the course, finding me every couple of miles to tell me how great I was doing. Around mile 22, you could say I “hit the wall.” I was exhausted and depleted. I wanted to quit. But there was my dad, pulling up next to me in his truck and cracking a joke to make me laugh. Once again, my dad was making me smile even in my most miserable moments.
One of the most surreal moments of my life will always be crossing that finish line of my first marathon. Without a doubt, my dad was right there. The joy and pride was so visible on his face I immediately broke into tears. About ten feet from the finish line, there he stood, giving me a high five as I ran by. I wanted to stop right there. I wanted to fall into his arms and sob. I wanted to bring him across the finish line with me. I wanted to tell him that I would never have been able to do this if it weren’t for him.
I finished that race filled with so many emotions. I was in so much pain. My body was screaming, but my heart was so full. I found my dad and collapsed in his arms. I did it. I ran the marathon, just like my dad.
To this day, running is something that I know I will always share with my dad, and I think that is why it holds such a special place in my heart. My dad is one of the most amazing role models I could have ever asked for, and he continues to inspire me every single day.
So to my dad, thank you. Thank you for teaching me to love running. Thank you for teaching me hard work and dedication. Thank you for always being there. Thank you for being you. I love you always.
XOXO, your chica