Your Race - Your Pace

At 19, I thought running one mile around the university coliseum was a major accomplishment. By 40, I trained to run three miles on my birthday and promptly retired my running shoes afterward.

So when my daughter suggested we run a half-marathon as a family when I was 55, I dismissed it as insanity. Yet somehow, months later, I was training with a group in preparation for the Indy Mini.

That first half-marathon led to another. And then yet another. I didn’t enjoy running as much as I did when I ran with my family. It got me outdoors and active. Race day was fun. And so, as I improved, the collection of medals grew.

There were thousands of life lessons in this journey, including the realization that endurance runs were as much about the head and heart as they were about fitness and the body.

Yet one of the stickiest lessons was the mantra that, after ten races, I began telling myself throughout the 13.1 miles.

Early on, I made the mistake of setting a lofty time goal based on the best times for women in my age group. Race after race, I trained relentlessly, grinding through each run with continual focus on my watch, only to feel disappointed by the clock time I saw at the finish line.

I would watch unlikely people pass me: the firefighter in full firefighting gear with oxygen tanks on his back, the man with the limp who overtook me and disappeared into the distance, the older woman who was power walking instead of running.

Time after time, I crossed the finish line physically exhausted and disappointed in my results — and consequently, in myself.

And then came one more half-marathon, my twelfth in four years. Instead of being surrounded by 25,000 other runners, the group was maybe 50 people. Instead of mile markers with times flashing on electronic displays, there were handcrafted signs every three miles. Instead of running in a herd of people, the runners quickly spread out, leaving lots of open space and very few people against whom I could measure myself.

I distinctly remember the moment the flash of insight hit me. It was mile 9, always the hardest mile for me. By then, I was tired and winded. The thought of having another 4.1 miles to go felt daunting. Thoughts of quietly quitting spun through my head.

Then came the familiar calculation: my pace, my projected finish time, and the hard reality that I would need to push harder to come close to my goal. Normally, I would summon every ounce of determination, pick up the pace, and focus intensely on improving my time.

But this race was different.

Instead of gritting it out, my inner voice responded with this:

Your Race, Your Pace

It was one of those truths that seemed painfully obvious — but only in hindsight. My obsession with time didn’t matter to anyone but me. Even at my best, I was never going to be a top finisher.

And that obsession with time had robbed me of so much that did matter: being outdoors and enjoying the crisp fall weather, sharing an experience with people I loved, moving my body with grace and ease (if not speed), and enjoying the banter that emerged when I saw the others as companions rather than competitors.

So at mile 9.5 — or thereabouts — I took a deep breath and began running at the pace my body wanted in that moment. At times, I walked. At times, I ran hard. But throughout it all, I stopped staring at my watch and started noticing my surroundings, finding funny little moments to share with others at the finish line.

The irony was that once I relaxed and simply enjoyed the run, my time was not much different from my average when I pushed myself relentlessly. What changed was how I felt. Of course, I was still sore and tired, but disappointment in myself had been replaced with the satisfaction of finishing well. I felt lighter, more present, and more fulfilled by the experience.

I ran many more half marathons after that race through the Indiana cornfields in September. And the mantra — “Your Race, Your Pace” — became a constant companion.

It took me years to realize that my obsession with pace on the racecourse mirrored something much larger in my life — and in the lives of many women I know.

We are taught that faster is better.

Faster achievement. Faster success. Faster recovery. Faster productivity.

But what if speed is not the highest measure of a meaningful life?

If I begin to feel that things are moving too slowly, if I feel behind or unable to keep up, especially at my age, I remind myself:

My race, my pace.

What Gets Measured Might Not Be the Most Important Thing

It was easy to become consumed with wanting to be “fast” in the races I ran. After all, it was a race. Giant LED displays flashed your time. Your finish time was published and ranked against others in your age and gender category. And, of course, you were surrounded by highly competitive athletes.

Yet time was a false proxy for my real goals.Once I allowed myself to recalibrate toward a more truthful personal metric, what mattered most was:

• The exercise

• Stretching myself to do something difficult

• Sharing experiences with family and friends — both old and newly made

• Being outdoors and participating in something joyful

None of those things could be easily measured. So the focus defaulted to time and speed.

So many of our goals revolve around “fast.” How much can we get done in a short amount of time? How quickly can we achieve career success, earn a certain income, finish the project, or sprint through the to-do list?

But fast is often a poor proxy for what truly matters.

Pressure does not always improve performance. The blur of speed can cause us to miss the little things that matter most. An unrelenting pace may eventually exhaust both body and soul — and, in the process, we may damage not only ourselves but also the relationships that matter most to us.

A Woman’s “Race” Is Often Run at a Different “Pace”

I’ve often described myself as a late bloomer: earning my master’s degree at 42, entering the professional world a full decade after many of my peers, and not starting my business until I was 50.

Like many women, I have always been ambitious. But like many women, my career has never followed a straight line. There were exits when my two wonderful children were born. Another when we moved to support my husband’s career.

It’s difficult to move quickly when so many other responsibilities are tugging at you. Men often have the luxury of singular focus — on the career, the degree, the sport, or the hobby. And singular focus naturally enables speed because there are fewer disruptions, less fragmented attention, and fewer pauses or stops.

Hear this clearly: I would not trade those parts of my life for anything.

Yet it is unfair to compare my professional pace to men who were able to devote uninterrupted focus to their careers for decades.

Is Fast Really the Goal?

Let’s be honest: there is a cost to “My Race, My Pace.” Women who do not move “as fast” professionally often pay an economic price.

And yet, when I ask myself what true success actually means, it has very little to do with degrees, promotions, or titles — all the things that speed and relentless focus can help you pursue.

Success, for me, has more to do with making a difference for others, leaving the world a little better because I was here, nurturing deep relationships with family and friends, and moving slowly enough to fully experience the goodness of life.

Those are slow goals: building the skills to serve, nurturing the relationships that matter,

discovering my unique gifts, and finding meaningful ways to use them.

Greenhouse or Garden?

A worthwhile question to wrestle with is this:

What pace do you want to run your race?

Going fast often requires a greenhouse approach. You shelter yourself from the elements, engineer ideal conditions, and optimize for accelerated growth.

But if your pace is slower, perhaps life is better approached like a garden: planting seeds,

watering faithfully, pulling weeds, and trusting the harvest to arrive in its own season.

I no longer measure my life by how quickly I arrive.

I measure it by presence.

By meaning.

By who I become along the way.

This is my race.

And finally, I’m learning to run it at my own pace.

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