The Baby Monitor and the Marathon

How six months of midnight miles, a baby monitor on the front porch, and two young children changed the way I saw myself forever.

Social media has convinced us that every dream starts with a 5:00 a.m. workout, a green smoothie, and a perfectly organized planner.

Mine started at 10:30 p.m. with a baby monitor sitting on my front porch, and the makeup from a 12 hour workday smearing on my face.

If you're looking for another inspirational story that skips over the ugly parts and tells you, "It's hard, but you can do it," this probably isn't the article you’re looking for.

Because I'm not going to skip over the hard part.

I'm going to tell you exactly what it looked like.

November 2022. Raleigh, North Carolina. My 30th birthday.

In November of 2022, I crossed the finish line of the City of Oaks Marathon in Raleigh, North Carolina. It was my first marathon, my 30th birthday, and supposedly one of the proudest moments of my life.

Honestly... it felt like nothing.

The big emotional finish people picture in their heads, with cheering crowds, happy tears, and overwhelming excitement? Mine looked more like getting a medal thrown around my neck, giving my friends a half-assed wave, and making a beeline for the beer garden.

While everyone else found a chair or a curb to collapse on, I just stood there like a deer in the headlights, chugging a frankly nasty IPA. Then I ate a burger.

That's about all I remember.

Not because I drank too much (it was only two beers, I swear). My brain had simply checked out somewhere around mile 20.

Looking back, people see a medal and 26.2 miles. They see a finish line photo and think that's the story.

It isn't.

What they don't see are the six months before that finish line. They don't see the exhaustion, the guilt, the planning, or the thousands of little sacrifices that made that day possible. They don't see the nights I cried or the moments I questioned whether I'd taken on more than I could handle.

People often ask me why I decided to run a marathon.

The funny thing is...

It wasn't really about running.

Why It Had to Be a Marathon

I don't know why turning 30 hit me as hard as it did. Maybe it was because Myah was already eight and Eli was five. Somewhere between diapers, school drop-offs, work, laundry, and trying to keep everyone else afloat, I started wondering if my best athletic years were already behind me.

But if I'm being completely honest, I don't think proving I could run 26.2 miles was the real reason I signed up.

I signed up because I knew I had a consistency problem.

I've always been the kind of person who jumps into something with both feet. The excitement comes easy. Following through after the excitement fades... that's the hard part.

A marathon doesn't let you do that.

You can't fake the training. You can't cram six months of consistency into the last two weeks. Every run builds on the one before it, and if you don't show up, the marathon will expose you.

I think that's exactly why I needed it.

Not because I wanted to become someone who could run 26.2 miles.

Because I wanted to become someone who could keep a promise to herself.

The Job Didn't Care That I Was Training

Signing up was the easy part.

The next Monday, my alarm still went off at the same time. The kids still needed breakfast. Lunches still had to be packed. Bills still had to be paid. The marathon had become one of my priorities.

The problem was... life didn't seem to get the memo.

At the time, I worked at a car dealership, and anyone who's worked in that industry knows the hours aren't really eight to five. They're more like eight in the morning until whenever the last customer leaves. Monday through Saturday.

Some nights I got lucky and walked out around eight o'clock. Those felt like early nights. Other nights I didn't leave until ten or even eleven after waiting on a deal to finish.

The job didn't care that I had a marathon training plan.

The training plan didn't care what time I got home.

Those miles still had to happen somehow.

During those last couple of months, I wasn't thriving. I was surviving. I'd use my lunch break to recline the seat in my car and steal a twenty-minute nap before walking back onto the sales floor.

Training Started After Most People's Day Was Already Over

Most evenings followed the same routine. I'd leave work, pick the kids up from Grandma's, head home, eat dinner together, get everyone bathed, read bedtime stories, and tuck them into bed. For most people, that's when the day ended. For me, it was when my training started.

Our house was the only one on our road, so I'd set the baby monitor on the front porch, lace up my shoes, and start running back and forth, never letting the house leave my sight. Every few passes, I'd glance at the monitor.

Most nights I could squeeze in an hour or two before calling it quits. Other nights I'd suddenly hear "MAMA!" crackle through the monitor. Eli and Myah treated it like a walkie-talkie.

I'd stop my run, head inside, solve whatever crisis only Mom could solve, hand over another glass of water, give one more hug, and then head back outside to finish the workout.

Looking back, it sounds almost ridiculous. At the time, it just felt normal. It was simply the only way I knew how to chase a dream without asking my family to sacrifice theirs.

We Found Miles Wherever We Could

Whenever I had a Sunday or a rare day off, I'd take the kids to the Civic Center. There was a walking trail that looped around a pond with a fenced playground right beside it. They could play while I circled lap after lap, always close enough to keep an eye on them.

If the weather didn't cooperate, we'd head to the gym instead. The kids loved the daycare because they got to play with other children, and I'd spend my miles on the treadmill.

It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't the training environment I pictured when I signed up.

But we found miles wherever we could.

The Hardest Part Wasn't Running

One of the biggest surprises was discovering that the hardest part of marathon training wasn't actually the running.

It was learning to organize my life.

I've always been the kind of person who likes to go with the flow. Planning every hour of every day was completely outside my comfort zone. Marathon training didn't give me much of a choice.

Every Sunday morning, I cleaned the house, caught up on laundry, and got everything ready for the week. Every Sunday evening, I'd meal prep the exact same thing: fourteen chicken breasts, seven sweet potatoes, and a few heads of broccoli. Week after week after week.

It wasn't exciting, but it worked. Lunch was already made. Dinner only needed to be reheated while I cooked pizza, spaghetti, or whatever the kids wanted that night. Instead of making dozens of little decisions every day, I made them all on Sunday.

That was one less thing to think about on Tuesday when I got home at nine o'clock and still had to run.

I used to think discipline meant forcing yourself to work harder.

Marathon training taught me that sometimes discipline just means making tomorrow a little easier.

Then the Long Runs Started

The early weeks of the training plan honestly weren't too bad. Then the mileage started climbing.

Ten miles.

Twelve.

Fifteen.

Eighteen.

Twenty.

Somewhere around mile six, after the music stopped mattering and my breathing settled in, something happened every run. My mind got quiet. For someone who'd spent years replaying heartbreak, abandonment, and every conversation I wished had gone differently, that silence became addictive.

I remember nights where I ran fifteen miles on that same stretch of road in front of my house. Back and forth. Over and over again. I'd finish close to midnight, sink into a hot bathtub, stare at my black-and-blue toenails, and feel something I hadn't felt in a long time.

Quiet.

Anyone who's spent years carrying hurt knows what I mean. Sometimes the greatest relief isn't happiness. It's simply being so physically exhausted that your mind finally gives you a break.

The Guilt Never Fully Went Away

The guilt never completely disappeared. My heart was probably torn 70% of the time I trained.

I wondered if the kids felt neglected. If they were tired of watching Mom run the same stupid stretch of road while they jumped on the trampoline. At the park, I'd watch other moms pushing their kids on the swings while I circled the walking trail again and again. I couldn't help but wonder if Myah and Eli wished I was over there instead.

The thought that hurt the most was wondering if they thought I didn't care about them as much.

Looking back now...

How silly does that sound?

It was one summer.

One summer of having a mom who was outside with them instead of inside scrolling a phone or watching TV. One summer of seeing someone work toward a goal. One summer that, at the time, felt like it would last forever.

Exhaustion has a funny way of making your blessings feel like anything but.

Fatigue Became My Greatest Teacher

The greatest gift the marathon gave me wasn't fitness. It was perspective.

Living with four hours of sleep, a wicked case of DOMS, twelve-hour days on a sales floor, children who need you, and a personal life that felt like it was constantly threatening to fall apart… has a funny way of changing you. When you've spent six months choosing to do hard things every single day, your definition of "hard" starts to shift.

You don't notice it then. You notice it years later.

A tire blows out. You get COVID. Bills pile up one month. You get reprimanded at work. Life happens. And instead of spiraling, you catch yourself thinking...

"Eh. Could be worse."

The best way I can describe it is this: it's like breaking your arm and then, a year later, stubbing your toe. Sure, the toe still hurts. But compared to the broken arm... who really cares about the toe?

That's what marathon training did for me. Compared to ALL THAT.. most of life's problems just don't hit the same. You shrug, solve the problem, and keep moving.

The medal still hangs on my wall.

The perspective never left.

Was It Worth It?

If you asked me today whether I'd do it all again, my answer would be yes.

Looking back, I barely remember most of it. I couldn't tell you what pace I ran, what I was thinking during most of those late-night miles, or even that “big finish” moment that everyone dreams of. Time has a funny way of sanding off the details.

The medal hangs downstairs in my exercise room. I walk by it all the time without even noticing it's there.

But every now and then, life happens. A tire goes flat. A plan falls apart. Something doesn't work out.

And before I even have time to think about it, "Eh. Could be worse."

It rolls off my tongue like an eighty-year-old man who's survived three wars.

I feel like that perspective of hard is the real medal.

Not the one hanging on the wall.

The one that shows up in the middle of ordinary life.

If You're Waiting...

Maybe you're waiting until work slows down. Maybe you're waiting until the kids get a little older, or life gets a little less hectic. I kept waiting for that season too.

It never came.

Life didn't magically get easier after the marathon. There was always another bill, another obligation, another reason to put my own goals on hold. I'm just grateful I didn't. I hope my kids don't remember every training run, every meal prep, or the baby monitor sitting on the porch.

I hope they just remember that their mom decided to do something hard...

...and she did.

Because one day they'll have their own impossible goal. And if they ever stop and think, "Mom figured it out. Maybe I can too."

Then every late-night mile was worth it.