You don’t have to be a beginner to feel like one

At the start line of my first (and only) marathon in Savannah, Georgia, the energy was electric. Strangers were giving high-fives. Music was blasting. You could practically float through the first few miles on other people’s momentum alone.

But somewhere around mile 15, things shifted. The runners spread out. The high-fives stopped. And for a while, I didn’t see anyone at all.

It was just me. My body. My brain. My doubts.

That stretch. That long, quiet middle where the crowd thins, the adrenaline dips, and you’re left with nothing but your breath, your thoughts, and the steady sound of your feet?

That’s the fifth lap.

Not literally, of course—but metaphorically, it’s everything I want this blog to capture. The messy middle. The part of training—or parenting, or really anything worthwhile—where the novelty wears off, but the finish line still feels far. Where it’s not exciting anymore, just hard.

I felt it again a few mornings ago, sneaking away during a weekend in the mountains to do hill sprints behind the cabin.

It wasn’t a glamorous workout—just me, running up the same incline over and over while the rest of the house slowly woke up.

No one would have cared if I skipped it. Honestly, no one would’ve even noticed. But I would’ve known. And that decision to show up anyway, without the crowd, without the push, felt familiar.

It shows up in goals, in relationships, in training. That moment where no one’s watching, no one’s cheering, and you still have to decide: Do I keep going? Do I keep choosing this version of myself—even when it’s unnoticed? Even when it’s hard?

Not a Beginner—But Feel Like One

As a former collegiate athlete, I used to train with teams, coaches, timers, and a built-in sense of purpose. That structure made it easy to justify effort. You were working toward something with measurable results and you were surrounded by people doing the same.

Now, training looks a little different. I’ve got a coach, and I’m lucky to share a gym with other athletes also heading to Hyrox Toronto. But even in that environment, there are plenty of moments where it’s just me—quietly deciding how much I care, how hard I’ll push, and whether it all still matters when no one’s watching.

And here’s the thing: you don’t have to be a beginner to feel like one.

I’ve been active my whole life. I’ve trained through injury, pregnancy, parenting—all of it. So this isn’t exactly new ground. But this kind of race? This combination of strength and endurance and pacing and strategy? It’s new enough that sometimes I’m standing mid-workout wondering, do I even know what I’m doing?

And no, it’s not imposter syndrome. If anything, I probably have whatever the opposite of imposter syndrome is. Like some rogue, overconfident narrator in my head whispering, Maybe you’ll outpace your whole age group. Maybe you’ll actually win the Pro division. Maybe you were secretly built for this.

And just to be clear: I’m aware that that voice is... ambitious. But it still shows up. And it’s weirdly motivating. Because while my body is still catching up to the demands of training at this level, the part of me that believes I belong here? That part’s loud.

Still, experience doesn’t make it easy. Starting something new—especially in a room full of people who look like they’ve done it a hundred times—can feel like being dropped into the deep end with a backpack full of bricks.

It’s humbling. And honestly, that’s part of why I keep showing up.

Motherhood and the Quiet Script

That moment of standing in the deep end—equal parts hopeful and unsure—doesn’t just belong to fitness.
It shows up everywhere.

There’s a quiet script I’ve had to learn to ignore. The one that says: you're a mom now. It's not your turn anymore. Your focus should be elsewhere. You can move, sure—but chase something? Compete? Why?

And while of course my kids’ needs come first, I’ve always struggled with the idea that a mother’s needs must come last. Always. That any energy you pour into yourself is somehow energy taken away from them.

Some days, I still feel the sting of that internal voice. Or worse—the subtle messages that creep in from social media: This isn’t your season. Let it go. Be grateful. Stay small.

But I’ve gotten better at tuning those channels out. At reminding myself that my identity doesn’t end where motherhood begins.

Because what I’m building through this training doesn’t take away from who I am as a mom. It deepens it.

Training Your Mind to Stay

I’m currently reading Stolen Focus by Johann Hari. On the surface, the book is about how we’re losing our ability to pay attention—thanks to the usual suspects like social media, constant notifications, and the culture of productivity.

But early on, Hari makes a point that’s stuck with me. He says the real problem might not just be that we’re distracted. It’s that we’re asking our brains to focus on too many things at once and for too long.

And in doing so, we’re robbing ourselves of a mental state that’s crucial for creativity, clarity, and even decision-making: the unfocused mind.

You’ve probably felt it before—on a walk, in the shower, driving home on autopilot—when an idea just... arrives. An answer to something you didn’t even realize you were still turning over. That aha moment. Not because you were actively grinding through the problem, but because you weren’t. You gave your brain enough stillness to piece it together.

Hari writes about this in the context of attention, but I couldn’t help thinking about how it relates to athletics. Researchers have found that elite athletes actually exhibit less brain activity during peak performance moments. Not because they’re disengaged, but because they’re so dialed in, their actions come from instinct and trust. It’s not overthinking. It’s flow.

That’s what the fifth lap is, in its best form.

It’s not about an intensity or effort you can measure—it’s about a presence you can feel. That in-between stretch where you’re not thinking about the start, and you’re not fantasizing about the finish. You’re just in it.

And weirdly, that’s where breakthroughs happen—not always externally, but mentally. Emotionally. Even creatively.

Lately, that idea’s made me rethink what “mental strength” really means.

We talk so much about training the body—hitting splits, building muscle, lifting heavier—but it’s impossible to ignore how much of performance lives in your mind. When fatigue sets in, when motivation dips, when your ego starts poking holes in your progress… mental resilience is everything.

And maybe that’s why I’ve been thinking about meditation differently, too.

I used to assume meditation meant clearing your mind entirely. No thoughts. Just stillness. But recently, someone reframed it for me: meditation isn’t about clearing your mind. It’s about catching it drifting and choosing to return.

And training—especially for something like Hyrox—requires that same mental muscle.
To come back to your breath, your form, your pace. Again and again.

Even when you're tired. Even when your mind wants to wander or quit.
Not because you're forcing stillness, but because you’re practicing coming back.

Mental conditioning isn’t just a bonus.
It’s the thing that allows all the physical effort to mean something. The fittest athletes in the world don’t just fuel and train well—they recover well, focus deeply, and manage stress with intention.

That doesn’t happen by accident.
It’s a skill. A discipline. A practice.

The Fifth Lap

I named this space The Fifth Lap for a reason.
Because the work happens in the middle.
After the excitement fades but before the finish line appears.

So let me ask you:

What’s your fifth lap right now?
Maybe it’s training. Maybe it’s a creative project. Maybe it’s just staying present in a season that’s heavier than expected.

Whatever it is—I’d love to hear about it.

Leave a comment or message me: What are you still choosing, even when no one’s clapping?

Next week, I’ll be switching gears a bit—getting back to what my training actually looks like, and what I’ve been learning (and unlearning) about fueling for it.