emma sumrell

by: emma sumrell

So… I ran a half marathon. 13.1 miles. Voluntarily. I paid actual money to do cardio for two hours straight, and somehow that wasn’t even the wildest part of the experience.

Nerves, carbs, adrenaline, and a playlist that could raise the dead. I had no idea how it would go, but spoiler alert—I did it, I loved it, and yes, I already want to do another one.

The first few miles were that perfect mix of excitement, fresh legs, and “wait, this actually might be fun.” People were cheering, I had my race bib pinned on straight, and I resisted the urge to sprint just because everyone else was (growth!).

Then came miles 9 -11. My legs hurt. My energy dipped. I started calculating how bad it would really be if I just stopped and walked right on over to Old Well for wings and a beer.

And then:

Glinda and Elphaba.

There’s nothing quite like hearing “Defying Gravity” while actively defying the urge to lay down on the sidewalk.

“Livin’ on a Prayer” was not just a song—it was a prophecy. And Bruce Springsteen? My unofficial coach for mile 12.

It was dramatic. It was cinematic. It was borderline spiritual.

The final stretch was a blur of cheering strangers, sore everything, and me somehow  making it to the finish line. I saw someone holding a sign that said “toenails are overrated” and I’ve never felt more seen. 

Crossing that finish line? Unreal.

I couldn’t stop smiling. Or breathing heavily. Or smiling again. I felt like a superhero. A sweaty, slightly limping superhero.

🎉 Final Thoughts

I still can’t believe I paid someone to let me do that. But honestly? I get it now. It was thrilling, challenging, and so much more emotional than I expected. I’m weirdly proud of every single step.

And the best part? I already want to do it again. Give me a few days (and a few more Epsom salt baths).

Stay tuned for my recovery day self-care breakdown—because she ran, she conquered, and now she’s horizontal.