The idea sparked months earlier after I fell into a rabbit hole of TikToks from last year’s race. There was something so moving about watching thousands of strangers cry, cheer, and push through pain together. It reminded me of a concept called collective effervescence, that feeling of shared emotion and connection when people unite around something bigger than themselves. I wanted to feel that, even if it was only once in my life. I told my friend Raul in Chicago about it, and he signed up too so I wouldn’t do it alone.
Training was tough. I’m not naturally a runner, and Florida heat makes long runs feel impossible. Some days the air felt too thick to breathe. Other days, I was halfway across the country, hiking instead of running. In hindsight, I wish I had trained more, but every mile I did manage taught me something, mostly about showing up even when it’s uncomfortable.
The first day of training was humbling. A few miles felt like forever, but finishing that first run lit a small spark in me. Over time, that spark became momentum.
On race day, the energy in Chicago was electric. The crowd, the music, the signs, it was everything I hoped it would be. The first ten miles felt euphoric. I was smiling, waving, taking it all in. I was in complete awe of the energy around me, so much so that I was genuinely sad knowing it would all end once I crossed the finish line. I wanted to stay in that moment for as long as possible.
Once the pain hit, I couldn’t wait for it to be over. Around mile 13, my legs grew heavy, my hips started to ache, and a blinding headache crept in. I think it was an exercise induced migraine. I started seeing auras in my vision and had to stop at an aid station for more than thirty minutes.
When I finally got back on the course, I was behind pace and in a lot of pain. Quitting did not feel like an option. My boyfriend and family met me on the course and ran beside me until mile 25. My boyfriend kept saying, “Let’s do bite sized runs.” We would pick a streetlight or a sign, and I would run to that. One small goal at a time. Raul, who was also running, reminded me to stop being so hard on myself, that this was my pace and my journey.
Crossing the finish line was surreal. I cried a lot. The second the adrenaline wore off, everything hurt, ten times worse than it had during the run. My legs, my hips, my feet, all screaming at once. Still, underneath the pain, there was peace. It was brutal and beautiful at the same time. It was proof that I could endure far more than I ever thought I could.
I have been seeking discomfort for more than a year through travel, storytelling, and saying yes to things that scare me. This marathon pushed me in a way nothing else has. It was not just mental or emotional discomfort. It was physical, raw, and unrelenting. It tested every part of me and reminded me that discomfort is not only about fear. Sometimes, it is about patience, surrender, and trusting that you are stronger than you think.
I did not run for time. I ran for the experience, for the connection, for the pain, and for the lesson in persistence. I crossed that finish line not as an athlete, but as someone who said yes to something that terrified them, and kept going anyway.
- Fabiana