“You’re in your marathon era!” my friend Vivian exclaimed over wine and endless sushi one December evening. She wasn’t wrong. At 39, I had signed up for my very first full marathon — the full 26.2 miles — a challenge I had circled in bold as my next personal milestone.
To be clear, I wasn’t a stranger to running. For the better part of 15 years, I’d dabbled in it, weaving 5Ks into my weekends, ticking off a half marathon here and there, and even tackling a grueling 19-mile trail race. But the marathon? That felt like the ultimate test — both of endurance and of spirit.
Time, Interrupted
Maybe it was turning 39 that nudged me into action. Or maybe it was the strange, suspended blur of years we all lived through. Like many, I feel as if my 30s were stolen in chunks by the pandemic — entire seasons blurred into a cycle of takeout, Zoom calls, and Netflix binges. My 30th birthday doesn’t feel that far away: belting out Madonna in karaoke, wearing a tutu à la Carrie Bradshaw, sipping wine from the bottle like it was some kind of magic potion.
Now, with 40 fast approaching, reality was beginning to settle in. My body was sending me messages I couldn’t ignore: new aches and stiffness in places that had once been limber, fatigue that clung to me like a shadow, and a streak of stubborn gray hair reminding me that time waits for no one.
It was clear. I needed to reclaim momentum, to prove — mostly to myself — that aging didn’t have to mean slowing down. And so, I signed up for the Los Angeles Marathon.
From Dabbling to Discipline
Before the pandemic, fitness and I had a fickle relationship. I was the type to dive into the trend du jour — HIIT bootcamps one season, hot yoga the next, a flirtation with boxing or spinning sprinkled in between. I’d give each phase everything I had until, inevitably, my attention drifted. Then came the pandemic, and with it, inertia.
But running — running was different. It had always been there for me, no matter how many times I dropped it and came back. Training for a marathon, however, was uncharted territory. It required more than bursts of enthusiasm; it demanded structure, discipline, and a willingness to embrace discomfort.
And oddly enough, I was ready for it.
The Wake-Up Call of 39
There’s something about staring down the final year of a decade that makes you take stock. For me, it wasn’t just about physical fitness; it was about mental resilience and how I wanted to approach the years ahead. Did I want to lean into clichés of midlife exhaustion, or did I want to redefine what strength at 40 could look like?
The marathon became my answer. It wasn’t just about finishing a race. It was about pushing back against the creeping narrative that life shrinks as you get older. I wanted to stretch myself, literally and metaphorically, to see what I was capable of when I stopped making excuses.
Small Rituals, Big Shifts
Training brought with it a new rhythm. Early mornings replaced late nights. My playlists grew longer, as did my runs. Recovery became just as important as the miles I logged. Slowly, I began to notice not just physical changes — better stamina, stronger muscles — but a shift in my mindset.
There’s a meditative quality in long-distance running. Somewhere around mile 10, when your legs start negotiating with your brain, you find a kind of clarity. Running stripped things down for me. It reminded me of the value of consistency, patience, and self-trust — lessons that extend far beyond the track.
Redefining What Aging Looks Like
Crossing into my “marathon era” isn’t about denying age; it’s about embracing it with intention. Yes, my knees creak more than they used to. Yes, recovery takes longer than it did in my 20s. But that doesn’t make me weaker. If anything, it makes each mile more meaningful.
I no longer run to prove anything to others — I run to prove to myself that growth is always possible, at any stage of life. The LA Marathon is just the beginning, a symbolic marker of how I want to enter my 40s: not resigned, but recharged.
The Road Ahead
Maybe finishing the race will be my grand exclamation point to this decade. Or maybe it will just be a comma, a pause before the next adventure. What I know for sure is that lacing up my shoes, mile after mile, has reminded me that time doesn’t have to dictate possibility.
So, here I am: almost 40, a little achy, a little wiser, and a lot more determined. Running isn’t about escaping age — it’s about running right into it, arms wide, ready for whatever comes next.
Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: life, like a marathon, isn’t about how fast you go. It’s about showing up, mile after mile, until you cross your own finish line.
