My Second Leadville 100: Time to Expand

On the trails in Colorado

It’s mid-May in the Twin Cities. Everything is in bloom, the lakes are glistening, and every moment outside feels precious and alive. I sit on my front stoop with a cup of coffee, watching baby squirrels wrestle for the birdseed I left out on the lawn. And in a flash, I remember: I'm headed back to Leadville.

This time, I won’t be running away from anything. I won’t be trying to wrangle out of the ties of a relationship with my partner or scurrying up into the mountains to escape the weight of family drama. This time, truthfully, I get to run toward something.

Going back to Leadville means returning to a quiet depth within myself. It means claiming my desires, taking up space on the trail, and following what my heart is pounding in my chest to do.

My reason for running the Leadville 100 for the second time this year has evolved.

Yes, I want to see what I’m made of. Yes, I want to meet myself on the trail. Yes, I want to commune with my version of God in a way that resonates with me.

But more than anything, I’m returning to Leadville to expand.

Over the last two years, I’ve taken a deep dive into my psyche. I’ve written a book about what it means to meet the little girl in me and honor her experience through the art of mountain exploration. I’ve journaled, worked with a somatic trauma therapist, and reintegrated into a relationship with my partner that feels respectful, full, and intimate—one that honors both our wholeness. I’ve gone deep. All the way to the near-bottom of the ocean in me (it seems).

Now, it’s time to expand. To be big—bigger than I’ve ever been before. To drop the walls of insecurity and worry and the fear of not belonging (because I still walk through life with those thoughts daily!)—to drop them and simply become.

In first grade, I wrote a book. It was a collection of poetry and short stories with crayon illustrations. It was called Best Day Ever. I drew myself on the cover—tall and colorful, my legs and arms outreaching as my body filled the whole page. My teacher printed, laminated, and bound it. It was so precious to me. I remember whispering, my first book, with such glee. I started paying more attention at storytime to If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, because I realized—someone wrote that book. Someone illustrated it. And now we all got to read it together.

I don’t remember anything happening next. No encouragement to write more. No nurturing of this newfound treasure. Still, I held onto my love of writing. I enjoyed English. I wrote poems in my notebooks and long handwritten notes to friends to pass between classes. I entered a speech competition and wrote about my family, placing third in a national contest in high school. I worked briefly on my college newspaper and later crafted a Yearbook of Memories for a project with Nike Running while on the brand marketing team; I've written articles for Experience Life, and Level Renner. I've been able to craft webinars and meditations as a coach. I’ve filled countless notebooks with journaling and created a few websites like this one to share my writing.

Only now—almost 30 years after Best Day Ever—have I loved and respected my words enough to publish them. To give them a life of their own. To let others hold and read them. Only now have I become that somebody that wrote the book for others to enjoy.

I’ve created enormous space within myself—space that’s ready to show up unashamed and fully alive. I’m ready to expand. I’m brave enough, alive enough, ready enough. I've proven to myself that I am worthy and that I belong simply because I am here.

I’ll train in Colorado from June through August, finally publish my book, and take on the Leadville 100 in an unapologetic, fully alive way.

Because I get to take up space. And I get to invite all of you—whoever reads what I write—to take up your space, too.

This morning, I sipped my coffee, watched the squirrels, and thought to myself: This is the best life, ever.

It's time to expand.