Do we question whether the thing that once saved us has become another way of destroying ourselves?
I’ve been questioning, writing, thinking, rewriting, ignoring, and deeply considering never posting this reflection. For two years, this has sat with me, and sometimes on me. I’ve attempted to see the 365 days from every angle I could. Sometimes you simply need to see it from someone else’s.
I was at Zumbro this year, running the 17-miler. My first race after my running sabbatical. I was chatting with John Storkamp, which is one of the highlights of any Rocksteady event.
He asked how I was.
I responded that I was really good, that I took a year away from running. And without a beat, John delivered this line.
Every runner should.
A bold statement. I don’t know if every runner should or shouldn’t. I know this runner had to, and did.
From September 10th of 2024 to September of 2025, I ran a total of 231 miles.
I have literally run more miles in 4 days (the Moab 240) than I did in 365 days. Honestly, I didn’t even run all of them. I hiked a bunch of them. I am extremely proud of that. I really am. Why? Because it was necessary for me.
I realize “not running” doesn’t fully align with the ultrarunning narrative, mindset, and ethos I had adopted and readopted willingly. You kinda have to run a lot to run far.
In ultrarunning, stopping can feel like failure.
We celebrate perseverance, resilience, and the refusal to quit. Those qualities can be extraordinary strengths. But without judgment, they can also become liabilities.
I had to let that go.
The narratives.
The collective and personal mindset.
And the tribal ethos.
I had set a new goal.
And not all goals have race names, numbers, bibs, T-shirts, and buckles attached to them. This goal had nothing attached to it but my well-being.
I had to separate the value of running from the value of myself.
If I were reading this and deep into a training program or training for a big race, this would not be something I would relate to or want to hear.
(Which I am at the moment, and my words I’ve written over many months feel somewhat foreign and uncomfortable to me.)
Which is exactly why you might consider reading on.
I love running.
I might even love it more than you in some ways, and it’s not really a contest.
It allowed me to embrace sobriety when nothing else could. Being sober is the best thing that ever happened to me, outside of my wife, my kids, and 5 Tool albums and the EP Opiate.
I also love myself.
Sounds weird to say that out loud. I’m not saying it in a narcissistic, egotistical manner (at least, I try not to), but in a purely self-preservation, deep respect and care for the gift of me as a piece of machinery way.
Runners love running. Golfers love playing golf. Drinkers love drinking. Makes sense. What doesn’t is that sometimes we love things at our own expense. It is extremely hard to see that sometimes. Maybe that isn’t true for you. Congratulations. But it wasn’t for me. I bought it, and I have a history of speeding out of control in that particular lane.
Addiction.
Sometimes the courage is in making the decision when you didn’t know the outcome.
When I stopped running, I was signed up for the 300-miler in Arizona, and I was still debating whether to go do it, even though I had pumped the brakes and made the decision to stop running indefinitely.
That is kind of the definition of a problem.
It’s taken a year to not only fully realize that but also heal both physically, mentally, and spiritually.
I needed a break from breaking myself.
It’s strange because I kind of had a déjà vu moment when I walked off the trail at the 50-mile mark on the Superior Hiking Trail. The same feeling I had when I put down the bottle of beer, the wine glass, and the shot glass.
I’m not arguing that running is equivalent to alcoholism. I’m just acknowledging that even something positive can become destructive when your relationship with it becomes unhealthy.
That’s an uncomfortable distinction, and it was worth exploring.
I needed to stop.
And I was alone.
Alone in the woods as a runner?
Totally cool.
Alone in the world, not running?
Not as cool.
I understand ultra running is an all-consuming thing. And it consumed me. All of me.
I’ ve been through this.
Drinking and running aren’t as different as people want to believe on the surface. Addictions that lead to destruction are many and varied and don’t just come in bottles, pills, needles, and powder forms.
I completely understood and accepted the terms of this self-inflicted isolation.
Running helped me with sobriety. What was going to help me with sobriety if I wasn’t running? And what was going to help me deal with the absence of running?
Nothing.
I didn’t look or need anything, is what I found out.
I dealt with my shit. My emotions, my me.
Quietly. Peacefully.
I didn’t need running to be sober.
I didn’t need running for anything.
And I acquired a new kind of strength, and I could focus solely on healing myself.
I didn’t simply stop running for 365 days. I discovered that you could let go of an identity I loved without losing myself. I discovered you could exist without the thing that had become so central to my identity.
What more, more, more needed was to exist in nothing.
I felt no pressure, internally or externally, to do anything I didn’t want to do. My main goal was regaining a healthy balance between pushing myself to the edge of my physical and mental capacity and living a long and healthy life.
I’ve taken a very patient and measured approach and have slowly been building volume. How I feel is as important as how much I progress.
I didn’t understand something before a year away from running and racing so kindly taught me.
On a table upstairs, where I spend most of my time, are a few objects I see every day.
A green Buddha.
A sobriety coin.
A Stoic coin.
A Superior 100 buckle.
A Moab 240 buckle.
I don’t know why those five, other than the Buddha.
I need him.
Downstairs are numerous Spartan medals, 3 Spartan Ultra buckles, and other ultra buckles and awards.
I looked at all of them for a year. They have value.
But the most valuable thing that I have is the experiences around them, the moments before and during those events. And that’s what I ultimately missed.
It made me want to get healthy enough to go out and experience those places in training and have those moments racing takes me.
I love those places.
The actual places and the places they take me inside me.
They suck.
They are beautiful.
They are painful.
And joyful.
If you got this far and you are wondering what the point is?
If you decide to step away from running and take a break for whatever reason, and you need a friend, I’m more than available.
I’ve done my fair share of dumb and stupid shit.
365 days without running wasn’t one of them.
