The Finish Line and the Feelings That Didn’t Come

San Diego 100 | 06.06.2025

My reflection on my first 100-mile race, the San Diego 100, and what I learned when the finish didn’t feel like I thought it would.

The Quiet Aftermath

He asked if I would be back next year. I responded with a simple “we’ll see.”

I just finished my first 100-mile race, and one with a solid reputation. But, rather than elation, I felt stillness. I expected a high; instead, I was met with emotional white noise.

The Race Unfolds

I started this race setting high expectations for myself. I wanted to push it. I didn’t doubt that I would finish 100 miles, so I wanted to shoot for more. I set an ambitious “A” Goal: finish in 24 hours, with the simple fallback of “finish it.” There wasn’t an in-between. Looking back, this was a very short-sighted approach. It wasn’t about the clock but about setting a goal that challenged me and gave shape to my effort.

I floated through the first 50k. I reminded myself early on, “Remember how you feel right now. If you feel bad, remember this feeling and how good it feels, and that it will come back to you. Bad feelings will end.”

Besides some stomach discomfort, I felt strong. I rolled into the 30-mile aid station and saw my crew for the first time. I noted to them that I was taking down calories as planned, and they started to refill my pack. I hit the bathroom. They told me I wasn’t drinking enough water, so I promised to drink more before the next aid station, hit the bathroom again, and trotted out.

I rolled straight into the bathroom at the next aid station, having flashbacks to  Sean O’Brien 100k. All I could think was, “Not again.” I didn’t want to repeat the mistake and make a strong effort to only unravel because of subpar self-care. We made adjustments on the fly, and George was ready to pace. I planned to run the first 100k solo but needed support to problem-solve and keep me moving forward.

At Hammer’s Hideaway (51.8 mi), I reconnected with Kirk. I met Kirk at an In-N-Out in San Diego. He saw me wearing my Sean O’Brien race shirt and walked right up to me. He asked if I was running the San Diego 100. It felt serendipitous. A few volunteers told me how excited he was to share that story. I felt the same. Everything happens for a reason. This encounter energized me for the upcoming climb.

During the climb up Noble Canyon, in a haze of discomfort, we stumbled upon an unopened LMNT on the ground and took it as a sign from the trail to drink it. George and I had just discussed how the trail will provide you with signs when you need them. I started sipping on the electrolytes, and like magic, my stomach pains began to ease.

We arrived at Meadows (64.3 mi) after a tricky descent. Clint rotated in as my compass through the night. Before the race started, I joked that the section Clint was pacing was a repeat of my 4th loop of CENTURY. But, I didn’t look at it as a redemption; this was going to be something like a rebirth, revival, or regeneration. I didn’t know what was coming, but I knew something was.

Some of my favorite moments during these miles are a giant, burnt-orange moon, the Milky Way painting the sky, and the PCT glowing from the sunrise. Just after we left Penny Pines 2 (80.7 mi), I took the lead as the sun lit up the mountains, and Clint and I crossed the furthest distance I’d ever moved. As we descended one of the few true downhills, we passed by runners, and I felt electric. My legs floated again. My heart pulsed like a kaleidoscope. I felt alive.

The Shift

But everything changed at Pioneer Mail (84.6 mi).

I was ready to party with George for the last 16 miles and finish strong. Nothing could stop me. But the moment I arrived, everything shifted. My chest tightened. I stopped talking. I just wanted to get out of there. I wanted to disappear. My heart went from wild freedom, pulsing in sync with the earth, to being trapped behind my rib cage.

George and I started up the hill. He reiterated that I needed to keep pushing to hold my place. “I’m not running yet,” I said. “I need a minute.” I knew what he meant. He wanted to keep me moving, but I needed space.

After about a mile, he dropped behind me instead of leading. Eventually, I blurted out that I felt pressure to perform, and I wasn’t sure where it was coming from. Over difficult miles, we peeled that back, and he coached me through it. He saw my potential in that moment, and I saw what could have been.

We arrived at Sunrise (91.6 mi) feeling lighter, but something still felt off. I didn’t want to talk to anyone there, including my crew. I felt bad and wasn’t in a good headspace. As I stood in front of the aid station tent, I thought I wouldn’t want to talk to myself right now. I felt bad that those volunteers probably saw the worst side of me. We were in and out quickly.

Over the next 9 miles, George continued to encourage me to run instead of power hiking. I couldn’t get myself to do it. One step. Two steps. Nope. We were soon only a half mile from the finish, but I still didn’t do it.

I wasn’t physically wrecked. I could have run. I had the legs. I wanted to fight. Why didn’t I fight?

Reflection: Underneath the Slowdown

Comfort in Complacency

One thread I’ve pulled at is self-sabotage. I had already “missed” my original goal and knew I would finish, so there was safety in walking. I believe I unconsciously avoided hydrating and fueling for those final few hours; my stomach was fine enough to stop playing safe.

What it came down to is that I was afraid. If I didn’t give my full effort, I wouldn’t fail. I let the fighter in me retreat; if I didn’t fight, I couldn’t be disappointed. Taking in water and fuel meant risking feeling awful again. And what if I felt better, gave it my all, and it still wasn’t enough? 

The Painful Tension: Wanting to Be Seen

Another dark corner: identity. The things I do are hard, and people regularly describe me as “tough.” That is a piece of me, but I’m more than that. I have feelings; I’m complex and tender. Maybe failure would make me more relatable. I shy away from the spotlight, not from embarrassment, but to avoid being scrutinized. I don’t want to overshadow others or minimize their experience. I disappear because I feel it will protect others.

But where does that leave me? How can I distinguish between the things I do and who I am? How do I keep my fire lit?

Emotional Stillness

I habitually shut down when emotions run high. I have a history of holding it together, even during times of grief. I’ve sat through funerals, seemingly unmoved. I play the role of the rock while I’m crumbling inside. The feelings always come later. It makes me question, “Is something wrong with me?”

At the finish line, I had my shield up. I wasn’t able to invite anything in. It’s not that I wasn’t excited. I just had one of the best weekends that I can remember. I was more emotionally than physically exhausted. And I was muted. There were no floodgates to open. My flame was too dim.

The Letter to Myself

Dear Sam,

Let’s start off with this. You finished the San Diego 100. That is fucking awesome. You’ve been training for this and did it. You did that. You need to know that it is awesome and that you should feel accomplished. You deserve that. 

I know that you have some disappointment, though, with your effort. You battled some tough challenges with hydration and fueling after a strong start, which led to gut issues. With help, you worked through these and had an opportunity to put up a fight. In that time, you stayed dimmed; you disappeared. You protected yourself behind excuses. You were afraid of the potential outcomes.

That’s okay. It’s okay. I see you. It’s okay to be afraid. It’s not okay to continue hiding who you are. You can face yourself and have an honest conversation. You can want more. You can be disappointed at the same time that you feel accomplished. You don’t have to be afraid to take up space. You can be vulnerable as you are exploring what it means for you to be alive. You don’t need to dim your light to help others feel like they’re shining brighter. You’re not “too” anything. You’re just learning who you are, what makes your fire burn, and how to let yourself shine. 

Next time, you won’t dim yourself or look for someone else to provide the tinder or spark. You’ll set yourself on fire.

Love,
Sam

Crossing the Finish Line

Sometimes, we have to struggle to find our purpose. And not necessarily a purpose in the sense of “making the world a better place,” but our purpose behind why we put ourselves in the situations we do. I’m proud of the work I put in, and that can be enough. But, I am allowed to want more.

I want more. I don’t just want the finish. I want the fight. I can’t just want the fight; I have to step into the ring and stay there. I have to train for the fight, not just the finish. I don’t need a perfect race to show up. I just need to burn. SD100 didn’t change me. It revealed me.

Burn bright. Shine steady. Wild heart. Strong soul.

Until the Next. 🫥👊❤️‍🔥