Failing forward: A Journey of Grit and Growth

For a year, I trained with a singular vision:

To finish the Hennepin Hundred in early October of 2024.

I pictured crossing that finish line so many times that it began to feel less like a possibility and more like an inevitability. My belief in my ability to finish wasn’t just strong. It was absolute.

I had done the work. I had prepared myself as thoroughly as I could for both the known obstacles and the ones I couldn’t anticipate. When I arrived in Illinois, I was ready to prove to myself that all the time, energy, and miles I had invested would be worthwhile.

But life has a funny way of shifting our narratives when we least expect it.

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The race didn’t go as planned.

Around mile three, a handful of runners, myself included, were stung by bees.

After a shirt change and a thorough stinger check, I spent the next 15 miles managing the pain and swelling caused by a bee allergy. I thought I had seen the worst of it.

I had not.

Around mile 32, I hit a turning point. I didn’t know it yet, but things were about to get significantly worse.

I began experiencing bouts of nausea and vomiting, which are not unusual during an ultramarathon. This time, though, they didn’t let up.

Over the next 33.97 miles, my condition deteriorated as dehydration took over.

By mile 65.97, I had nothing left.

I wasn’t calling it quits because I didn’t want to continue.

I was calling it because I physically couldn’t.

I would later learn that somewhere between miles 32 and 65.97, my body had begun breaking down from rhabdomyolysis, causing me to suffer an acute kidney injury.

Not long before the DNF, I had been determined to make it to mile 80.

Not because running 80 miles held any particular significance, but because I had been told that things would get easier once I reached it. I thought that if I could just get there, I might still have a chance of finishing the race.

But there would be no mile 80 for me.

There was only the realization that continuing would mean risking more than failure.

Continuing might have meant risking my life.

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By the time I called it, I couldn’t even cry because I was too dehydrated to produce tears.

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I felt hollow, devastated, and overwhelmed by what I perceived to be one of my greatest failures.

Logging a DNF felt like admitting defeat. I had poured everything into this goal, and somehow, giving it literally everything I had still wasn’t enough to carry me across that finish line.

While I struggled to process what had happened, the people around me celebrated what I had accomplished.

I had run nearly 66 miles. More than 100 kilometers. A distance most people can’t even fathom traveling on foot.

Still, all I could feel was disappointment.

It took time for me to see the race differently.

For months afterward, I replayed mile 65.97 as though there had been another decision I could have made.

Another recharge.

Another electrolyte tablet.

Another ounce of grit I had somehow forgotten to pack.

Some part of me remained convinced that if I had prepared better, pushed harder, or wanted it badly enough, I could have forced a different ending.

Eventually, I realized that I wasn’t grieving a race.

I was grieving the version of myself who believed effort always guarantees the outcome.

The race was never just about crossing a finish line. It became about something much deeper. It became about learning how to show up for myself in a way I never had before.

For most of my life, choosing myself had meant pushing harder. Enduring longer. Finding another reserve of strength and forcing myself forward.

At Hennepin, choosing myself meant stopping.

It meant listening when my body was no longer asking for determination but demanding intervention. It meant accepting that stepping back didn’t make me weak and stopping didn’t make me a failure.

Sometimes, stopping means survival.

Running taught me how to push myself.

Ultrarunning taught me something harder:

How to exercise care and compassion for myself.

It taught me that showing up isn’t only about grit and determination. It’s also about balance. Preparation. Persistence. Patience.

It’s about being intentional with your energy, your effort, and, most importantly, your well-being.

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The New Year Shift

Fast-forward to New Year’s Day.

I walked into a packed gym, ready for a long run on the treadmill. The energy was different. The gym was crowded with new faces, many of whom had probably arrived as part of a New Year’s resolution.

Everyone starts somewhere. I had been one of those people before.

But this time felt different.

For the first time, I wasn’t stepping into the gym after months away, propelled by a temporary burst of motivation.

I was someone who showed up regularly. Someone with an arsenal of running gear. Someone who knew the routine.

Somewhere along the way, I had crossed a line I hadn’t even realized I was approaching.

I was living in a space I once couldn’t imagine reaching.

I was on the other side.

That realization hit me hard.

I wasn’t there on a whim. I was there because this was who I had become. Someone who showed up, not once a year, but consistently. Someone who no longer needed to wait for external motivation because the drive was already there.

As I ran that day, I began processing everything I hadn’t fully confronted since Hennepin.

The grief of that DNF.

The weight of my perceived failure.

The disappointment I had never allowed myself to feel completely.

It all came rushing back.

But so did the gratitude.

Gratitude for how far I had come. Gratitude for everything the race had taught me. Gratitude for the strength required not only to keep showing up, but also to recognize when showing up for yourself means allowing yourself to stop.

As I ran, tears flowed freely.

I mourned the versions of myself who had accepted less than they deserved, and I honored the version of me who had carried them all to this moment.

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What I Learned by Not Finishing

I have spent much of my life internalizing what other people thought of me.

For years, I felt as though I wasn’t enough. That I would never quite measure up. That if I worked harder, accomplished more, or endured enough, I might eventually earn the right to believe in myself.

But somewhere along the way, something shifted.

I stopped trying to prove myself to everyone else and began proving to myself what I was capable of.

Hennepin was a turning point, not because I crossed the finish line, but because I didn’t.

I gave the race everything I had. The outcome still wasn’t what I had envisioned.

And somehow, I survived the ending I had never prepared myself to accept.

More importantly, I began learning how to recognize the value of what I had accomplished without using what I hadn’t accomplished to erase it.

I kept moving forward, even when it was hard. Even when it hurt.

That lesson extends far beyond running.

In my career, my relationships, and every other facet of my life, I have learned that progress is earned through action.

You don’t just talk about showing up.

You show up.

You don’t just set goals.

You do the work required to pursue them.

But Hennepin taught me that doing the work doesn’t grant us control over the outcome. Effort matters. Preparation matters. The journey matters.

Sometimes, despite all of that, the ending changes anyway.

Running isn’t only about finishing the race. It’s about everything that happens while you are trying to reach the finish line.

Every step.

Every mile.

Every moment of suffering and triumph.

Every decision to continue, and every moment when continuing is no longer the brave choice.

It all becomes part of a larger story.

A story of resilience, grit, and growth.

A story about learning to care for yourself as fiercely as you push yourself.

A story about showing up again and again, even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts. Even when showing up looks nothing like you thought it would.

When I woke up on New Year’s Day, it wasn’t just another morning.

It was a reminder of how far I had come and how far I still had to go.

Life, like running, requires preparation, persistence, and the willingness to keep moving forward. It also requires the humility to accept that no amount of preparation can guarantee where the road will lead.

Every finish line marks the beginning of another journey.

Apparently, so does failing to reach one.

So here I am, beginning 2025 with intention.

Ready to keep showing up.

Ready to keep growing.

Ready to keep running, not only on trails and treadmills, but through every area of my life.

Because in the end, it isn’t about how quickly you get there.

It’s about what the journey reveals, how you evolve, and who you become along the way.

This is my story.

This is my journey.

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© 2025 Kimberly Beth Thomas. All rights reserved.

This wasn’t just a race — it was a reckoning. Have you ever chased something so hard that even your “failure” changed you forever? What’s your 65.97-mile moment? I’d love to hear your story below.