The Finish Line I Didn’t Cross

I’ve had races that didn’t go as planned. More than a few, actually.

Goals that felt within reach, until they weren’t. Paces I trained for, only to watch them slip away with each mile. Moments where my body didn’t do what I thought it could. More often, moments where my mind gave up and I allowed my body to follow.

I’ve felt that sinking disappointment as I crossed a finish line slower than I hoped—or worse, when I didn’t cross it at all. I’ve sat with the ache of knowing I gave everything I had, and it still wasn’t enough.

And I’ve had to remind myself, over and over again, that failure is part of this.

That it’s okay to fail.

The Weight of an Unmet Goal

We don’t like to talk about failure. Not really.

We love the stories of triumph, the comebacks, the gritted teeth and last-minute surges that defy the odds. We love the runner who collapses in exhaustion after they’ve finished, not the one who missed a hard cutoff with miles to go.

But the truth is, failure is stitched into the fabric of endurance. If you push yourself long enough, hard enough, you will fail. Your body will break down. Your mind will give in. You will have a day where nothing goes right, or worse: where everything goes right, and it still doesn’t add up to what you wanted.

And it stings.

Because unmet goals don’t just disappear when the race is over. They linger. They whisper. They make you question whether you were ever capable of them in the first place.

For me, that whisper sounds like the wind through the trees on the Ice Age Trail. The Ice Age 50, a beautiful and storied race that runs through Southeastern Wisconsin every May, has become my elusive finish line. I’ve made multiple attempts at the 50-mile distance, known for its unforgiving cutoff times, and each time, I’ve come up short.

On my last attempt, I trained well. I ran smart. I gave everything I had—and still, I was cut off at the final aid station before the finish. In the years since, I’ve crossed the finish line at the 50K distance, where the time limit is more forgiving. I’ve even had the privilege of volunteering as a course sweeper, running the last stretch at an easier pace to guide any remaining runners safely off the course after the final cutoff.

On my way to an aid station at the Ice Age Trail 50

But even those finishes—the ones I should be proud of—haven’t silenced the what-ifs. Because failure has a way of staying with you, no matter how many other victories you try to stack on top of it.

The Conversations We Have with Ourselves

After a disappointing race, I’ve sat alone in my car, staring at the steering wheel, replaying every decision, every mile, every moment I could have done something differently.

I’ve had to fight the urge to rewrite the entire race in my head. Maybe if I had pushed harder in the middle. Maybe if I had started slower. Maybe if I hadn’t stopped at that aid station. Maybe if I was just… better.

I’ve had to work through that strange mix of emotions—pride for finishing, frustration for not meeting my goal, exhaustion, embarrassment, sadness, and the quiet, nagging voice asking, Was all that training for nothing?

But here’s what I keep coming back to: The race was real. The work was real. The experience, whether or not it ended in the way I wanted, mattered.

And failure, if we let it, can be its own kind of teacher.

What Failure Gives Us

Failure has taught me more about myself than success ever has.

It’s shown me what I’m made of when things fall apart. It’s forced me to separate my worth from my achievements. It’s reminded me that effort is never wasted, even when the outcome isn’t what I hoped for. All of the hard work, the discipline, the early mornings, and the memory of each training mile doesn’t melt away at the finish line.

Most of all, it’s made me ask the hard question: Why do I do this?

If the only thing that makes a race “worth it” is hitting my goal, then what am I really chasing? A number? A time? A line on a results page? A belt buckle?

Because if that’s all that matters, then every missed goal is a loss. Every race that doesn’t go perfectly is a disappointment. And what a miserable way to move through the world.

But if I run because I love it—because I love the training, the process, the rhythm of my feet on the trail, the way my lungs burn in the cold air, the moments of deep, undeniable aliveness—then no race can take that away from me.

Not even the ones where I fail.

Redefining Success

I used to think success was a finish line. A PR. A race well-executed.

Now, I think success is something else.

Success is showing up. It’s putting in the miles, even when no one’s watching. It’s taking a risk, knowing you might fall short. It’s having the courage to set a goal that scares you.

Success is failing—and then trying again anyway. I know there are a lot of runners who would laugh at that definition of success. They’d call it weak, they’d call it an excuse. But that’s fine. I don’t run for them.

And if that’s the definition, then maybe failure isn’t failure at all.

Maybe it’s just another step forward.