This year’s Great Eastern Run was my second half marathon. Last year I ran it in 2:00:06 and loved every minute of it. The weather was bright, the crowd was incredible, and my body felt strong from start to finish. It was one of those perfect race days that remind you why you run.
This year, I crossed the line in 1:57:09 — nearly a three-minute personal best. By the numbers, it was a clear success. But I didn’t feel the same sense of joy or pride that I expected. I wanted to break 1:55, maybe if I was having a good day maybe even get close to 1:52, and instead of feeling proud, I found myself picking apart what went wrong.
My period was due on race day, which brought back memories of the Hyrox race earlier this year where it started just before my heat began. I cried the night before, (damn hormones) and I carried that anxiety with me all weekend, worried it might happen again mid-race. Then to add to that my watch failed — it recorded the run, but the screen stayed black. I couldn’t see my pace or time, which left me running purely on feel.
Around mile three I spotted a veteran club runner I’d noticed in the start pen and decided to stick with him — seasoned club runners tend to hold a steady pace, I reasoned. It worked well until he stopped to use a portaloo, and suddenly I was on my own again, trying to guess if I was running too fast, too slow, or just right.
The middle miles felt manageable, but by mile ten my recently sprained ankle started to ache, followed by the same-side hamstring and the opposite-side lower back. The last three miles were a grind. I finished, but it was messy and uncomfortable and I knew I had slowed.
In the end, I achieved what I set out to do — a personal best and an uninjured finish. But it took so much more mental energy than I expected, for what seemed like a comparatively small return. Compared to last year’s race, which felt effortless and joyful, this one was bloody hard work.
Finding the positives. Looking back, I can see the quiet success in it. Last year showed me what my body could do when everything aligned. This year showed me what I could still do when nothing did. Progress doesn’t always feel good in the moment. Sometimes it feels gritty, uncertain, and heavy — but it’s still progress.
Last year I found the joy in running. This year I found the resilience.