The Half Marathon I Wasn't Ready For

 Sometimes in life, you go a little crazy.

Even though, by traditional standards, I generally live life a little crazy anyway, this was a notch higher—even for me.

On a day when I was soul-searching for my younger self, or perhaps an older version of myself I'd somehow misplaced, the possibility of a half marathon casually came up. Then a conversation with K took everything to the next level, and somehow I found myself signing up for 21 kilometres after seven long years of doing any meaningful running.

My life's focus has shifted so dramatically since I last did things like this for funsies (as K would say).This time, it felt like a challenge. Like something genuinely hard. Like something my heart had been quietly yearning for.The original plan was simple. Train for the race, and let that training help fix a few medical readings that had been moving in the wrong direction.

Nothing went to plan.

I managed exactly two long runs. The longest was 12 kilometres.Then I fell sick three weeks before race day while on what was almost an impromptu holiday. A holiday that didn't really feel like one while I was living it, but somehow did once I came home.By the week leading up to the run, I'd almost forgotten I had even entered. Life simply took over. I went about my normal routine until I collected my race bib from Kia Arena. Standing there with the bib in my hand, I made a small promise to myself.

I'll turn up.

Maybe I'll run 5 kilometres.

Maybe 10.

But I'll honour the commitment I made to myself when I signed up.

The night before was probably the least prepared I've ever been for a race.

I ate a carb-heavy dinner alright and then thought briefly about what I'd wear. Packed... almost nothing. No bag, because in my head I was only running 10K and wanted to leave straight afterwards. No elaborate hydration strategy. No nutrition plan.No race-day checklist. I slept well. When the alarm went off, I got up.For the first time since the Chicago Marathon in October 2019, I pinned a race bib onto my shirt:) As I walked out the door, Prash shoved a gel into my hand."In case you run longer."

He made me a bowl of oats with chia seeds for breakfast—something I normally would have soaked the night before if I'd actually been thinking about this race.I arrived nearly an hour before my wave start. I left my warm jacket in the car and stood there in two-degree Melbourne cold waiting for the race to begin.Around 7 a.m., the crowd slowly came alive.The familiar nervous excitement started building.That strange mixture of curiosity and anticipation.What's going to happen over the next few hours?I closed my eyes. I took a few deep breaths.I imagined my breathing and my legs moving together for all 21 kilometres.For a moment... it felt completely doable. And that's really it, isn't it?

Sometimes you simply decide something in your mind and the body quietly follows.Or at least, mine did that day.

My fingers were frozen solid for the first five kilometres. The course was far more undulating than I'd imagined. Somehow I'd convinced myself Melbourne would be flat. It wasn't. I drank water or electrolytes at almost every station. Every three kilometres. Running through familiar streets felt strangely emotional.The Sun rising with rays streaking through the tall buildings made for a great start.

Past Fitzroy Gardens.

Near Flinders Street Station.

Along the Yarra.

South Wharf.

Southern Cross.

Marvel Stadium - the Ed Sheeran concert K and I came to, felt like just yesterday

Docklands.

Back through South Wharf.

The Botanic Gardens - air so fresh and the color of leaves and flowers so bright.

The Shrine of Remembrance.

Around the Tan.

Then finally back to Melbourne Park.

Exactly what I'd wanted.

To run through the city I'd called home for almost five years.

The climb near Southern Cross was the first section that really challenged me.

Then came the endless flat stretches around Docklands between six and eight kilometres. By the time I reached the Botanic Gardens, somewhere around the 12-kilometre mark, something changed. Runner's high. It arrived quietly.

From that moment, I knew I was finishing. Whatever happened, those remaining nine kilometres were mine. What fascinated me most wasn't my legs.

It was my mind. I heard myself saying exactly the things K and I have talked about so many times."Come on.""You've got this." I even clapped my hands a couple of times.

"Slap your thighs, Be kind to yourself, Be your own biggest cheerleader"

The advice I'd spent years giving her, somewhere along the way, I'd unknowingly learned to give it to myself too.

From 12 to 16 kilometres, I simply took it one kilometre at a time.I found myself overwhelmed with gratitude.Grateful that my mind and body still allowed me to chase things like this in my mid-forties. Grateful for the beautiful weather that morning. Grateful for Prash.For K.

For the way they constantly support me, challenge me, and somehow convince me I'm capable of more than I think. Grateful for my parents, my family and friends.

It was one of those rare moments where gratitude wasn't something I was trying to practise. It simply existed. By 16 kilometres, I realised there were only five left.

Five kilometres. I knew exactly what that distance felt like.

From our house to the turnaround point along Scotchmans Creek. I'd run that heaps of times."That's all this is," I told myself. I finished the gel, drank some water and kept moving. 16 to 17 felt endless. That single kilometre refused to finish. 18 and 19 climbed before finally dropping downhill. Neither was enjoyable, but I never hit the wall. No cramping. No dramatic collapse. Just one foot quietly finding its place in front of the other, again and again.

When I've trained seriously in the past, running became meditation. Everything around me there, yet somehow also not. This run wasn't like that. I was positive, I was grateful, I was genuinely happy, but I never quite found that deeply quiet place inside my head. Maybe that's why I need running regularly—not to chase medals or finish times, but to solve problems, to become more resilient, and to meditate.

With two kilometres left, I found myself looking for Prash and K. I kept expecting them to appear beside the course.

I remembered my very first half marathon in Masterton. K was barely ten months old, and I was wearing one of Prash's rust-coloured running shirts because I didn't have any long sleeve dry-fit shirst of my own. He ran the final two kilometres beside me, pushing her in the pram and encouraging me not to give up. Years later, at the Mumbai Marathon, he ran the last 10k with me, doing the same.

Before this race, I'd casually asked whether they might come for the end. Nothing specific—I was simply hoping. But I was also completely prepared to finish it alone. As I passed the 7-Eleven aid station, I slowed ever so slightly just to check. No familiar faces. I smiled to myself and kept going.

The final stretch through Melbourne Park felt wonderfully familiar from all the Australian Open visits over the years. The only thing on my mind was how long they must have been waiting. I imagined them getting bored, yawning, wondering where I was. With about 400 metres to go, I stopped thinking about the time altogether and simply decided to enjoy the finish. I crossed the line smiling 2hours and 48 min later. There is something magical about crossing a finish line. No matter how many times you've done it. No matter how slow you've been. No matter how imperfect the preparation. Eventually I found K, and I cried. Just a few tears. Not because of the distance, and not because of the time, but because I'd done it. Without fussing over it. Without the perfect training block. With every excuse available to stay in the warmth of my bed that morning, I had simply shown up. I had stood on the start line, and now the finish line was behind me.

Sometimes determination looks remarkably ordinary. It simply looks like showing up.

Leo came too, completely unconcerned with medals or finish times, only enthusiastically licking the salt off my face.

We collected protein shakes, sunscreen and the usual collection of race freebies before heading home. Burger. Fries. An hour-long nap. When I woke up, my right upper thigh and my left knee made sure I remembered exactly what I'd done. By the next morning I could walk upstairs, and by Tuesday evening I was teaching my regular yoga class.

I have to give yoga the credit for that recovery. Four years of yoga and pranayama have quietly changed my body. It moves differently now. It feels stronger. Heavier perhaps, but stronger.

Maybe that's what years of practice really do. They become muscle memory. The body remembers long after the mind has forgotten. Seven years had passed, but my legs and lungs still knew the way. Life, I once read somewhere, is about doing hard things. Maybe not because the hard thing itself matters, but because every time we choose one, we become someone who no longer doubts they can.

Perhaps that day, when I was soul-searching and impulsively signed up for the half marathon, I wasn't really trying to rediscover the woman I used to be. Perhaps, without knowing it, I was finally ready to meet the woman she had quietly been preparing me to become.