Not The Plan
Sometimes the most important finish line isn't the one we planned to cross.
Sometimes the most profound lessons come wrapped in moments we never saw coming. My recent race at 70.3 St. George taught me more about resilience, community, and gratitude than any finish line celebration ever could.
I was flying into mile 55.5 of the 56-mile bike course, confident in my handling skills and committed to every second. I'd taken this final corner twice before, and at 30+ mph, I was racing with everything I had. Then, in an instant, something went just wrong enough to send me out of control. I found myself airborne over my handlebars, crashing on the barrier fence and landing hard on my back.
What happened next still amazes me. Despite the chaos, I never lost consciousness. My physical therapy brain immediately kicked into gear: "Unzip this kit, you need to breathe. Can you raise your arm over your head? Move your legs? Try to stand. Push through your arm." I was essentially giving myself an assessment right there on the course, making sure everything still worked to some degree.
I wasn't alone in those frightening moments. A spectator who witnessed the crash later shared how quickly the community mobilized. Spectators lined up to protect me from other incoming riders, and a group of women gathered near me in prayer. This is what makes the Ironman community so special—in our most vulnerable moments, we're surrounded by people who understand what this sport means to us.
At the ER, I discovered I wasn't the only one who met that corner the hard way. Two professional male athletes had crashed at the exact same spot. After three hours of X-rays, CT scans, IVs, pain medication, and stitches on my face, shoulder, hand, and leg, I walked out of that hospital thanking God for protecting me in ways that could have been so much worse.
Here's what most recovery stories leave out: the mental game is the hardest part. Sure, professionals share their physical healing journeys, but the psychological aftermath? That's the silent struggle.
Some days, I feel like a complete idiot. Someone who took an unnecessary risk and threw away a perfect race opportunity in the final mile. The self-doubt creeps in: Was it worth those few seconds I was chasing?
Other days, I'm incredibly proud of myself. I raced with my heart completely exposed. I left nothing in reserve. I was willing to risk everything for every possible second of improvement. That's not reckless—that's what racing with passion looks like.
It was my choice to attack that corner with everything I had. Now it's my choice how I respond to the consequences. And that choice, that ownership of both the decision and the outcome, is empowering in a way I never expected.
The truth is, it might not all be good right now, but it's certainly not all bad. In fact, when I strip away the frustration and disappointment, what remains is overwhelming gratitude.
Gratitude for a body that protected me through impact and is now healing itself. Gratitude for the strangers who became guardian angels in my moment of need. Gratitude for the medical team who put me back together. Gratitude for the racing spirit that pushes us to our edges—even when those edges sometimes push back.
Most importantly, gratitude for the reminder that our sport isn't just about personal achievement. It's about being part of something larger than ourselves, a community that shows up when it matters most. In those moments lying on the course, surrounded by prayer and protection, I experienced firsthand what it means to be held by this incredible tribe we've built around pushing human limits.
Every crash teaches us something about resilience. Every setback reveals something about our character. And every moment of struggle deepens our appreciation for the moments when everything aligns perfectly.
The corner may have won this round, but the lessons learned ( and still learning ) and the gratitude gained are my victories. I’ll be back with a vengeance. Just wait!!!!
