I Thought I Was Chasing 26.2. Turns Out I Was Chasing Change.

Failure is the thing that scares me most.

Maybe I should clarify.

I don't mean failing at something. I mean failing to chase the thing that might change me, and never finding out what I'm capable of because something felt too big or too scary.

That's exactly why I set ambitious goals.

Once I decide something is worth pursuing, the challenge isn't deciding if I'll do it; it's figuring out how. And the bigger and scarier the goal feels, the more I'm drawn to it.

26.2 miles sounded impossible. I'd run the Vermont City Marathon half in 2024, but doubling that distance felt like an entirely different animal.

Then, after navigating some health challenges in late 2025, something changed. I found myself incredibly grateful for the ability to move my body. Running felt like a privilege.

It was February. The marathon was in May.

If I was ever going to do this, now felt like the time. So I signed up.

Learning to Be a Marathoner

Like most first-time marathoners, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.

I downloaded Runna, read everything I could find, asked coworkers endless questions, and pieced together a 13-week training plan that felt equal parts exciting and terrifying.

The first thing marathon training taught me?

Slow down.

I must have repeated those two words to myself hundreds of times. Everything in me wanted to go faster. The training plan had other ideas: easy runs, recovery runs, trust the process.

I'm not a patient person, but eventually I learned.

Week after week, every Saturday became the longest run I'd ever completed.

Then the next Saturday became the new longest run of my life.

The distance that once felt impossible slowly became... possible.

Every Long Run Was an Experiment

Maybe this is the marketer in me, but I never viewed training as simply following a plan. I viewed it as a series of experiments. Every long run generated data. If something felt off, I got curious.

Was I running too fast? Fueling too late? Drinking enough water?

Why did one run leave me exhausted while another, even longer one, felt surprisingly strong?

The goal wasn't perfection. It was learning.

Every adjustment made the next run a little better.

And while I was the one logging the miles, I certainly wasn't figuring it out alone. Friends, family, and coworkers checked in, shared advice, and hyped me up.

Progress rarely comes from having all the answers. It comes from staying curious, learning from others, being consistent, and getting a little better every day.

That's true in marathon training, and it's true in leadership. You start with your best hypothesis, pay attention to the results, and adjust. Rarely do you get everything right the first time, but if you stay curious and keep iterating, you usually end up somewhere better than where you started.

Trial, Error, and Maple Syrup

That experimental mindset became especially important when it came to fueling.

My 16-mile long run humbled me. I hit a wall with two miles to go, and it became clear that my fitness wasn't the problem — my fueling was.

So I kept experimenting. I adjusted how often I fueled, how much water I drank, and what my stomach would actually tolerate. I quickly learned that gels and I were not meant for each other.

Untapped, on the other hand? Perfect.

Maybe it's a Vermonter thing, but maple syrup turned out to be exactly what my body wanted. Once I dialed in my fueling strategy, my next long run felt completely different. My 20-miler felt dramatically stronger than my 16-miler just two weeks earlier.

One of the biggest lessons of marathon training?

Sometimes the answer isn't pushing harder.

Sometimes it's paying closer attention.

So Much of Running Has Nothing to Do With Your Feet

One of the biggest surprises about marathon training is how little of it actually has to do with your feet.

Hear me out.

Running 26.2 miles certainly requires your feet to cooperate, but so much of training happens everywhere else:

• In your head, where you learn to quiet the voice telling you to stop.
• In the kitchen, where you discover that fueling can completely change a run.
• In your calendar, where consistency quietly beats motivation every single time.

But don't get me wrong, your feet still matter. A lot.

By race day, there were very few things I could control. The weather wasn't one of them. It rained. The roads were soaked. Puddles were unavoidable.

What I could control was making sure I didn't introduce anything new.

I wore the same pair of Darn Tough socks – the Run Micro Crew – I'd trained in for months because they'd already earned my trust.

I'd logged hundreds of miles in them and knew exactly how they'd perform when things got uncomfortable.

Even in the rain, my feet stayed comfortable.

No distractions. No worrying about blisters or bunching. After four-plus hours on your feet, that's a gift.

The Finish Line Wasn't Just Mine

By race morning, I realized something. The marathon wasn't really race day. The marathon was the 13 weeks before it. Every long run. Every experiment. Every lesson. Race day was simply the celebration.

As I made my way toward the finish, I spotted some of my favorite people in the crowd. They had come from out of town, stood in the rain for hours, and somehow managed to make themselves impossible to miss with custom hats and wonderfully ridiculous props.

After months of training mostly by myself, seeing those familiar faces reminded me that while I was the one running, I hadn't gotten there alone.

I felt all the things you'd expect: relief, pride, joy. But most of all, immense gratitude.

Was It Worth It?

Absolutely.

Preparing for something that scares you changes you...

• It teaches you that consistency beats motivation.
• That slowing down is sometimes the fastest way forward.
• That curiosity is more useful than frustration.
• That you're almost always capable of more than you think.
• The most meaningful goals aren't the ones that prove something to everyone else. They're the ones that reveal something to you.

So if there's something you've been quietly telling yourself you could never do, maybe that's exactly the thing worth chasing.

It'll probably scare you.

It might even change you.

And if you're lucky, you'll discover the finish line was never the point.

About the Author

Emily Corley is a Vermont-based leader and marketer. When she's not building teams and brands, you'll find her running, traveling, or perfecting her espresso making skills.