Learning to Rest, Not Quit

And how to not be so hard on yourself

I was recently listening to a song by artist Jess Glynne. You know the saying, “There’s a song for everything you go through in life”—well, this one really struck a chord.

The song is titled “Don’t Be So Hard on Yourself”, and the opening lines go:

“I came here with a broken heart that no one else could see
I drew a smile on my face to paper over me
But wounds heal when tears dry and cracks, they don't show
So don't be so hard on yourself, no.”

These lyrics reminded me of one of the toughest battles I’ve faced: recovering from anorexia.

To the outside world, it may not have been obvious. But behind the scenes, I was fighting one of the hardest mental disorders to recover from.

This year, the biggest lesson I’m learning is simple but powerful: Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’m learning to give myself grace—for everything I’ve overcome, and for how far I’ve come.

So often, we’re told to keep climbing—to chase goals, scale new mountains, and strive for more. But when we actually reach the summit, we’re rarely given time to celebrate.

Think about it:
You get engaged—people immediately ask, “So when’s the wedding?”
You get married—“When are you having kids?”
You land a new job—“When’s the promotion?”
You finish a marathon—“So when are you running Boston?”

It’s like we’re being pushed off one peak onto the next, without ever stopping to enjoy the view. And it’s not just society—I’ve started to notice that same pressure creeping into my own mind. I’ve been operating in overdrive for so long that I’ve forgotten to pause, reflect, and truly appreciate the journey.

This especially rings true when I think about the last four years of my running life.

Four years ago, I had only run a few marathons and knew very little about long-distance training or what it really took to become an endurance athlete. When we moved to Maryland and I joined a local running group, everything changed. I started learning from experienced runners, picked up better training habits, and began to understand the mental side of racing.

In the running world, qualifying for the Boston Marathon is often seen as the gold standard—a mix of challenge and prestige. It was a goal I never imagined for myself… until I surrounded myself with people who believed in me, and I began to believe too.

It took four years of hard work, trial and error, and countless miles—but this spring, I finally ran the perfect race at the Shamrock Marathon, earning a qualifying time for Boston. It wasn’t easy. My training wasn’t flawless. Race day brought wind and the start of my period. But I showed up, stayed consistent, and trusted the process.

Somehow, all the lessons of the last four years clicked into place, and I crossed the finish line having achieved something I once thought impossible.

The same girl who once lay in a hospital bed battling an eating disorder just ran a marathon fast enough to qualify for one of the world’s most iconic races.

Now, in the thick of summer, I’m training for another race—but I’m feeling it.
The heat is more intense. My motivation is lagging. My mind wanders on runs.
I’m struggling to hit the paces I’ve hit in past training cycles.

Doubt starts creeping in: Am I just pretending to be a good runner? Was my last race a fluke? Will people find out I’m not really that strong?

And that’s when I have to stop myself.

I’ve accomplished a lot.
In four years, I’ve run nearly 12 marathons.
I’ve coached others to achieve their goals.
I’ve shown up, time and again, to support runners who—like me—once thought Boston was out of reach.
I’ve turned my life around.
I’m going to run the Boston Marathon next year.

And that deserves to be celebrated.

I don’t need another big race right now.
I don’t need to be chasing a time or a title to prove my worth.

As Jess sings at the end of the song:

“Learn to forgive, learn to let go
Everyone trips, everyone falls
So don't be so hard on yourself.”

I’ve made it to the top of more than one mountain.
I deserve to dance at the top.
To celebrate.
To rest.
To not know what’s next—and still feel at peace with that.

Because whatever comes, I know I can handle it.
And until then, I’ll keep learning to not be so hard on myself.