The Art of Becoming: Why Evolution Is the Only Way Forward as an Athlete

There are seasons in an athlete’s life when the body evolves faster than the mind, and others when the mind must unlearn everything it thought it knew before the body can follow. For me, this past year was the latter—a year of soft, quiet unraveling, where the beliefs that once held me together slowly loosened their grip. It was a year of questioning which parts of me were truly mine, and which were inherited stories about what it means to be worthy, successful, or strong.

I didn’t set out to reinvent myself. But somewhere between the start lines and finish lines, I began to understand that the real work wasn’t happening on trails or during intervals. It was happening inside me. In the moments of stillness, doubt, and reflection. In the gentle, persistent realization that who I was becoming mattered far more than how fast I could run.

Part I: The Mindset That Built Me, and Broke Me

Every evolution begins with an origin story. One that must be examined before it can be rewritten. For me, that story began long before ultrarunning. Before I ever knew what a 100-mile race was, I learned that sport was a currency for worth. Competitive soccer gave me structure, purpose, and validation. Perform well → feel valuable. Perform poorly → doubt myself and question everything.

It wasn’t taught explicitly. It was absorbed. A thousand small messages, reinforced over years, hardening into a worldview.

So when I toed the line at the 2022 Hellbender 100, my first “big” ultra, my mindset wasn’t new; it was inherited: You must win. If you don’t, you don’t matter. The cruel thing about that mindset is that it works… until it doesn’t.

I did win Hellbender. I even found myself in flow state for 50 miles — one of the most beautiful experiences of my life. But even in the middle of the flow, a thin thread of fear remained: If you slip, if you falter, if you lose… what does that make you?

Winning gave me temporary relief, not fulfillment.

Then came Hellgate 100k. Same mindset. Same hyper-focus. And I won again. But with five miles to go, with a comfortable gap on second place, I wanted to quit. Not because I was struggling. But because I didn’t see the point anymore. If I wasn’t in danger of losing, the motivation evaporated.

That’s the paradox of outcome-driven athletes: if the outcome is guaranteed or impossible, we lose ourselves.

Not long after, the string of DNFs began. The DNFs had nothing to do with capability and everything to do with mindset — a mindset too rigid, too fragile, too entangled with perfection to withstand the inevitable fluctuations of sport.

I ran Canyons 100 miler and dropped because I overheated. But the real issue wasn’t my body. It was my lack of patience. I wasn’t willing to slow down, to take time at aid stations, to cool off, to adapt. The all-or-nothing thinking took the mic, convinced me that if I couldn’t execute perfectly, the day was lost.

Next came a local 50-mile race. I signed up for the wrong reasons. Not out of joy or curiosity, but to prove something after DNF’ing Canyons. Predictably, that pressure swallowed me whole. When things got hard, I pulled the plug. The race wasn’t mine to begin with; it belonged to my insecurity.

Then Big Alta — a competitive 50k back in California. Once again, things were going well until they weren’t. My stomach turned, the heat became brutal, and I blamed it all on physiology. But looking back now, I see the truth: it wasn’t my stomach that quit, it was the win-or-worthless mindset taking over again. It took the mic, and I let it lead.

There were good races sprinkled throughout that year, but the overall pattern was unmistakable: I wasn’t failing because I wasn’t strong enough. I was failing because my identity was too fragile to withstand anything less than perfection.

Part II: Learning the Language of Evolution

Understanding why I broke was the first step. Learning how to rebuild was the next. My doctoral work became both a mirror and a map, revealing the mental frameworks that had silently shaped my entire athletic life.

When I began my doctorate in sport and performance psychology, I thought I was about to refine my mental toughness — double down on grit, perfectionism, intensity. Instead, I was dismantled.

Through my program, I worked with a therapist and mental performance coach, and I learned an entirely new framework built around psychological flexibility, process-focused thinking, intrinsic motivation, ACT and CBT principles, and values-driven performance.

At first, I hated it. I worried I would lose my edge. I feared becoming "soft." I thought I needed hardness to win. I genuinely believed that to succeed, I had to be all athlete and nothing else; that any part of me not devoted to performance was a liability. I thought suffering meant strength. I thought obsession meant commitment.

But quietly, beneath the resistance, a different truth pulsed: The old mindset wasn’t strength. It was fear. Fear of losing. Fear of failure. Fear of being ordinary. Fear of not being enough.

True evolution required dropping the armor that had protected me as a child… but imprisoned me as an adult.

It took 3.5 years for the lessons to sink in. But when they did, everything shifted.

Part III: When Mindset Becomes Muscle Memory

Evolution rarely arrives all at once. It reveals itself in moments. Subtle at first, then unmistakable. This year, each race became its own lesson in letting go, in trusting myself, and in allowing the mindset I had been practicing for years to finally solidify into something lived rather than studied.

January: When Process Finally Became Enough

My first race of the year, a small 50k in January, was the turning point I didn’t realize I’d been moving toward. For the first time in my life, I lined up without an attachment to winning — not because I didn’t care, but because I finally understood that the outcome wasn’t mine to control. I focused on fueling. On effort. On presence. On process.

And I won.

But for the first time ever, the win felt… secondary. What mattered was that my mindset had guided my performance rather than my fear. My identity wasn’t tethered to the result; it was grounded in how I showed up. It was the first time I genuinely believed the science I had been studying for years. It was the first time theory transformed into embodied truth.

Snowdonia: When Detachment Met Deep Emotion

My next big test came at Snowdonia 100k, my second international race — one that had all the makings of a breakthrough. I was running strong, building momentum, and was on track for what would have been my first international podium… until I unknowingly ran eight miles off course.

In the past, this kind of adversity would have shattered me. I would’ve spiraled into self-punishment — running extra miles, restricting food, overtraining to numb the disappointment, trying desperately to prove I was still worthy. But this time was different.

Instead of collapsing into old patterns, I allowed myself to feel. And ultrarunning, in its brutally honest way, made me feel everything. Belief, love, hope, excitement. Sadness, despair, heartbreak, hopelessness. It was all there, raw and unfiltered. And this is one of the reasons I love this sport: it cracks you open and shows you the full spectrum of human emotion. To feel that deeply is rare in daily life. Out there, it felt like a gift.

Beyond the race itself, I also had one of the best weeks of my life with three of the best humans—laughing until we cried, stumbling through Welsh pronunciations, and simply living in the present. And despite how my race ended, I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything. Snowdonia didn’t give me the result I imagined, but it gave me something far more important: proof that I had evolved.

UTMB: When Presence Replaced Comparison

And then came UTMB — the race that has lived in my imagination for years. People call it a race, but for me it was something different: a long, humbling, soul-deep journey into myself. A full-circle chapter not about dominance, but about presence.

Years ago, a race like this would have consumed me with comparison. Old me would have obsessed over where I ranked, how the women ahead of me were moving, how fast I needed to go to catch them, or how disastrous it would feel to be passed. I would have monitored splits, competitors, and anything that could reinforce the belief that winning equaled worth. My focus would have been outward — always watching, always measuring, always tightening around the possibility of failure.

But this time was different. From the moment I stepped onto the start line, I felt an unexpected quiet inside me. A steadiness. A sense that this wasn’t about others; it was about me, my values, my presence, my effort. I wasn’t there to chase people. I wasn’t there to prove anything. I was there to experience something I had dreamed of for years — something vast, personal, and deeply meaningful.

The thirty hours I spent on that course are etched into me forever. No music. No distractions. No fixation on competitors. Just breath, footsteps, headlamp glow, the murmurs of the night, the breathtaking beauty of the Alps, and the grounding rhythm of effort. I let myself be fully there — with my sensations, my emotions, my body, and the mountains.

I could only control three things: my effort, my attitude, and my focus. And for the first time, that truly felt like enough.

What mattered wasn’t how I stacked up against anyone else. What mattered was how wholly I lived the experience. UTMB didn't ignite competitive fire, but it illuminated something just as important: a version of me who no longer needs comparison to feel purposeful. A version of me who understands that presence can be just as powerful as performance.

UTMB gave me proof of how far I’ve come — not in speed, but in maturity. Not in results, but in identity.

Crossing the finish line at UTMB and getting the best hug from Reed, my partner.

Part IV: The Final Race of the Year — A Portrait of Evolution

Crossing the finish line at UTMB, I knew the real victory was the mindset I’d gained, and I was ready to put that growth to the test one more time. This past weekend's runnable 50k, flat and fast, unlike anything I train for, became the perfect canvas to showcase my growth. I entered with curiosity. No expectations. Just the commitment to give my best effort moment by moment.

I trusted myself. I trusted the pacing. I trusted the process. I felt strong. I felt powerful. I felt competitive — but not in the old, insecure way. In the authentic, grounded, process-driven way. I pushed. I chased. I closed gaps. I ran fast. I ran free.

Not reverting to 2022 Marisa, but becoming someone new: A mature athlete who competes with presence instead of pressure. This race was the most tangible expression of the evolution I've fought for.

Part V: Becoming Multifaceted — Expanding My Identity

Evolution doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It expands into every corner of life. As my relationship with sport softened and broadened, so did my understanding of myself. I am no longer just an athlete. I have accepted and embraced my new roles: consultant, educator, researcher, partner, homeowner, friend, and daughter. Each role helped me see my value beyond performance metrics or race results.

Athletic identity is powerful, both in its ability to elevate performance and in its potential to cloud self-worth. For most of my life, my athletic identity was enormous, eclipsing every other part of who I was. Research supports this: a strong athletic identity can build discipline, confidence, and focus, but it can also create fragility, emotional turmoil, and unhealthy behaviors when one's entire sense of self depends on performance.

For years, I lived at the extreme end of that spectrum. My identity was tied to outcomes; my value was tethered to results. But slowly, through inner work, education, and reflection, I began to understand the danger of being singular. Human beings are not meant to be one thing. We are meant to be layered.

Slowly, I stopped chasing the old version of me—the one who was fueled by fear, urgency, and perfection. She wasn’t a standard to live up to; she was a chapter to evolve beyond.

Becoming multifaceted has been the antidote to my stagnation. Embracing the fullness of who I am—not just the athlete—has grounded me in a way performance never could. And oddly enough, that expansion made me a better athlete.

My worth is not conditional. My identity is not singular. My performance is not my value.

When my worth no longer hinges on outcomes, competition becomes joyful. When I am rooted in who I am, racing becomes an expression, not a test. When my identity is whole, my performance becomes freer.

I no longer run to validate myself. I run because I am myself.

How Athletes and Performers Can Begin Expanding Their Identity

What I’ve learned, both through experience and through research, is that expanding identity isn’t about caring less about your sport or craft. It’s about caring more about yourself as a whole human. And for athletes and performers who have spent years (or decades) defining themselves by outcomes, this expansion can feel terrifying at first. But it’s also the pathway to longevity, fulfillment, and emotional well-being.

If you’re wondering how to begin broadening your identity, here are practices that helped me reconnect to who I am beyond performance:

1. Cultivate and value roles outside of your sport. Be a partner, friend, student, artist, mentor, dog parent, gardener… anything that brings you joy or meaning. Make space for these identities, and let them matter. They don’t detract from performance; they stabilize it.

2. Explore values that have nothing to do with achievement. Ask yourself: Who am I when I’m not competing? What matters to me when no one is watching? Values like connection, creativity, curiosity, humor, rest, and compassion can anchor your identity far more deeply than results ever will

3. Build a life that isn’t contingent on performance cycles. Nurture relationships. Create hobbies. Allow yourself to be a beginner at something again. Let life be bigger than your next race.

4. Practice psychological flexibility. Notice old stories — like “I’m only worthy if I win” — and gently challenge them. Learn to respond to difficulty with awareness, not rigidity. Flexibility is what keeps you grounded when things go wrong, not toughness.

5. Surround yourself with people who see all of you. Not just the results. Not just the potential. Let people into the layers beneath the athlete. Being seen fully is one of the fastest routes to expanding identity.

6. Seek support if you’re untangling identity for the first time. A mental performance coach or therapist can help you explore the stories you’ve inherited and the beliefs you’ve internalized. You don’t have to navigate identity reconstruction alone.

Expanding your identity doesn’t dilute your passion or your commitment. It enriches it. It gives you stability when performance fluctuates. It gives you purpose when results don’t go your way. And paradoxically, it allows you to compete with more freedom, because your entire self is no longer on the line.

The Quiet Work of Becoming

True change rarely announces itself. It accumulates quietly, subtly reshaping the contours of who we are.

Here’s the truth: you can hear people talk about mindset shifts, identity work, process focus, or psychological flexibility forever. I heard it all. I understood it intellectually. But I didn’t believe it until I spent years actually doing the work — consistently, imperfectly, and often uncomfortably.

It took 3.5 years, and I’m still very much in process. I still slip into old patterns. But now, I understand them. I know where they came from, what triggers them, and how to meet them with awareness instead of shame. I have tools. I have perspective. I have a choice.

If any of this resonates with you — the pressure, the perfectionism, the identity entanglement, the desire to evolve into a healthier version of yourself — I encourage you to speak with a mental performance coach or mental health provider. Someone who can walk with you through the discomfort of change and help you uncover your own version of evolution.

Becoming your best isn’t about abandoning the athlete you are now. It’s about expanding into the human you’re meant to become.