What happens when the race is taken from you.
Heartbroken. Devastated. Gutted.
Snowdonia 100k was my dream race, and I didn’t get to finish it. I was having a stellar day out there. Executing my plan, feeling strong, and finally hitting my stride around mile 40. I was following the flags, passing runners, finding my groove, and had just climbed up to mile 47 when a 100-mile runner looked at me and said that I was going the wrong way for the 100K.
My heart dropped. I had been off course for miles. I was out of water and had no choice but to continue forward to the next 100-mile checkpoint. That’s where I eventually decided to retire from the race. Even if I got back on course, I would have lost my place and the momentum I had built. I had just overtaken the 4th female at mile 40 and was chasing hard. I felt it happening. The competitive side of me was coming out strong. And then it all unraveled. The tears came fast. I bawled my eyes out on the trail. Then frustration. I was so angry - at the course marking, the lack of direction, the absence of any system to alert me that I was off track. It felt so cruel. To be out there having that kind of day, only for it to slip through my fingers without even knowing.
But what hurts the most is that for the first time in a long time, I believed in myself. I was out there doing the thing, and feeling so good, right about to turn up the tempo for the last 20 miles. That’s rare in this sport, and I didn’t get to see how the story ended. It feels like it was taken from me. I pour so much into this sport, and my passion and drive run deep. That’s why it stings. I didn’t just DNF. I didn’t blow up or bonk. I followed what I thought was the route, but ended up lost. And I’ll never know what could have happened.
But I do know that the main goal was practice for UTMB. And I got a hell of a lot of practice out there. Course management, fueling, problem solving, mandatory gear practice, and emotional regulation. I was so locked in. And I’m proud of that.
I’m also proud of my personal growth. I struggle with exercise addiction and poor body image. In the past, I would’ve punished myself by feeling a need to run those final 20 miles just to prove something. But I don’t feel the need this time, and I am giving myself permission to rest.
I’ve always thought that one of the most special parts of ultrarunning is how it makes us feel. It brings out some of our deepest, strongest emotions that are rarely experienced in life. Today I felt. I felt belief, love, hope, excitement, sadness, despair, heartbreak, and hopelessness. I felt it all. That’s one of my biggest whys for this sport - to feel. To feel is rare. To find something that allows you to feel such strong emotions is special, and I genuinely enjoyed all the feels today. I always pay attention to the things that make me feel deeply - people, songs, stories, mountains, sport. This race made me feel everything. And even now, in the tears and the ache, I feel something else creeping in: hope.
Snowdonia is a beast, and I hope to be back one day, not to redeem myself, but to finish what I started. For now, I’ll carry forward the strength I found in the miles I did run, and the belief I had in myself out there. That, more than anything, is what I’m holding onto.
What This Experience Teaches Us
Experiences like this are brutal—but they’re also where some of the deepest psychological growth happens.
1. You can’t control outcomes, only execution.
I did almost everything right: pacing, fueling, mindset, effort. And still, the outcome unraveled. That’s one of the hardest lessons in endurance sports: success isn’t always a direct reflection of performance. Learning to anchor your identity in things you can control, such as execution, rather than results, builds long-term resilience.
2. Emotional regulation is a skill.
I went from flow state to devastation in seconds. The ability to feel those emotions fully—without letting them define the next decision—is something athletes can train just like physical endurance. That moment on the trail, crying, then continuing forward to solve the next problem—that’s mental strength at play.
3. Belief is fragile—and powerful.
What hurts most isn’t just the DNF—it’s losing the chance to see what I was capable of on that day. But the belief I felt at mile 40? That’s real. And it’s repeatable. One of the biggest takeaways in sports psychology is that confidence isn’t built from outcomes—it’s built from evidence. And I created that evidence out there.
4. Growth isn’t always visible in performance.
In the past, I might have pushed through in an unhealthy way just to prove something. This time, I chose rest. That’s growth. It may not show up on a results sheet, but it matters more than any finish time.
5. Meaning comes from the experience, not the result.
We often chase finish lines, podiums, or validation—but what sticks are the moments that make us feel deeply. Sport, at its best, is a vehicle for experiencing the full range of human emotion. That’s rare. And that’s worth something, even when the outcome isn’t what we hoped for.
