I think back to when I first started running years ago. I was younger, eager, and searching. I remember being overwhelmed by the endless array of shoes, gear, races, clubs, training programs, medals, etc.
Long-distance running seemed to sit on an impossibly high pedestal. As a beginner, it felt like I needed to climb a towering ladder, or make some impossible leap, to be worthy of the journey. But in truth, the only leap required was one of faith—a surrender to the unknown.
The starting line of my first 100-mile ultramarathon is where this truth became real to me. I couldn’t comprehend the distance ahead, not truly. I had run a 50-miler and a 100k before, but running through an entire night into the morning felt like stepping into uncharted territory.
I didn’t have answers for everything—no solution for nausea, no cure for chafing, no guarantees against the suffering I knew would come. My only plan was to keep moving forward, to meet the pain head-on, and trust that something greater than myself would carry me through to the finish.
And it did. It wasn’t elegant, but it was enough. My goal was 24 hours, and I finished in 23 hours and 56 minutes. That final push—those last brutally precious minutes—held a lesson I’ve carried with me ever since: faith doesn’t eliminate the struggle, but it gives us the courage to stay on course, even when the path feels impossible.
Forged In The Fire
The late Swiss psychologist Carl Jung once said, “Faith, hope, love, and insight are the highest achievements of human effort. They are found—given—by experience.” Isn’t that so true of ultramarathon running?
Faith isn’t something we simply possess before the journey—it’s something formed and revealed through the journey itself. Often, we gain confidence in our faith only after we’ve lived it. At the start, we surrender to something unseen, taking that first step into the unknown.
Faith, contrary to modern interpretations, is far from passive. It isn’t mere belief or wishful thinking. Faith is forged through struggle, shaped by the very trials that challenge us to our innermost self—especially those as demanding as running 100 miles or more.
Having run several 100-mile ultramarathons and beyond, I can tell you they never get easier. Each one asks something new of you. When I reflect on my most recent race, it wasn’t the physical hardships that made it so difficult, though they were there.
It wasn’t the oppressive heat, though it felt worse than ever since my training had been less consistent.
It wasn’t the sleep deprivation, even though I was more tired than usual—juggling long work hours, early mornings for my kids’ sports, and weekend commitments.
It wasn’t even the blisters I’d dealt with all summer or the boredom of running the same loop for 24 hours.
What made this race so challenging was my lack of motivation. I felt like I was running because it’s what I’ve always done—not because I truly wanted to. At least, that’s how it seemed on the surface.
But life has taught me that what feels true on the surface can often be deceptive and what lies beneath—the unseen, the unspoken—may hold the truest insights.
About halfway through the race, as suffering stripped away life’s distractions and burdens, I rediscovered why I run. One foot in front of the other, I returned to the essence of the moment.
Suddenly, an overwhelming sense of gratitude washed over me—for running itself, for my strong legs, for the beautiful weather. I felt gratitude for the volunteers who supported us, for my wife holding it all together at home, for my crew, for my life, and even for my struggles.
That gratitude illuminated a profound insight: every hardship I’d faced—every shortcoming and trial—had shaped me into the person and runner I am today. Faith itself, I realized, had been forged in the fire of these challenges.
Shadows of Faith
Running 100 miles is incredibly tough. There’s no shortcut through the difficulty. Every part of you wants to quit. At times, it feels endless, as though the race will never truly finish. And maybe… it doesn’t. Perhaps a part of you remains on the course, never leaving. And perhaps that’s the whole point.
These races change you. The parts of yourself that no longer serve you begin to fall away, and you experience a quiet, profound renewal. During the journey, you face dark moments. Your inner fears and doubts will surface, and your shadows will emerge from forgotten places.
But the pain teaches you how to face those shadows with courage, to make peace with them, and to let them guide you through the lows on race day. As you rise to a new high, the shadows fade, waving goodbye like an old friend from a distant horizon.
Through it all, you learn to pick up your cross and carry it. And as you do, the burdens that once weighed you down become sources of wisdom. They guide you forward, shaping a faith that sustains you—not only in running but in life.
Each step forward becomes a testimony of that faith. Even in your darkest moments, you discover light breaking through. It’s through weakness, paradoxically, that you find your truest strength—the strength that will carry you through your next ultramarathon, and through life’s many trials.
The Story of the Monk and the Stone
As I reflect on the path of ultramarathon running, I am reminded of a story from the Desert Fathers:
“A young monk, eager to grow in faith, approached an elder and said, “Father, I have prayed and labored, yet I feel no progress. The weight of my struggles presses upon me, and I see no fruit for my efforts. What should I do?”
The elder replied, “My son, go to the field, and there you will find a large stone. Sit beside it and push against it with all your strength.”
The young monk obeyed. Day after day, he returned to the field and pushed against the immovable stone. The seasons passed, and the stone never budged. Frustrated, the monk went back to the elder and said, “Father, I have done as you said, yet the stone has not moved. Was all this effort for nothing?”
The elder smiled and said, “Look at your hands—they are stronger than they were. Look at your back—it is straighter now. Your body has grown firm, your mind has become clear, and your heart is steadfast. Though the stone has not moved, you have been transformed. God calls us to labor, not always to see the results. Trust that the fruit of your efforts will be revealed in due time.”
In many ways, ultramarathon running is like pushing that stone. Each race may feel as immovable as the last, the challenges as daunting, the doubts as loud. And yet, step by step, the journey transforms us. We become stronger—not only in body but in mind and spirit.
Even when the finish line feels distant—or nonexistent—there is a purpose in the struggle. The race shapes us, humbles us, and renews us.
As with the monk, we may not always see the immediate fruit of our efforts, but we can trust that through the experience, we are being prepared for something greater. Faith, after all, is not about moving the stone; it’s not about achieving certainty or control, instead, it’s about learning to trust the process.—to lean into the pain and let it teach us what only it can.
Faith doesn’t move the stone, it moves us. And in that movement, we discover the journey itself is in fact the finish line.
Thanks for reading! And if you’re ready to explore the deeper connection between your physical and mental powers, don’t miss my new book, Inside the Mind of an Ultramarathon Runner: Linking Your Physical and Mental Powers for the Run of Your Life.