Part 1 — My Early Relationship with Running
My earliest memories of running weren’t tied to freedom or joy of running — they were tied to punishment on the soccer field. I started playing soccer when I was six or seven, and if you were late to practice like many sports, you ran laps, goofing off you ran laps, lost a scrimmage you ran laps, not listening you guessed it you ran laps. Most people are probably familiar with this, it probably made me tough and didn’t hurt me physically but it planted the seed of disdain for running as exercise. Running was the consequence for not doing something right. So from the start, I associated running with discomfort. I could sprint, sure, but anything beyond that left me gasping. Later, I learned I had exercise-induced asthma — which suddenly explained a lot — but as a kid, it just felt like running any distance hated me as much as I hated it.
Years later, after finishing undergrad at the University of Utah, graduate school at Case Western, and podiatric medical school in Cleveland, I was deep in residency at Henry Ford Wyandotte Hospital. Life was stressful — long hours, call weeks, rotations, clinic coverage, and not much time to take care of myself. Around that time, an orthopedist friend invited me to join him for a run, I had found a new amazing lifelong friend, he is the reason I even started running in the first place. I joined him for some runs, and it was humbling. My lungs burned, my legs protested, and I realized how far I had drifted from the physical version of me I wanted to be at this point in my life.
So I started running on my own — partly out of pride, partly because I wanted to be able to keep up next time he invited me. I used a Hal Higdon half-marathon plan and followed it religiously. Slowly, painfully, I worked my way up from barely surviving a mile to finishing local races — a short “Darth Vader Run” a school put on in September 2016 and a longer race later that fall. I wasn’t fast (my young girls ran faster than me), but I was consistent thereafter. I started to notice how much running demanded mentally, not just physically. It taught me how easily my mind looked for excuses, and how good it felt to silence them.
The island of Grosse Ile I lived on at the time was a perfect training ground — flat roads, clean air, loops of every distance imaginable. The full circle around the island was roughly a half-marathon, and I loved that symmetry. I ran mostly at night, wearing bright-colored or neon Saucony shoes, a headlamp strapped across my forehead, and a flashlight in hand. There were very few streetlamps except along the main road, so most nights I ran under stars and silence — or the distant sound of coyotes calling from the woods. Some nights I was out on muddy dirt roads, others on snow-packed streets, bundled in layers and determination. The Detroit River shimmered beside me, and most nights I could see across to Canada.
I’d end every run with a sprint if I could, just to finish strong — even if I was gasping, even if I had nothing left. Those miles became therapy. I realized that if I fueled better, slept better, and planned my days around training, I felt human again — sharper, calmer, more in control. The residency grind didn’t change, but I did. My body was getting stronger, and my mind was finally keeping pace. This had all begun when I started helping my orthopedist friend train for his marathon, which included a halfway point half marathon baked into his marathon training — biking alongside him, carrying his water and gels, cheering him through the long runs. I carried a bluetooth speaker and played Eye of the Tiger at the end of the more grueling runs to pump him up.
By December 2016, I was in the best shape of my adult life thanks to Dr. Callan and my buddy Dustin who I worked out with. I had encoscopic hernia surgery that month, attended the memorial of my Maternal Grandfather, recovered, and then ran the Rock CF Rivers Half Marathon in March 2017 — my first real half marathon. It was everything I’d hoped for and those last 2 miles sucked. A month later a friend and I ran a 5 K and my 2nd half marathon directly after (back-to-back) at the Martian Invasion Run in Dearborn (which starts uphill), collecting three medals in one day — one of which glows in the dark, a cool reminder of that race.
That wasn’t the end of my running story. Life shifted quickly — finishing residency, preparing to move across the country, and stepping into my first foray into private practice in Eugene Oregon. Between the chaos of relocation and starting fresh, running became my anchor again. In September 2017, I ran the Charleston Salmon Run half marathon in Coos Bay, home of Legendary Steve Prefontaine. Later that winter, I ran another half in Eugene — one of the last before the historic Hayward Field was torn down and rebuilt. There was something poetic about it: crossing that finish line before a new era began. In the span 2 years I had run 5 half marathons, which is insane to me, being that I had never run anything like that prior in my life.
I didn’t realize it then, but that chapter marked the close of my first great running season. Running, it had all started as a form of athletic punishment as a kid, turned into therapy, and ultimately became a symbol of rebuilding — proof that I could endure, adapt, and start again.