So please don’t think I’m crazy — or a lot — when I tell you this. And definitely don’t think I’m some kind of badass for it either. I didn’t start running because I woke up one day disciplined, fearless or inspired by some deep inner calling. I started running because I was… influenced.

When I was in my early 30s, everywhere I went — driving, walking, standing in a parking lot, heading into work — I saw people running. Always running. Any time of day. They had this carefree, almost smug ease about them. At first, my internal dialogue went something like, Oh look, a runner. Then it shifted to, Don’t these people have jobs? And eventually, without me even realizing it, it became, I wish I was them.

So I started. Slowly. Painfully. Awkwardly.

It took time, more time than I’d like to admit, but eventually I worked my way up to my first 5K on my 35th birthday. That felt huge. Then came more distance. More confidence. More of that quiet shift that happens when you realize your body is capable of things you once believed were off limits.

But at some point, running alone wasn’t enough. I knew myself well enough to know that if I wanted to go farther, physically and mentally, I needed people. Community-building is kind of my thing, after all. So I did what any normal person would do: I contacted our local area governance and said, “Hey, I want to start a run group. Can I add it to your communications?”

They said yes.

Just like that.

And so it began. Weekly meetups with people who had been doing what I was just starting to do. Every week, we ran together. Sometimes farther. Sometimes shorter. Some people stopped early, others pushed ahead. Everyone at their own pace, doing their own thing — but together.

We talked about everything: issues, socks, shoes, stretching, food. All the tiny details that, when added up, make you stronger so you can keep going. We supported each other. When one or two people were training for a marathon, the rest of us joined them along the way. Our miles weren’t as long, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to keep them company for a while, so they didn’t feel alone out there.

Looking back, this was probably my first real experience building a community not just for connection, but for propulsion. Their influence, perseverance and resilience were contagious. Strong enough that eventually I decided I wanted to try running a marathon myself.

They talked about crossing the finish line like it was a spiritual experience — this euphoric moment where pain and pride collide. And as weird as it sounds, hearing them talk about pushing through both physically and mentally lit something up in me. I knew I needed that.

So again, I did what most people would do. I signed up. I had my community, after all.

They showed up for me in every way possible. Cheered me on. Trained with me. Encouraged me when I wanted to quit. And when I crossed that marathon finish line, I was proud — deeply proud. Physically, I was done. Completely spent.

But mentally? I wasn’t even close.

That euphoric feeling everyone talked about? I didn’t get it. Something was missing. So, naturally — and perhaps irrationally — I did what most “normal” people would do next. I signed up for a 50K.

Welp. Long story short: a few falls, a lot of tears and more self-doubt than I care to remember… I got it. That feeling. That deep, earned euphoria. The realization that I could be broken — physically and mentally — and not just survive, but accomplish something I never thought possible. I was wrecked. And I was so, so proud of myself.

It feels ironic now. Or maybe foreshadowing. Literary terms aren’t really my strength, but the other day, as I was moving through what I’m currently going through, I thought back to that community. To that training. To that version of me learning how to keep going even when everything hurt.

And it hit me: maybe that was the training I needed for this chapter of my life. Because the broken parts of the journey aren’t what define you. They never were.

It’s what’s on the other side.

Mother, author, entrepreneur and founder of Dandelion-Inc, Lisa Resnick wants to hear your story. Share memories with her by emailing lisa@dandelion-inc.com.