I already know what would happen if I were out there: the giggles as I run to the high jump bar, the burning shame as I kick it, the disappointed sigh of the PE teacher as she writes another failure in her notebook. So I sit on the hard wooden bench instead, my gym clothes safely hidden in the back of my closet at home—exactly where I left them on purpose.
I feel safe here, watching Andrea effortlessly clear the bar. Then Claudia. Then Josephine. Each successful jump feels like another reminder of what I can’t do. And while the wooden bench might be hard and uncomfortable, it’s far more comfortable than being out there, seen, judged.
At 14 years old, I had mastered the art of strategic failure—carefully choosing when to “forget” my gym clothes, accepting the automatic failing grade as a lesser punishment than the public humiliation of trying and failing.
It would take me decades to understand that this wasn’t just about sports; that my carefully crafted avoidance wasn’t protecting me—it was teaching me to make myself smaller, to choose invisibility over possibility. Each time I sat on that bench, I was rehearsing a story I’d been told my whole life: that I wasn’t athletic, that I didn’t belong in sports, that it was better not to try than to try and fail.
What I didn’t know, sitting on that bench, feeling like a failure, was that that story would eventually crack open.
That somewhere between those humiliating PE classes and now, I would learn that “athletic” isn’t a fixed identity bestowed in childhood; that there are forms of movement that have nothing to do with high jump bars, team selections, or timed sprints.
It was ultrarunning that finally shattered these childhood beliefs. Ultrarunning is so far removed from traditional athletics that it almost feels like an anti-sport—where being fast matters less than being stubborn, where success isn’t measured in seconds but in survival. It breaks all the rules I learned in that gymnasium. But more importantly, it breaks something inside me: the belief that failure is something to be avoided at all costs.
In ultras, failure isn’t just possible—it’s practically guaranteed at some point. Every runner, even the elites, will have races where they don’t make it to the finish line. We call this a DNF (Did Not Finish), and it’s treated not as a shame but as a badge of experience, a story to learn from, another piece of data in the grand experiment of pushing human limits.
The first time I toed the start line of an ultra, that 14-year-old bench-sitter inside me was terrified.
But something was different now.
The possibility of failure was still there, but it had lost its sting. Because this wasn’t about being good enough anymore – it was about being curious enough.
Curious about what would happen if I tried.
Curious about what I might discover about myself somewhere between midnight and dawn, between the start line and wherever my journey might end.
The Loner’s Advantage
Team sports were my nightmare, and not just because of the performance pressure. It was the physical proximity that terrified me most – the unavoidable closeness of bodies during handball games, the accidental touches in volleyball, the way you couldn’t help but brush against others during group activities.
My social anxiety made every moment of physical nearness feel like an invasion, every casual touch a source of panic.
I didn’t know then that my discomfort with crowds and physical proximity was quietly preparing me for something else.
While other kids were learning to thrive in team environments, I was inadvertently learning the art of self-reliance. While they were developing their social coordination, I was developing something that would prove far more valuable in ultras: the ability to be completely alone with myself.
Even now, I feel that familiar anxiety spike at crowded race starts, that instinctive desire to create distance between myself and others. But in ultras, unlike PE class, this works to my advantage. As the miles stretch on, the crowds thin out. What starts as an overwhelming mass of runners gradually disperses into solitary figures spread across the trails.
This is where I begin to thrive.
When you’re running through the night along the Swedish coast, there’s no crowd to navigate. No uncomfortable proximity to manage. Just you, your footsteps, and the darkness.
The solitude that once felt like a curse has become my secret weapon. While other athletes struggle to head out for six-hour training runs alone, I thrive in these moments of solitude. Those long morning runs, when most people are still sleeping, have become my sanctuary. The twenty-milers through forests where I don’t see another soul, the endless hours with nothing but my footsteps and thoughts – this is where I feel most at home.
And when race day comes, this comfort with solitude becomes a genuine advantage. While some runners rely on the energy of their crew, use pacers, or seek out conversation with fellow runners to pass the miles, I can sink into that familiar space of being alone with myself, even in a field of hundreds. The silence that once felt isolating has become my steady companion.
The Fear Factor
I learned to exist in a state of constant alertness. Growing up with an alcoholic stepfather meant learning to read the smallest signs of approaching danger – the sound of stumbling footsteps, the slam of a door, the shift in atmosphere that meant trouble was brewing.
At home, there was the unpredictable rage, my mother’s cutting words calling us stupid and useless, the constant fear of utilities being cut off or another eviction notice. At school, there was the endless tension of potential humiliation and failure. Every sphere of my life was colored by a sense that catastrophe was just around the corner.
Like a prey animal, my body was trained to remain hypervigilant, always scanning for threats, always ready to react. This wasn’t anxiety – it was survival instinct, honed by years of unpredictability.
I didn’t realize then that this constant state of tension was actually training for something bigger. Those years spent managing fear, regulating my breathing, talking myself through panic – they were unconsciously preparing me for the mental challenges of ultra running.
That childhood hypervigilance now serves me in ways I never expected.
When I was 90 miles into a hundred-mile race through Berlin, navigating crowds of drunk partygoers at 3 AM, my exhausted brain instinctively kicked into that familiar state of heightened awareness. The same alertness that once helped me avoid my stepfather’s volatile moods now helps me read the body language of stumbling strangers, finding safe paths through unpredictable situations.
And the night I ran 100 kilometers along the Swedish coast pushed these instincts even further. Starting at 10 PM in a foreign country, having been awake since 4 AM, I was terrified.
But terror was an old friend by now. Just like that girl who learned to function through fear at home, I knew how to keep moving forward despite the panic.
I pushed through the darkness, through the fear, through the unfamiliarity, eventually finishing as the 15th woman.
The mental endurance I built surviving childhood has become my secret weapon in enduring ultra distances.
The Outsider’s Edge
Never fitting into traditional sports gave me an unexpected form of freedom. While I had the technical knowledge from my certifications and years of prior running experience, I was free from the mental constraints that often hold athletes back. I didn’t carry the weight of expectations about what an “athlete” should look or move like. I didn’t internalize the conventional narratives about who belongs in endurance sports.
This outsider perspective became an unexpected advantage. When I returned to running in my late thirties, I wasn’t trying to live up to anyone’s standards but my own. While others might have questioned whether a former PE class failure could succeed in ultras, I was unburdened by these doubts.
My approach to training reflects this outsider mindset. While others might stick to traditional ultra training methods, I found strength in unconventional combinations – like integrating serious kettlebell work into my ultra preparation. I’ve experimented with nutrition approaches that others might consider unusual, finding what works for me rather than following prescribed wisdom.
This independence extends to racing too. While most ultra runners rely heavily on crew and pacers, I learned to be self-sufficient – a double-edged sword that sometimes makes it hard to accept help when I need it. But this self-reliance, born from years of being an outsider, has become another tool in my ultra arsenal.
Perhaps the most powerful manifestation of this outsider’s edge shows up in my coaching.
Because I never fit the traditional athlete mold, I don’t put limits on what others can achieve, no matter their starting point. My own transformation from PE class failure to successful ultra runner with multiple podium finishes has given me an unshakeable belief in the potential for change. I can look at a struggling athlete and see possibilities where others might see limitations because I know firsthand that conventional wisdom about who can become an athlete is often wrong.
This freedom from traditional athletic identity has become another unlikely superpower. My strength comes precisely from never having fit the mold – because I never learned to limit myself by what an “athlete” is supposed to be or do.
Sometimes, being an outsider means you’re free to rewrite the rules about what’s possible.
The Anti-Athlete's Triumph
Blood streaming down my leg, hip throbbing from the fall, I cross the finish line of my first mountain ultra. But I’m grinning through the pain and dirt, because I realize something profound: there is no single path to becoming an athlete.
Every perceived weakness, every struggle, every difference that made me feel like an outsider has become a strength in the right context.
That fearful girl sitting on the gymnasium bench didn’t need to become fearless – she needed to find a sport where her careful relationship with fear became an asset.
The loner who couldn’t handle team sports didn’t need to become more social – she needed to find a sport where her comfort with solitude became a superpower.
The outsider who never fit the traditional athlete mold didn’t need to change – she needed to find a sport where breaking convention became an advantage.
Every finish line I cross is a testament to how wrong those early labels were.
Not because I overcame them, but because I found a way to transform them. In ultrarunning, I discovered that success isn’t about fitting a predetermined mold of what an athlete should be. It’s about taking who you are – all of it, the fears, the quirks, the differences – and finding a way to make it work for you.
Now when I toe the starting line of another crazy ultrarunning adventure, I carry all these parts of myself with me.
The hypervigilance that helps me navigate through the night, the independence that keeps me moving forward alone, the outsider’s perspective that lets me find my own path.
They’re not weaknesses to overcome anymore – they’re the very tools that help me succeed.
My story isn’t about transformation as much as it is about recognition – recognizing that what I thought were flaws were actually strengths in disguise.
The long way around – through all the fear and failure and feeling different – turned out to be exactly the path I needed to take.