When the Miles Disappear

It started with a tug during HYROX in New York City. Not dramatic. Just a quiet, unmistakable pull in the back of my leg. I tried to stretch it out. Walk it off. Reason with it.

But the body does not respond to negotiation. Not always.

By the next morning, I couldn’t run. Not the way I’m used to. Not with freedom. Not without bracing. And as someone who leans hard on running, as rhythm, as release, as regulation, it wasn’t just my hamstring that hurt. It was something deeper.

X-rays later revealed a small calcification. A sign that something tore. Not visible in the ways I expected, but undeniable in how I move now. And in how I can’t.

I’m seeing the right people. I’m doing the work. I am modifying. I am healing. I know this. I remind myself often.

Targeted hands. Tender progress. Recovery, one layer at a time.

Still, this season feels strange. Like watching everyone else fly by while I count quiet reps and pedal nowhere. Like searching for progress in slow-moving mirrors. Like learning how to want less, at least for now.

Because I can move. Just not the way I want to. I can stay strong. Just not without softness. I can show up. Just not at the speed I once did.

And I miss it. The sound of sneakers on pavement before the world wakes up.

The honesty of breath syncing with stride. The clarity that comes from motion.

There is something humbling about being slowed down. About sitting with the discomfort instead of outrunning it. About letting the body speak first and resisting the urge to interrupt.

So, for now, I do what I can. I stay present. I lift differently. I rest harder. I trust the quiet repair already underway.

Healing is not loud. But it is steady. And one day soon, I will lace up again, not to race anything, but simply to feel the rhythm return. To let the ground say: welcome back.