In January 2024, Sergio and I stood at the start line of the Miami Life Time Half Marathon out of shape, undertrained, and pushing a double stroller with two toddlers. This was not our first race. But it was the first one in a long time, and honestly, we had no business being there.

We had signed up months earlier with the best of intentions. Get back in shape, move our bodies, and do something hard together. But life with two toddlers has a way of quietly swallowing your plans whole, and by the time race day was a few weeks out we were in real trouble. Sergio was at his heaviest — 270 pounds — and we were training at completely different paces, struggling through runs that felt twice as long as they should have. So we made a plan — two weeks, whatever miles we could get, and a whole lot of determination.

We decided early on that I would push the boys for the entire race rather than switching back and forth, partly because it made logistical sense and partly because I was determined to beat Sergio. A week before race day I ran 11 miles with the stroller, felt strong, and decided we actually had a shot at this.

Race morning started at 2am. We packed the stroller with blankets, snacks, and diapers, loaded two half-asleep boys into the car, and drove to the train station in the dark with the kind of quiet focus that only comes from knowing you’ve committed to something slightly insane. By the time we reached the start line, got the potty breaks handled, and settled everyone in, I was ready — competitive, locked in, and not about to let Sergio beat me.

The miles went by and somewhere around mile 10, I desperately needed a bathroom. I spotted the portable potty but didn’t feel comfortable leaving the kids outside alone, and more importantly, stopping meant losing my lead — and after pushing that stroller for ten miles there was absolutely no way I was giving that up. So I held it all the way to the finish line. Thirteen months postpartum, running a half marathon, too competitive to stop. It wasn’t my smartest decision and my body made sure I knew it — I was convinced I had a prolapse. Thankfully I didn’t, but that moment became a real wake-up call that this body had carried two pregnancies and deserved far more respect than I was giving it.

I crossed the finish line ahead of Sergio, stroller and all, and felt proud of myself in a way I hadn’t in a long time.

Sergio crossed that finish line with everything he had, and somewhere in those final miles, he decided tomorrow was going to look very different. He came home from that race and made a decision, a real and total one, overhauling his diet, committing to training, and losing 80 pounds over the months that followed. Six months after struggling through those January miles with me, he crossed the finish line of Ironman 70.3 Ohio in Sandusky — the same man, completely transformed.

Learning to live around Ironman training as a family brought its own challenges. Sergio would be out for hours on long rides and runs while I was home chasing toddlers, and finding that balance took time and patience and more than a few frustrated conversations. But we found our groove, and somewhere in the middle of all of it we stumbled into a lifestyle we both loved — one built around movement, big goals, and the belief that hard things are worth doing together.

That Miami race wasn’t pretty or fast or particularly graceful. But it was the start of everything.

This is the long run.