WHAT DOING A TRIATHLON AT 237 POUNDS TAUGHT ME (AND WHY I TELL MY SONS TO DO IT TODAY)

“I’m tired.” “I’ll do it later.” “I’m not in the mood.”

I hear it every single day. From my sons. From the young adults I mentor. And honestly? Some days I hear it from myself. The difference is I’ve learned to do it anyway.

I always tell them the same thing: Do it today so you don’t have to think about it tomorrow.

They look at me like I’m being unreasonable.

Maybe I am.

Five years ago, at 43, weighing 237 pounds, I decided to do a triathlon. I learned how to clip into bike pedals one week before the race. My son was in crisis. We were in the middle of a pandemic. I had every rational reason not to do it.

I did it anyway.

And it taught me more about being human than three decades of reading psychology textbooks ever did.

THE RACE

Let’s be clear: I had no business doing a triathlon.

I trained for four months, which in triathlon terms is like showing up to med school having watched a few episodes of Grey’s Anatomy. I was only 5 pounds off my highest weight at the end of the training. My back was held together with hope and weekly interventions. The world was falling apart. And the largest size triathlon suit they make barely fit me.

I stood at that starting line surrounded by lean, seasoned athletes who clearly lived for this, and the voice in my head was already going: You don’t belong here. You’re fat. You’re ugly. You don’t deserve to be standing next to these people.

My own disdain for myself was greater than anyone else’s could have been.

I got in the water anyway.

Race day went exactly as well as you’d expect.

The waves were huge, slapping me in the face with every stroke. I couldn’t see the landmarks. I couldn’t see anything. Just water and more water, and the voice in my head screaming: You idiot. Why are you doing this?

I swam off course, added an extra half mile. Got on the bike and my legs ached climbing the hills of San Francisco, praying I didn’t fall off, lungs feeling like they would explode. Missed a turn on the run and tacked on an extra mile because reading signs while oxygen-deprived is hard. My body was screaming. Everything hurt.

I kept going.

Not because I’m some superhuman athlete. Not because I have exceptional willpower. But because I’d made a decision before the race started: Quitting wasn’t an option.

When quitting isn’t on the table, the math gets simpler. You’re not debating whether to continue. You’re just figuring out how.

I broke it down: You can do anything for 5 minutes.

That’s it. Five minutes. Then another five. Then another.

Near the end, climbing a steep sandy hill with two miles left, a woman fell into step beside me. We walked together for a few beats. Then she said it.

“I can’t.”

I tried. “Just five more minutes. You can do anything for five minutes.”

She stopped. Stepped off the course. Walked away.

I watched her go. And for a second, maybe longer than a second, I wanted to follow her. My legs were jello. My back was screaming. Every rational part of my brain was making a very persuasive case for quitting.

But something deeper wouldn’t let me. The same part of me that hated how I looked in that suit was also the part that refused to give up on myself. I would have crawled across that finish line before I quit.

I was one of the last people to cross before they shut it down. Dead last would’ve been more poetic, but second-to-last will do.

I crossed that line red-faced, smelling more disgusting than I have in my entire life. One of my husband’s best friends, equally smelly, had done the race with me. My husband met us for tacos afterward, clean and fresh after a leisurely morning, laughing at the two of us while we demolished margaritas like they were water. Terrible idea when you’re exhausted and dehydrated. But we didn’t care. We’d done it! We were invincible.

And somewhere underneath the sunburn and the margarita haze and the legs that wouldn’t work, something shifted.

Not the big dramatic movie moment you’d expect. Just a quiet thing: I am worthy. I belong here. Not because I looked like those athletes. Not because I placed well. But because I showed up, hated every second, judged myself the entire time, and still refused to quit.

Then reality hit.

This wasn’t a finish line. This was mile one of a very long race.

That was five years ago. I’m 48 now. But the weight loss? That didn’t start until three years ago. I’ve lost 67 pounds since then. Not through some dramatic transformation. Not through a 12-week program or a miracle supplement.

Five minutes at a time. For three years.

That’s the actual work.

WHAT THE RACE TAUGHT ME

You’re never going to be ready. Nobody is. Ever.

Ready is a myth. A convenient excuse. A way to avoid the discomfort of starting.

My assistant, who has become family, says he’ll start looking for a place when he has more savings. But there’s no plan to save. No budget. No timeline. Just “when I have more.” Later, dressed up as responsibility.

Later never comes. It’s a date that doesn’t exist on any calendar. Tomorrow becomes next week becomes next month becomes “I should’ve done that years ago.”

Make the decision before you start: quitting is not an option. The woman on the hill waited until she had two miles left to decide she couldn’t finish. I decided before the gun went off that I would. That’s the only difference between us. Not fitness. Not talent. Not weight. It was never physical. It was always mental.

WHAT I TELL MY SONS

My sons still make excuses. So do I. So does everyone.

That’s not weakness. That’s human. We are wired to justify our inaction, to build an airtight case for why today isn’t the day. The voice that told me I didn’t belong at that starting line is the same voice that tells all of us we’re the exception. That our situation is different. That the rules don’t apply here.

It’s lying. It’s always lying.

And if we let it, we will always find the path of least resistance. We will always choose comfort. Stagnation doesn’t announce itself. It just quietly becomes your life while you were waiting to be ready.

So I keep saying it. To my sons. To my assistant. To myself on the days the voice is loud.

Do it today so you don’t have to think about it tomorrow.

Just 5 minutes. That’s all you need. And when 5 minutes is up? Do another 5.

So whatever you’ve been putting off, do it today.

Not because you’re ready. Not because conditions are perfect. Not because you feel like it.

Because you do it anyway. And on the other side of all that doubt is the only thing that matters: you are worthy.