You start running with your mind. You finish running with your heart.

Four months. One marathon. Everything I learned about showing up.

I spent four months waking up at 5:00 a.m.

Four times a week. With my dog Coconut by my side. Running miles I didn’t know I had in me. Documented on IG stories.

And on January 18th, I ran a marathon. (See photos here)

But this isn’t a story about crossing a finish line.

It’s about what happens when you commit to something so big that it forces you to meet versions of yourself you’ve been avoiding for years.

The thing is, I had no idea what I was getting into.

I just knew that everything is a process. There are steps to the game. And all I had to do was show up and keep stacking the pieces.

So I did.

Through Christmas Eve. Through New Year’s Eve. Not a single drop of alcohol for four straight months. Because I wanted to feel like an athlete. I wanted to transform.

And I think that’s what most people miss when they talk about goals or discipline or whatever word makes them feel productive for five minutes before they go back to scrolling.

Transformation doesn’t come from inspiration.

It comes from showing up when everything in you is screaming to stay in bed.

Why most people quit before they even start

Here’s what I’ve noticed.

People treat commitment like it’s supposed to feel good.

They think discipline is this heroic thing where you wake up motivated, crushing your goals, feeling like the main character in some inspirational movie.

But that’s not real.

Real commitment is waking up in November with COVID, feeling like absolute garbage, and knowing you’ve lost weeks of training. It’s getting sick again in December and watching your carefully planned schedule fall apart.

It’s your body hitting what marathon runners call “the wall” around mile 15, where you literally can’t walk, your legs turn to jelly, and your dog wants to keep going but you’re basically disabled on the sidewalk.

That’s the part nobody talks about.

Because if they did, most people would never start.

And I believe that’s exactly the problem. We’ve been sold this idea that the hard things should somehow become easy if we’re doing them right. But the hard things stay hard. You just get stronger.

The lessons you learn when nobody’s watching

I made this rule early on: no phone during training.

I spend enough hours behind a screen as an engineer and creator. So these runs became my way to detox. To bond with Coconut. To discover who I actually am when I’m not performing for anyone.

And man, that hit different.

I cried more during those four months than I’d like to admit. I talked to my grandfather who passed five years ago. I went to places inside myself I’d been avoiding. I spoke to my inner child. I processed things I didn’t even know I was carrying.

Therapeutic doesn’t do it justice. It was spiritual. Cathartic. Self-discovery at its finest.

But here’s what’s wild: I also made beginner mistakes that could’ve derailed everything.

ChatGPT treated me like an experienced marathon runner, so I was running at a pace way too fast for someone trying to just finish. I learned about supplements by accident when I realized eating a banana or some dark chocolate before a run gave me way more endurance.

I discovered that the clothes you wear matter. That blisters are real. That training with a dog means you’re both the controller and the athlete, learning pace and rhythm together.

One friend told me: “For the love of God, run in the same attire you’ve been training in. Don’t buy fancy clothes for race day.”

That one hack probably saved me.

When everything falls apart two days before

Two days before the marathon, I found out dogs weren’t allowed.

I tried everything. Every desk. Every person. The answers ranged from “bring him at your own risk” to a hard no.

I was demolished.

Four months of training with Coconut by my side, and I’d have to run alone.

My wife said something beautiful that night. She said, “Coconut won’t know he’s not there. What he does know is all those moments you shared together. And this marathon is the first of many.”

I took him for one last walk. Hugged him. Thanked him. Spent half the next day sulking because all my belief had been built around finishing with my dog.

But then I realized something.

It was my body. My mind. My choice to keep going. The dog was by my side in spirit, but I was the one doing it.

And I think that’s where most people get stuck. They build their entire why around something external, and when that thing changes or disappears, they quit.

The first 20k is run with your head

Race day came.

6:00 a.m. 200 runners. Gloomy weather. And me, comparing myself to everyone who looked faster, stronger, more prepared.

But I stuck to my pace. Put on a Stephen Bartlett and Tony Robbins podcast. Thanked my dog for all the reps. Thanked my wife and daughter.

And I just kept moving.

Here’s what I learned: the first half of a marathon is run with your head.

You manage your pace. You trust the process. You don’t get seduced by the runners sprinting past you at kilometer five.

Because those same runners? I watched them hit the wall at kilometer 25, cramping on the sidelines, unable to move.

The second 20k is run with your heart

After the podcast ended, I switched to AC/DC.

And something shifted.

I went from student to leader in a split second. My energy exploded. I started dancing, flowing, feeling the music hit my soul after four months of running in silence.

I even had the balls to respond to LinkedIn posts, swipe a few pictures, send updates to friends and family. It was weird having a phone on race day, but music felt like swallowing a limitless pill.

Everything became alive.

People were cheering. The support crew was handing out water every 2k. The scenic routes through Nicosia were breathtaking.

I was in full flow until kilometer 30.

Then my world turned inside out.

The loop of despair

My feet started cramping. My mindset screamed that I was a failure.

Kilometers 31 to 35 are what runners call the Loop of Despair. You question your entire existence. You’re in limbo. You watch people who were laughing just miles ago now crumbling like zombies, holding their legs, barely able to stand.

It was like watching a scene from The Walking Dead, except these weren’t actors. These were real people who trained just like me, now collapsing at the finish line’s doorstep.

I slowed down. Wished people well. Brought water to a guy struggling. But in the back of my mind, I feared I was next.

So I summoned my grandfather. Told him every drop of sweat was for him.

Turned AC/DC to full volume. Put on a childhood song called “Dreaming in a Non-Dream” by Solar Motel Band.

And that song carried me home.

What happens when you refuse to quit

Something masculine lit up in me. Something that said stopping wasn’t an option.

I told myself I was at 60% capacity, even though my knees were bending and my feet were giving up.

I picked up my hands, counted to seven, and realized I only had 7k left. That was a distance Coconut and I crushed every single week.

I breathed. I punched my thighs to prevent the cramps. I screamed “no” out loud when my body wanted to quit.

My friend Matt and my wife Artemis checked in. An old running buddy sent a message that said, “The marathon starts at 30k.” He knew exactly where I was, and I burst into tears while running.

Through the uphills. Through watching people collapse. My chin stayed high.

Because at the finish line was my daughter, my wife, and everyone who rooted for me through this journey.

And I crossed it.

The only way is through

This isn’t some motivational rah-rah story.

It’s a log of what happens when you commit to something bigger than comfort. When you choose long-term transformation over short-term relief.

The biggest lesson I learned? The only way is through.

Whether it’s a run, a job, a business, a relationship, whatever you put your mind to—there are no shortcuts. No hacks that bypass the hard part.

You start running with your mind. You finish running with your heart.

And I think that applies to everything we do.

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When I got home that day, I sat on the floor with Coconut.

He had no idea what I’d just done. No idea I’d crossed a finish line without him. But he was just happy I was there.

And I realized something sitting there, exhausted, crying again for what felt like the hundredth time in four months.

The marathon wasn’t about proving anything to anyone.

It was about meeting myself in those early morning runs. In the moments I wanted to quit. In the Loop of Despair when my body was screaming and my mind had to take over.

It was about learning that I’m capable of more than I think. That the versions of myself I’ve been avoiding aren’t as scary as I imagined. That transformation happens in the silent, unglamorous moments when nobody’s watching.

My daughter will grow up with a dad who showed her that commitment isn’t sexy. It’s repetitive. It’s boring. It’s showing up when you don’t feel like it.

And I hope that matters more than any medal ever could.

Think decades, not days. Long-term thinkers always win.

But more importantly, long-term thinkers get to experience things that short-term thinkers will never understand.

To many more marathons from here.

Namaste 🙏