When I graduated college in 2004, I didn't know what I wanted to do professionally, other than run. Unfortunately, I wasn't a collegiate star, I was an NCAA Division 2 All-American. I'd run some quick times on the track, but I was not getting any kind of contract out of school. What I really wanted to do was get onto one of the post-collegiate development teams, like the Hansons or Zap Fitness, but I wasn't quite fast enough. Eventually, I was provided an opportunity to join a group in Eugene, Oregon. It was not one of those upper tier groups, and it didn't provide much in the way of support, but I really felt that I needed to join a group like that to really take my running to the next level. And in addition to that, I felt like I needed to look like a top-tier distance runner. I had this book of some of the best American runners ever, and I would look at the runners who were 5’8” like me, and look at how much they weighed. It was usually between 115 and 125 pounds. When I graduated from college, I was a healthy 140. I got this idea in my head that if I wanted to race at the top level that I needed to look like the guys in my book, and I went for it as quickly as I could. I lost 16-17 pounds and plummeted down to 124 within a couple of months. I cut my calories almost down to nothing. I played this game where I tracked everything I took in, and I could not allow myself to exceed 1,000 calories for the day. And at this time, I was running over 100 miles per week. As you can tell, those numbers don’t add up—you go into deficit pretty quickly, and even though I lost the weight and ran a couple of decent races, it didn’t last long. I suffered three pretty major stress fractures, two in my sacrum, and one in my pubic symphysis.

 I was never clinically diagnosed with an eating disorder, but I definitely had disordered eating. My body and mind were not healthy. I got to a place where it wasn’t about performance anymore, it was completely about winning this game of not exceeding 1,000 calories and seeing if I could get down to 120 pounds. I went down that spiral pretty quickly, but fortunately, I was able to pull myself out of it before passing the point of no return. What I went through is not how anyone should be looking at their relationship with food, or running, or their body. And this is why I’m sharing my story. Just the other day, a male runner who’d heard me talk about this on a podcast sent me a message saying, “I thought I was the only person dealing with this until I heard you talking about it.” So, whether it’s with my audience, or with the athletes I coach, I feel like there’s an opportunity, given my platform, to over-communicate and bring awareness to the problem so we can do something about it.

I don’t think I’ve talked about this on my podcast or in any of the interviews I’ve done before, but I lost my mom unexpectedly in 2008 to a brain aneurysm. It was very sudden. It was a Tuesday night, and I was driving to a track workout. I remember that it was raining. I got a call from my dad, and I just had this sinking feeling in my gut before he even said a word to me. I can’t describe it, but I am feeling like that right now just thinking about it. Dad told me that my sister had found Mom unresponsive in the bathroom and that they were going to the hospital. I had this feeling that she’d already passed and once I got to the hospital that turned out to be the case. I was 26 years old at the time. I had just run Boston for the first time. I grew up in Massachusetts so even though my mom wasn’t a runner she understood the magnitude of it. She was so proud and told all her friends that her son was running Boston. I ended up unraveling in the second half of the marathon and finished 51st, but I’ll never forget how proud Mom was that day. She’d tell anyone who’d listen that her son finished 51st in the Boston Marathon. That was the last race that she ever saw me run.

Her passing is, to this day, the most impactful event of my life. It flipped my whole world upside down. My dad unexpectedly lost his wife of 27 years. My siblings and I lost our mom. My grandfather lost his daughter. My aunts and uncles lost their sister. Many people lost a friend. I’ve never experienced anything like that before. I was crushed, and in shock, but it forced me to reevaluate my own life. And it still forces me to go back and remind myself that life is short and it’s not worth our time to spend it getting caught up in bullshit. One thing that my wife and I have in common (and actually how we started talking) is that we both lost our moms. She lost her mom to cancer. It wasn’t an unexpected occurrence like mine, but it is what brought us together.

The night my mom passed, I ended up going for a run when I got home. I ran a four-mile loop from my house. I didn’t know what else to do. That was the first time running was more than a training session for me. It was therapy. I don’t think I knew it at the time, but looking back, I realize how important those runs are for my well-being. I take them all the time now, electively. I run the same loop from home almost every Monday, and I run it for myself. I don’t wear a watch, I don’t take my phone, and I don’t run with anybody. That run is just for me. It’s a time for reflection and to gather myself at the start of the week. Going back to that first run after my mom passed away, it showed me the power of running as a therapeutic outlet.

Coaching at the 2012 Olympics was one of the coolest experiences of my life, and I was very fortunate to be presented with that opportunity. I had a guy from Costa Rica reach out to me on behalf of an athlete he represented—Cesar Lizano— and ask me if I’d be interested in helping him prepare for London. I actually thought it was one of my buddies messing with me because I’d never heard of the athlete or his agent. I knew nothing about Costa Rica as a running country, but I said, “Sure, I’ll talk to you.” It didn’t end up being one of my buddies playing a prank—they did really want to talk to me about coaching.

I didn’t think that I would actually be at the Games in person, but they were able to get me there. Costa Rica had 11 athletes total, and then coaches, physios and administrators were a part of the delegation. I got to go to the Olympic Games, experience living in the village, all of it. The men’s marathon was at the end of the athletics program, so we had lots of time and a good bit of training still to do once we arrived. We went and trained on the same track as people like Mo Farah and Usain Bolt. It was pretty surreal. I’ve worked with some higher level athletes, but the Olympics is the ultimate level. It was an awesome opportunity, I learned a lot, the race went well, and I hope to have that experience again some time.

I’m a competitive guy. Whatever it is: running, relationships, or work, if I’m trying to get the best out of myself and being the best I can be, that is going to inspire other people to do the same. If I can inspire others to be the best that they can be, it, in turn, pushes me to be the best I can be. That’s the great thing about competition, and it should be celebrated. That shouldn’t be criticized at all. And for me, competition fuels almost every aspect of my life. There can be a dangerous side to that, for sure, but I think it’s more of a positive thing if it can be channeled in the right way.

For someone looking to be the best they can be, whether it’s running or something else, my recommendation is to commit. Just commit. And that doesn't need to be getting out and running every day. Maybe it's every other day. Maybe it's three times a week. Whatever it is for you, establish it and commit to it and don't let anything knock you off of that pursuit. I think that's the most important step: commit. You don't have to be a hero. You just have to commit. Commit to consistency. Commit to getting out three times a week and building that into your day, into your schedule, and making it a priority.