The wind was howling when I awoke, long before dawn on race day. I’d listened to it since midnight, a constant, relentless reminder of the challenge awaiting me. Although I don’t consider myself a fair-weather runner, stepping out in weather like this is something I’d be hesitant to do even for a training run. But this wasn’t just any run; it was race day: the culmination of all the hours and countless kilometres.

At the guesthouse, I got ready, careful with every detail: thoroughly applying sunscreen, layering on anti-chafing cream, and ensuring each item was in place. My phone stayed behind; with all the race nutrition I needed to carry, it felt like unnecessary weight, and those who cared to track me had an app to follow my progress.

As I walked towards the stadium, an unexpected wave of emotion took over. Tears welled up as I felt the weight of the journey that had brought me to this moment. I wasn’t even at the start line yet, but I could already feel the gravity of the race—both the reward and the test of every bit of training. What was supposed to be the cherry on top suddenly felt like the scariest, biggest challenge ever.

Once I started running, though, I felt strong. My pace was steady, comfortable, almost effortless. I knew I didn’t want to push too hard, but I didn’t want to lag either. Maybe I’d gone out a little fast, but it felt right at the moment, and I found myself chatting with fellow runners, sharing the camaraderie of people who understood exactly what brought us here. Every timing mat I crossed was a small victory, knowing my friends and family could see my progress. Each beep kept me motivated to reach the next checkpoint just as strongly.

Around 12km, I felt the familiar ache of the neuroma in my left foot—a pain I’d faced in training, though not quite like this. By 21km, it was worsening, and by 32km, the pain was excruciating, every step a fresh wave of agony. I’d known this might happen, but I hadn’t anticipated its intensity. Still, I was determined to finish, even if it meant slowing down and missing my goal. I’d come too far to stop.

Near the end, as my watch marked 42.2km, I could see the finish line in the distance, about 600 metres away. The temptation to stop my watch and walk the final stretch was overwhelming. But I didn’t. I kept going, pushing through those last metres, feeling that incredible pride that comes with resilience and a strong finish.

Crossing the finish line, I felt better than after my last two marathons, though still a bit unsteady on my feet. While it’s true that marathons become easier the more you do them, six hours is still a long time to run, and 42.2km is still a long way to go. Nothing compares to that feeling of accomplishment at the end, though.

Last week, I told my running coach, “At least I can put running a sub-6-hour marathon to bed now.” It’s been a goal of mine for such a long time, and it feels surreal to finally achieve it. It isn’t easy to form a new goal now. Earlier this year, my coach suggested I print the goal out and put it up, which I did. I placed two posters up, one by my desk and another in our room. Right before leaving for Cape Town, I took down the poster by my desk; I reasoned that if I didn’t reach my goal, I didn’t want the reminder hanging there—especially since I’d already decided not to run a marathon next year. I’d intended to take down the one in our room too, but something else got my attention, and I forgot. Only when I landed in Cape Town did I remember that poster was still up, and I wanted to ask my husband to remove it—but I never got to it! So the poster was there when I got back, and I was glad it was still there.

Sharing this, I realise it sounds so personal, but I’ll admit: sometimes my goals feel ridiculous, especially in the company I keep. Like, who struggles to run a sub-6-hour marathon? I’ve been running for so long, and it’s not like I haven’t put in the work; it should be very manageable for me. Yet it’s not—I am not a natural runner. I know objectively that many people can’t hit this mark, and I also know that so many were cut off on race day and that I should feel so proud and grateful, which I am. But somehow, I still carry that imposter feeling. I wonder if I’ll ever get to a point in running where I don’t feel out of my depth.

I once saw a shoelace tag that read, “Don’t stop until you’re proud.” I need that as my mantra and reminder for my next race.

What does it mean to you to not stop until you’re proud?