Blisters, Cheeseburgers, and 26.2 Miles: A Love Story

Washington, D.C.: A City That Doesn’t Know When to Quit 

When I was living and working in Washington, D.C., self-care wasn't exactly at the top of my to-do list. Washington has a particular hustle culture that can be deeply and unapologetically powerful. The hours are long. The news cycle is relentless. And somehow, somewhere between the happy hours, the networking dinners, and the general act of coping with being fully immersed in politics at work, at home and everywhere in between, my physical health, mental health, and bank account were all taking a bit of a beating. 

I wasn't eating terribly on purpose. I was just eating whatever was fast, convenient, or in front of me. I skipped meals (or overate) and made up for it in ways that were creative if not exactly nutritious. I was going out more than I was sleeping, which is a fun thing to do in your 20s but a questionable choice when you're well into your 30s and your body has started keeping receipts. The city has a way of making you feel like rest is unproductive and stillness is suspicious. 

Something had to give. And as it turned out, something did, in the form of a global pandemic that brought everything to a grinding halt. 

The Bathtub Revelation  

At the height of the pandemic, I found myself doing what many of us did: sitting very still and confronting the question of whether I was actually OK. For me, that looked like sitting in a bathtub eating a McDonald's triple cheeseburger, listening to Lana Del Rey's Ultraviolence playing in the background, and wondering what exactly I was doing with my life. Look, we all had our COVID-19 era. That was mine. 

But here's the thing about a quiet, still, slightly melodramatic moment: It forces clarity. I realized I had been running—figuratively—at a pace that wasn't sustainable, and I had nothing to show for it physically, mentally or emotionally. I wanted to feel good. I wanted to have energy. I wanted to stop white-knuckling my way through a lifestyle that wasn't actually making me happy. 

I wanted to take care of myself. I just needed to figure out what that looked like. 

Enter: Sissy 

Here's the other thing that happened during the pandemic: My best friend Sissy and I, despite living in different cities, got closer than ever. 

Sissy and I met as interns at the AFT back in 2017, and we became instant best friends—the kind where you immediately know this person is going to be in your life for a very long time. She eventually moved to New York before the pandemic hit, and when the world shut down, we found our own rhythm: weekly scary movie nights over video chat and regular check-ins, the kind of friendship that doesn't need proximity to stay strong. 

Then one day, as the pandemic began to lift, Sissy texted with a proposition: Did I want to run the New York City Marathon with her?

I said yes. And then I immediately wondered what I had gotten myself into. 

From Couch to 26.2: The Very Unglamorous Truth About Starting 

Here's what nobody tells you about becoming a runner when you haven't really been one: It is humbling. It is sweaty. And it is occasionally hilarious. 

Our first race together was a 10K in the summer of 2021, a gentle introduction to the idea that our legs could, in fact, carry us distances longer than the walk from the couch to the refrigerator. From there, we spent the next couple of years getting into the sport, building our mileage, finding our footing, and figuring out that we actually liked this, before committing to the New York Road Runners 9+1 program, which required each of us to run nine races and volunteer at one in order to qualify for the marathon. It was also, on certain days, an absolutely brutal commitment, especially because the program is largely designed for New Yorkers. I was still in Washington, which meant taking the train up to New York multiple times a month just to get my races and volunteering in. Dedicated? Absolutely. Reasonable? Debatable. 

There was one race in Central Park in the pouring rain that I will never forget. And not for good reasons. The rain was coming down in sheets, there was lightning in the distance that perhaps should have been a sign to stay home, and if you've ever run in Central Park, you know that certain low-lying areas turn into full-on rivers when it rains. I fell into a puddle. Not a cute little splash-and-laugh puddle. A deep, muddy ambush of a puddle, the kind that seems to materialize out of nowhere and swallows you whole before you've even registered what's happening. One moment I was running. The next, I was simply sitting in a very deep, very questionable puddle of water, surrounded by the ankles of strangers. It was a new and highly specific kind of hell. Sissy doubled back immediately, barely containing her laughter while also genuinely checking that I hadn't broken anything. A few other runners stopped too, because that's the thing about the running community: They are wonderfully, reliably kind. They asked if I was OK, offered a hand, and did their very best not to make it weird that I had essentially become a creature from the Black Lagoon. 

I finished the race. That is the important part. I finished, and I went home, and I laughed about it, and I signed up for the next one. 

That is, genuinely, what this journey taught me: You finish, even when it's ridiculous— especially when it's ridiculous. 

Despite living in different cities, our training became its own kind of long-distance love language. When I visited New York, we'd run loops around the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir in Central Park—which sounds incredibly glamorous until we realized we were both wheezing and negotiating how many loops counted as "enough." When Sissy came to Washington, we'd run around the National Mall or through the National Arboretum, monuments and cherry blossoms serving as a very photogenic backdrop to our mutual suffering. And when we couldn't be in the same city, we were in constant contact anyway (texts, Zoom calls, random visits) because that's just what we do. Also, we needed someone to complain to about sore legs. Sissy was the obvious choice.  

The thing we looked forward to most after every long run? Food. Specifically, a lot of it. No notes, no guilt, just two very hungry people who had absolutely earned whatever was in front of them. Sound familiar? 

We ran many of the 9+1 races together, but our favorites were the Brooklyn and NYC Half Marathons. The Brooklyn Half, in particular, taught us something important: We are stubborn. The last mile or so, it was pouring rain, and we had both developed brutal blisters from wet shoes and relentless pavement. Rain and I, it seems, have an ongoing rivalry. We could feel every step as we made our way toward the Coney Island finish line. We finished anyway. Wet, blistered, and ready to reward ourselves with the finest Coney Island delicacies, because if you're going to suffer, you might as well finish in Coney Island. 

The Plot Twist (There's Always a Plot Twist) 

Sissy finished the program and qualified first, and then found out she was pregnant with her first daughter, Rosa. She deferred, which was absolutely the right call, even if it meant pushing our timeline. What neither of us knew yet was that one day, Rosa would be there at the finish line in her Dad’s arms cheering us both home. In retrospect, it makes the whole detour feel a little like destiny. 

That is friendship. That is resilience. That is also, honestly, a pretty good metaphor for any long-term health journey: Life will absolutely get in the way, and the goal is not perfection. The goal is to keep the finish line in your sights, even when the timeline shifts. 

November 2025: The Finish Line 

We ran the New York City Marathon in November 2025. Together. 

By mile 23, heading up Fifth Avenue with Central Park finally in sight, Sissy turned to me and screamed—and I mean screamed: "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU MADE ME DO THIS." I laughed and kindly reminded her that this entire thing was, in fact, her idea. She did not find this as funny as I did. We kept running. 

I won't oversell it with a lot of flowery language, because the truth is simple and perfect: Crossing that finish line together, I felt relief. I felt pride—deep, full, earned pride. We hugged the moment we stopped running, and we both started crying, and then almost immediately started laughing, because that is what five years of work, two busy lives, a pandemic, a pregnancy, and a very memorable puddle will do to you. 

What Actually Got Us There: The Stuff Beyond the Miles 

Running the marathon was the milestone, but the real work was in the quieter habits we built around it. Here's what actually changed: 

Nutrition. I stopped treating food as an afterthought. I started cooking more, going out less reflexively, and thinking about what I was actually fueling my body with, not perfectly, not obsessively, but intentionally. And yes, there still was room for treats. The triple cheeseburger that started this whole journey? Still hits. I just no longer eat it in a bathtub as a lifestyle. The goal is balance, not misery. 

Mental health. The burnout from living in a politically charged environment, always plugged in, always consuming—I had to actively build space away from that. Movement helped enormously. So did protecting my social relationships, including the ones that, like mine with Sissy, carried me through the hardest years. Read more about strategies to reduce stress and prevent burnout.

Strength and recovery. Here is where I will be very honest with you: I am now in my early 40s, and my body has opinions. A couple of visits to the physical therapist have made it very clear that I cannot simply run and call it a day. Apparently, the human body requires that you exercise all of it—the parts you like, the parts you forget about, and especially the parts that make themselves known in uncomfortable ways after mile 18. Strength training is now non-negotiable. My physical therapist is practically a life coach at this point. I am thriving. Mostly. 

Bonus: Andy's Running Playlist 

Speaking of Lana Del Rey: she got me through a bathtub moment, but she is not exactly what I queue up for mile 18. Here are some of the songs that actually get my legs moving and my head in the game.

For the Educators: What You Can Actually Do 

If you're reading this and you work with young people, I want to talk directly to you for a moment, because the themes of this story aren't just about adults with marathon dreams. They're about students, too. 

The sense of hopelessness and burnout that many young people feel right now is real; the disconnection from their bodies, from joy, from a sense of what they're capable of is real too. And physical activity is one of the most evidence-backed tools we have for addressing it. 

Here are things you're uniquely positioned to do as a PE teacher or school wellness champion:  

• Connect movement to mental health, explicitly. Help students understand that moving their bodies is one of the most powerful things they can do for their minds. This isn't a new idea, either. The Ancient Greeks knew it too, which is why their philosophers considered gymnastics a cornerstone of education right alongside philosophy and rhetoric. Some things are timeless.
• Celebrate effort and persistence over performance. The lesson of my puddle story is not that I ran fast. It's that I got up and finished.
• Build community through movement. Sissy and I ran this marathon together. The relational component of our journey was inseparable from our success.
• Teach practical nutrition basics. Not diet culture, but the real relationship between how we fuel our bodies and how we feel.
• Model resilience. Students need to see adults who have stumbled, deferred, fallen into puddles, and kept going. 

Every student's finish line looks different. Sometimes, the most powerful thing an educator can do is simply help them believe they have one. 

Your Nudge

April is Move More Month and May is National Physical Fitness Month, but any month is a good time to start. Consider this your reminder. 

You don't have to run a marathon. You don't have to train up to New York every month, fall into a Central Park puddle, or cry at a finish line in November. But you do have to start somewhere. For me, it was a bathtub and a triple cheeseburger, and a friend who somehow convinced me that 26.2 miles was a completely reasonable idea. Find your version of that. Start now.