It's that time of year again.


This past weekend was Marathon Weekend at Walt Disney World, which means thousands of people voluntarily woke up at an hour normally reserved for bakers and questionable life choices, put on costumes (some really impressive costumes), and ran through the parks before guests had their first cup of coffee. And every year it reminds me of just how rare finishing a marathon really is.


Not "hard."

Not "impressive."

Rare.

Less than one percent of the population will ever complete a marathon. And somehow-despite every label I carried growing up-I'm a two- time Dopey Challenge Finisher. Yes, that Dopey. Four races. Four days. 48.6 miles. One very questionable registration decision.


I was never the athlete.

I was the kid who was always the heaviest. The slowest. The last one picked for teams. "Non-athlete" wasn't just a description, it was basically my brand. Sports weren't a place I felt confident-they were a place I tried to disappear.


At one point, I weighed over 300 pounds. And I wasn't just carrying physical weight-I was carrying mental baggage too. Shame. Self-doubt. Years of believing my body was something to apologize for instead of something that could do incredible things. Training for Dopey wasn't about losing weight; it was about losing the story I had been telling myself for decades.


Completing a challenge like Dopey gave me validation that I didn't even know I needed. Not from strangers. Not from social media. From me. It was proof that I could commit to something hard, uncomfortable, and long term (now that I write that it sounds a little like how I felt breastfeeding)-and actually finish it. Somewhere between mile markers I realized I wasn't just changing my body, I was changing my identity.


People often ask why anyone would do these races. Why wake up in the dark, train for months, pay good money, and willingly run distances better suited for cars. The answer is simple and complicated all at once: because marathons are never just physical.


They are mental.


There is a moment in a marathon where your legs feel like lead weights. Not tired- heavy. Like each step requires a formal request, a committee meeting, and possibly approval from the Magic Kingdom itself. I remember around mile 18 thinking the idea of one more step felt absolutely debilitating. I considered bailing. I absolutely cried. I considered pretending I was just there for the entertainment and snacks.


But I kept going.


Because that's what races are really about. Not pace. Not medals (actually that's a lie-I love the bling). Not how cute your costume looked at mile two versus mile twenty-two. They're about the quiet, brutal conversations you have with yourself when no one else can carry you forward. They're about proving-to yourself-that you can do hard things even when quitting would be so much easier.


And Disney? Disney knows this.


They put a castle in front of you when your spirit needs lifting. They line the course with characters and spectators who cheer like you're an elite athlete, even when you're walking like a baby giraffe learning how legs work. They turn pain into magic and exhaustion into memory making.


That's why Marathon Weekend always gets me emotional.


I'm so incredibly proud of this year's athletes- the first timers, the repeat offenders, the runners, walkers, wheelers, and those on four paws. I've met some of the most inspiring athletes on these courses: people defying expectations, redefining strength, and showing up exactly as they are.


Along the way I've met lifelong friends that I never would have met anywhere else. The runDisney community is special- equal parts grit, glitter, and a mutual understanding that this is a little unhinged, but in the best possible way.


I wasn't on the course this year, but my heart absolutely was. And I know I'll be back. Because once you've learned what you're capable of-once you've crossed a finish line you never thought you would see- you don't forget that feeling.


Magic is real.

Sometimes it sparkles.

Sometimes it limps.

And sometimes it wears a race bib.


I can't wait to join these runners again one day. Until then, remember to run the mile you're in.