This weekend didn’t quite go according to plan. After missing my usual run and Barre class, I found myself looking for another way to start the day and get some movement in. Instead of lacing up my running shoes for miles on the pavement, I decided to take myself to Disney’s Animal Kingdom for a leisurely walk and a cup of tea.
Sometimes it’s easy to view a missed workout as a setback, but this morning turned out to be a reminder that slowing down can be just as rewarding. The pathways through Animal Kingdom offered a different pace, one that encouraged me to notice the details instead of focusing on splits and mileage.
With a warm cup of tea in hand, I wandered through the park, taking in the sights, sounds, and atmosphere. The lush landscapes, peaceful trails, and occasional animal encounters created a sense of calm that felt surprisingly restorative. It was the kind of morning that invites you to be present rather than productive.
Walking without a destination or a training goal reminded me that movement doesn’t always have to be intense to be meaningful. Sometimes a gentle stroll through a beautiful place is exactly what the body and mind need.
Not every missed run needs to be made up. Sometimes the best alternative is a walk, a cup of tea, and a little space to enjoy the morning.
There comes a point when staying becomes harder than leaving.
For over seven years, I fought for my marriage. I fought through the disappointments, the loneliness, and the endless hope that things would eventually get better. I convinced myself that if I just tried harder, communicated better, or waited longer, something would change.
But sometimes, despite your best efforts, it doesn’t.
Choosing divorce was not a decision I made overnight. It wasn’t an impulsive choice driven by anger or a single bad moment. It was the result of months of reflection, tears, conversations, self-doubt, and countless attempts to save something I once believed would last forever.
People often assume divorce is about giving up. For me, it was the opposite.
I held on for as long as I possibly could. I carried the weight of wanting things to work.
But somewhere along the way, I realized I was sacrificing pieces of myself in the process.
My happiness became secondary. My mental wellbeing became an afterthought. I was surviving each day instead of living it. I was pouring energy into saving a relationship while neglecting the relationship I had with myself.
You can love someone deeply and still recognize that the relationship is no longer healthy for either of you. You can care about a person and still choose to walk away. You can honor the memories while accepting that the future you imagined may no longer be possible.
For a long time, I feared what people would think. I worried that divorce would mean failure. I worried about judgment, disappointment, and starting over.
But I have learned that choosing your happiness is not selfish.
Choosing your mental health is not selfish.
Choosing peace is not selfish.
In fact, it may be one of the bravest decisions a person can make.
Divorce is painful. There is grief in letting go of a life you planned, a future you envisioned, and a relationship that once brought you joy. There are days when the sadness feels overwhelming. Days when you question everything.
But there is also freedom.
Freedom to rediscover who you are.
Freedom to heal.
Freedom to wake up and choose yourself again.
Today, I don’t see my divorce as the end of my story. I see it as the beginning of a new chapter. One built on self-respect, growth, peace, and authenticity.
The years have taught me many lessons, but perhaps the most important one is this:
You can fight for a marriage and still decide to leave.
And sometimes, the most courageous thing you will ever do is walk away from what is breaking you and step toward the life you deserve.
Choosing divorce was not a choice I took lightly. It was the hardest decision of my life. But it was also the decision that allowed me to finally prioritize my happiness, protect my mental wellbeing, and believe that I am worthy of a life filled with peace, joy, and hope.
And for the first time in a very long time, I am looking forward to what’s next.
We traveled to Lewa for the marathon full of excitement, but race day didn’t go as planned.
We arrived at camp a few days before the event, hoping to be rested and ready. Unfortunately, the conditions made it difficult to get quality sleep leading up to the race. Faced with the choice between sleeping a little longer or fueling properly, I chose sleep—skipping dinner on both nights before the marathon. Looking back, I think that was the wrong decision.
By the time we made the walk to the start line, I felt something I had never experienced before a race: nausea from nerves. It caught me off guard and was an early sign that I wasn’t in the right headspace.
Once the race started, the course itself wasn’t the problem. I had been concerned about the hills, trails, and terrain, but they never really bothered me. Even the temperature was manageable. Physically, I felt capable.
Mentally was a different story.
By the second mile, I wanted to quit. Not because I felt bad physically or because the race was too difficult—I simply felt mentally exhausted. Every step felt like a battle against my own thoughts rather than the course in front of me.
Around mile eight, I finally realized I had been letting my mind dictate the day. At that point, I made a conscious decision to stop fighting the race and start enjoying it. I slowed down, took my time, even stopped for a shot of tequila, and focused on appreciating the experience instead of chasing a result.
In the end, the marathon became less about performance and more about perspective.
While I’m disappointed in myself, it isn’t because of my physical fitness. Physically, I was capable of running the marathon. The disappointment comes from knowing that my mindset got the better of me. On this day, the biggest challenge wasn’t the course—it was the battle happening between my ears.
That said, every race teaches something. Lewa reminded me that marathon success isn’t just about training the body; it’s also about training the mind. Sometimes the hardest lessons come from the races that don’t go according to plan, and those lessons are often the ones that stay with us the longest.
We landed in London and, after a quick stop at the hotel to drop off our bags, settled in with a proper cup of tea. Then it was off for a Saturday morning walk around my favorite city.
On Sunday, I was up early for a fun run through Kensington and Hyde Park, enjoying a beautiful morning in one of London’s most iconic green spaces. I followed it with a long lunch and great conversation with one of my best friends from Singapore, who happened to be in London for work.
There’s a moment in every marathon cycle when the miles shift from something you do to something you feel. That moment hit me this past weekend as I wrapped up my final long run — the one that closes the chapter on the grind and opens the door to taper.
But then came this morning.
Today’s run wasn’t long, but it was beautiful in a way that felt almost symbolic. The sky lit up in those deep oranges and soft pinks that only happen when the world is still waking up. The streets were quiet and everything felt unhurried — like the universe was giving me a gentle nod that I’m exactly where I need to be.
It wasn’t about pace or distance. It was about presence. About soaking in the calm after months of pushing. About remembering that running isn’t just training — it’s joy, it’s clarity, it’s connection.
That sunrise felt like a reward.
This past weekend’s long run still sits with me. It was the kind of run that tests you, then quietly tells you that you’ve passed. The legs were tired but strong, the mind steady, the rhythm familiar. Somewhere in those miles, I realized: I’m ready. Not perfect — but prepared in the way that matters.
And now, taper begins.
These next few weeks are about trust. Trusting the training, trusting the body, trusting the process. The mileage drops, but the anticipation rises. It’s a strange mix of restlessness and relief — less running, more imagining the start line waiting for me in Kenya.
Over the past few weeks, I’ve been adding Barre workouts into my training to supplement my running, and it’s been a surprisingly refreshing shift. These classes are definitely not the type of workouts I’m used to — no pounding pavement, no long miles, no finish‑line countdown. But that’s exactly why they’re starting to feel so valuable.
At first, I wasn’t sure how Barre would fit into my routine. It’s slower, more controlled, and way more focused on tiny movements than anything I normally do. But somewhere along the way, I realized I was actually enjoying the classes. They challenge me in a completely different way, and I can feel them working muscles I usually ignore.
What’s really stood out is how much they’re helping with my balance and core strength, two things that matter more for running than I ever gave them credit for. I might not leave class drenched in sweat, but I leave feeling stronger, more aligned, and more aware of how my body moves. And honestly, I think it’s already improving my running — especially on days when my form starts to fall apart.
It’s been a good reminder that not every workout has to be intense to be effective. Sometimes the quiet, controlled work does more for you than the miles themselves. And right now, Barre feels like exactly the kind of support my running needs.
If you’re curious about how cross‑training can support running, exploring strength for runners or core stability work might be a good next step.
With the Kenya race coming up in just 40 days, I’ve been trying to unravel what really happened with my hydration and fueling during the London Marathon. I knew something was off that day, but I didn’t have the numbers to understand why things fell apart the way they did. So this week, I finally decided to get serious about it and started using an hDrop wearable on my runs to gather real data instead of guessing.
Today’s 13.5‑mile run gave me more insight than I expected — and honestly, more than I was prepared for.
According to the hDrop, I lost 1,783 mg of sodium during the run. Meanwhile, I only took in 1,200 mg, which means I was already in the red before I even hit double digits. No wonder things felt off toward the end. Sodium loss has always been a blind spot for me, but seeing the actual numbers made it impossible to ignore. This is officially a fueling issue I need to address before Kenya.
The water situation wasn’t much better. I lost 77.1 oz and only took in 54 oz. By the end of the run, my body was absolutely feeling that shortage — heavy legs, sluggish brain, that unmistakable “you’re running on fumes” sensation. I ended up cutting the run short by two miles because I ran out of both food and salt around mile 10. Not ideal, but also not surprising given the numbers.
The good news? Now I know. And knowing means I can fix it.
For recovery, I booked some time at the Sweat Houz, which turned out to be exactly what I needed. I spent an hour cycling between the infrared sauna, the cold plunge, and wrapped it all up with a vitamin‑C infused shower. It felt like hitting a reset button — physically and mentally. A small reminder that recovery is just as important as the miles themselves.
So the work continues. I’m dialing in my hydration plan, rethinking my sodium strategy, and making sure I’m not repeating the same mistakes in Kenya. Today’s run wasn’t perfect, but it was productive — and right now, that’s the win I needed.
After the London Marathon, I’ve been struggling to find my rhythm again. Part of it was the emotional hangover of a race that didn’t go quite the way I hoped. Part of it was physical — I genuinely wasn’t sure how my feet would hold up after the blisters, the bruising, and everything else they endured on race day.
So on Sunday, I decided to test things out with an easy run. Nothing ambitious, nothing structured. Just a gentle check‑in with my body to see where things stood.
And amazingly… it went better than expected.
My legs felt lighter than I thought they would. My breathing settled quickly. For the first time since the marathon, running felt like running again — not a chore, not a question mark, but something familiar and comforting.
Of course, because my feet love to keep things interesting, I did end up with another blister. At this point, I’m convinced my socks and shoes are conspiring against me. Clearly something needs to change before I start stacking more miles. Whether it’s new socks, different lacing, or a full shoe rethink, I’ll have to figure it out soon.
But honestly? Even with the blister, the run felt like a win. A reminder that progress doesn’t always show up in big, dramatic ways. Sometimes it’s just a quiet, steady step forward — one that tells you you’re going to be okay.
I’m not ready to say it with absolute certainty, but I think the London Marathon may have been my last full marathon. The decision isn’t final, but the idea has been settling in quietly, the way a truth sometimes does long before you’re willing to say it out loud. I’ve already decided that when I’m in Kenya, I’ll be switching from the full marathon to the half — and honestly, that feels right.
What makes this harder is that my training leading up to London was incredible. One of my best cycles ever. I felt strong, consistent, and genuinely excited. I went into race day hoping for something special.
And in many ways, the day was special.
I started in the Team Green area, which felt like a little oasis before the chaos of the race. Hot tea, picnic tables, no bathroom lines — it was the calmest, most civilized marathon start I’ve ever experienced. I soaked it in, feeling grateful and ready.
The first ten-plus miles were everything I hoped for. My pace felt smooth, my legs felt good, and I was enjoying the energy around me. But then the heat crept in, and my fueling just didn’t keep up. By mile 15, things started to unravel. I was still enjoying the run, but my body wasn’t responding the way I needed it to. I had to walk big portions of the second half, and eventually I couldn’t take in any more food. Even water had to be taken in tiny sips.
Still, I made a choice: if I was going to finish, I wanted to finish strong. So I ran the last few miles, lifted my head, and crossed the line with a smile. And that smile was real. Despite everything, I genuinely enjoyed most of the race.
As for injuries? Nothing dramatic — just a sunburn, a few blisters, and one very bruised pinky toe. Honestly, that feels like a win.
So maybe London was my last marathon. Maybe it wasn’t. But if it was, I’m glad it was this one. A race that challenged me, humbled me, and still gave me joy. A race that reminded me why I started running in the first place — and why it’s okay to let the definition of “runner” evolve.
For now, I’m looking ahead to Kenya, to the half marathon, and to whatever comes next. Maybe the marathon chapter is closing. Maybe it’s just changing shape. Either way, I’m grateful for every mile.
It’s officially one week until the London Marathon, and I’m feeling all the emotions. I’ve logged over 520 miles preparing for those 26.2 on race day — miles filled with discipline, doubt, breakthroughs, and a lot of determination.
No matter what happens next weekend, I’m proud of the work I’ve put in. Now it’s time to taper, breathe, and get ready for the big moment.
