Student Blog: Lacing up a New Pair of Shoes

My freshman year of college hit me harder than I anticipated. 

It wasn’t so much the class work or the demands of a college musical theater program that were difficult, though that all kept me on my toes. It was dealing with surprising peer conflict that weighed on me like boulders in my backpack. It was the feeling of flying through the air without a safety net. It was loneliness and rejection.  

As college began, I was in unfamiliar territory, surrounded by strangers, with a good bit of doubt about whether the path I had chosen was sustainable. That is normal stuff for a lot of college freshmen, I know. However, the atypical experience of a college musical theater student, which includes having all of your classes with a small number of peers, caused me to push relationships instead of letting them develop over time. I had been warned against rushing friendships, but it was a lesson I had to learn on my own. 

By the end of my freshman year, I was left out by people I had thought would be friends–so much so that I considered switching majors or even schools. I sometimes wished I could teleport my mom to campus for a pep talk or zap my 90-pound dog into hiding in my dorm.

It was rough. 

Enter stage right: a new me wearing a new set of shoes. Running shoes. 

As sophomore year began, I knew I needed a distraction from the disappointments of the previous year. I also wanted that distraction to be something that reminded me that it was more than ok to focus on myself and tune-out anything, and anyone, who was not interested in my success. So I started running. Just a mile or two at first. Then three. Then four.

With encouragement from my mom, I felt brave enough — or delusional enough — to sign up for a half marathon near my hometown over Thanksgiving break. Once I bit the bullet and signed up for the race, it was go-time. I knew I had to put in the miles of preparation or I’d be forced to admit I couldn’t get the job done. 

I am not a naturally athletic person. My dad signed me up for rec league basketball when I was 6. (I think WNBA dreams may have been floating in his head). I had some fun, and I definitely learned a lot about being assertive and the importance of teamwork. But by the time high school came around, I realized that I played the game more like a musical theater kid than a basketball phenom. My primary contribution to my 9th-grade-team was braiding my teammates’ hair on the bus.

If you want a soprano or an alto to join your choir–no problem. But if you want someone to break down the lane for a layup, I am not your girl. 

For almost three months, I ran three times a week, slowly increasing my mileage, with long runs on Saturdays. I lifted weights three times a week and swam laps every other week to build endurance without wrecking my joints.

As race day approached, I realized: running became non-negotiable–not because I wanted to be fast but because it was the only time my mind would quiet down. There was no noise and no distraction. It was just me and the pavement. And there was nobody who was going to stop me other than myself.

Race day started at 6 a.m. in a hotel room in Fort Worth, Texas. My mom and I fumbled around half-awake, trying to eat a small breakfast and stretch before heading to the starting-line—which we almost couldn’t find. Very on brand for us. 

When I started running, I did a really good job of pacing myself. I didn’t take a walking break until mile seven. By that point, I had already listened to the entire Hello My Name Is… album by Bridgit Mendler and all the songs I had prepared for my upcoming vocal juries (because of course I was still thinking about school.)

At mile seven, I walked for about two minutes. Then I picked it back up and turned on 1989 (Taylor’s Version). By mile ten, I knew there were only 3.1 miles left–just a 5K. And I can run a 5K any day (said the voice inside my head). 

So I fired up “All Too Well (10 Minute Version)” and decided to run the last three miles at a ten-minute pace—or as close as I could get.

There is something deeply poetic about finishing a half marathon to Taylor Swift screaming about heartbreak.

As I approached the finish line, I switched to “Keep Marching” from my favorite Broadway musical Suffs. I wanted something that felt triumphant. Something about endurance. Something about continuing forward even when life is hard.

When I crossed the finish line, I wasn’t thinking about my time. I wasn’t thinking about pace. I was thinking: I did this. 

I trained. I showed up. I finished the race.

Running taught me something I’m still learning as a theater artist:

Progress is quiet.
Growth requires repetition.
Endurance matters more than intensity.

Some days, the hardest part isn’t hitting the high note. It’s showing up. It’s recognizing the people who are invested in you and letting go of the ones who aren’t.

So I keep running.

Not because it’s easy.

But because it reminds me that I can do, have done, and will continue to do hard things.