Game On: Doing It Scared. Because courage doesn’t wait for fear to disappear, it learns to ride alongside it.

There are moments in life that feel ordinary until you realize they’re the start of something big. For me, it wasn’t a race or a finish line, it was a phone call, a new triathlon bike, and a decision to do the thing that scared me most.

That phone call was to Quintana Roo. I learned they have a bike crash replacement warranty, something I didn’t even know existed. After totaling my 2019 QR PRFive in 2024, they stepped in with empathy, kindness, and incredible support to help me get a new bike and a fresh start.

What blew me away wasn’t just the warranty itself, but how they handled it, with genuine care and humanity. The entire team was amazing to work with. They turned what could’ve been a painful process into something that reminded me what community in this sport really means.

That call wasn’t just about a bike; it was about hope, and the reminder that sometimes, the right people and companies meet you exactly where you are.

You ever have one of those moments where you think, oh snap! shit just got real, real fast! That was me, staring at the bike on my computer, heart pounding, equal parts eek! and excitement.

Fire Hydrant to Finish Line just got a level up. Not because of the bike, but because of what saying yes to it meant: I was ready to stop waiting for perfect, and start doing it scared.

You know those sayings — get out of your own way, do the thing that scares you, in six months you’ll have six months of excuses or six months of progress. The choice is yours.

This time, I didn’t just hear them, I felt them.

I bought the bike.

Game on.

And as strange as it sounds, I realized I’d been grieving the loss of my bike, not just the machine, but everything it represented.

Ordering the new one felt both surreal and symbolic. It wasn’t just a transaction. It was a choice. A declaration that I was ready to move forward, even if I was still scared.

What Being Ready Really Means

What does being ready really mean?

It’s when the fear stops controlling you. It’s still there, humming quietly in the background, but alongside it, there’s a calm, and a peaceful reassurance in the soul. You just know it’s the right time.

I’ve made peace with fear. It’s not the enemy. It’s part of us, part of our wiring to protect and preserve. It can get mighty loud in your head and shake every atom in your body, but sometimes you can take that same energy and channel it into something that serves you, something that helps you move forward instead of holding you back.

It’s not about pretending the fear is gone, it’s about deciding how you’ll carry it. And I carry mine with pride. Because I’ve come this far. And I didn’t come this far to only come this far.

This was a commitment that I wasn’t going to let that light inside me fade. I wanted to feel that kid-like joy again, the same joy that had me climbing trees and sometimes falling out of them, jumping off the top of playground equipment, riding my bike, wiping out from being a maniac dare devil, laughing, and getting back up again.

Sure, I’m 55 now, but that wild child still lives in me. And she’s the one who said, “Do it.”

Months ago, I realized I had to stop forcing my healing, mentally and physically. I had to stop trying to schedule readiness. I learned to hold space for my fears and let them flow, to let growth unfold naturally.

That lesson came from slowing everything down, and from reading “The Practice of Groundedness” by Brad Stulberg. I’ve learned to embrace the practice of slowing down, and to trust that true progress doesn’t always come from pushing. It comes from presence. From letting things unfold when they’re ready.

When you stop forcing and start allowing, you create space, for new opportunities to appear, for collaboration to grow, for things to become what they’re meant to be instead of what you’re trying to make them.

It’s a practice that helps you get the most out of what’s meant to happen, instead of the least. That realization changed everything.

I even wear a necklace with a little pause button emblem. It reminds me to slow my arse down, and hit pause.

If I said I wasn’t scared, I’d be lying

The Fear Still Comes Along for the Ride

The night I bought my new bike, I’m in bed, thinking about the new adventures, and as soon as I imagined myself riding it, BOOM!

Suddenly, I was right back at the race. I could see the swim at NJ Tri, coming into T1, heading out on the bike, and then crashing.

The visual of it felt like looking down a toilet paper tube, and the physical of my chest tight, shallow breathing, noise in my head. I have this two-part PTSD thing, like I’m both watching it happen and living it at the same time.

My therapist has given me tools to ground myself, to breathe, to calm my nervous system, to remind my body that I’m safe. It works and it helps so much.

Listening to My Own Timing

And this is where I had to get really honest with myself.

There are expectations, spoken and unspoken, about when healing should happen. When we should “be back.” When we should feel ready.

But my body hasn’t always been ready. My mind hasn’t always been ready. I had to learn to be okay with that.

I’ve learned that my therapists are the ones who really get it , the ones who remind me I don’t have to recreate “The Before.” They’ve helped me understand the value of sitting in “The After,” of allowing space for healing to unfold on its own timeline.

My amazing sports PT I am working with now, shares that same mindset as my mental health therapist: both understand that my brain and body need to know when they’re ready. Giving myself that time and space isn’t weakness, it’s wisdom.

That’s not to take away from the incredible work of my former PT or my surgeons; they’ve each played an important role in getting me here. They speak from what they know best, and they recognize that every body heals differently. But what I’ve learned is this: it’s easy to get caught up in forcing progress, and sometimes that pressure pulls you further from what you actually need.

Being on the sidelines, giving your journey the time and space it deserves, that’s where the magic happens. That’s where you find exactly what you need to get to where you want to go.

This crash added a whole lot of heavy to my invisible backpack. The grief, the fear, the exhaustion. I wasn’t comfortable carrying it the way I was. I needed to repack it differently. Maybe even get a new backpack altogether.

And If you just thought of the movie Airplane after reading that last sentence, you are absolutely my tribe.

I gave myself permission to take the time. To process. To hide sometimes, from the world, from myself, and to let that be okay. I just promised I wouldn’t unpack and live there.

The darkness can feel comfy. But it’s not home.

The Spark and the Shift

Even in the dark, there’s always a spark. I’ve said it before, don’t forget your spark. When the world feels heavy, focus on it. Protect it. And when you’re ready, fan it.

The timing of things matters. Sometimes you’re not ready, even for the things you want to be ready for. And that’s okay. Forcing it before it’s time never feels right. But when the moment is right, when you’re ready, it’s undeniable.

And sometimes, that readiness sneaks up quietly, disguised as a simple invitation.

The Ride That Reminded Me

This past Saturday, a super fun, kind, caring, amazing, badass triathlete and beautiful friend texted me and said she wanted to go ride. She got a new bike too.

Like two kids, it was: “Wanna go ride bikes?”
“Yup!”
“On my way!”

I’m driving over, rocking out in the car, carefree and excited, when about a mile from her house my chest starts to tighten. My breathing gets shallow. My hands begin to jitter. I glance at my Garmin, heart rate 98. Huh.

I’m still singing along, not feeling nervous, but somewhere deep in my brain, a part of me knows what’s coming. I pull into her driveway. Heart rate: 113. Hands still shaky.

As wild as it sounds, again, it’s like I’m both watching it and living it at the same time.

I get my gear on, lift the bike off the rack, and we roll out. It’s an easy ride. She’s new to a tri bike, and while I’ve been on one for years, this setup is new, different aero bars, new fit, first time on the road. And of course, there’s all the crash stuff still floating in the back of my mind.

The afternoon is one of those stunning fall days, cloudy, with sunlight bursting through, lighting up the intensity of fall colored trees like a stained glass piece. The wind is gusting at a pretty good clip, and of course, it’s always a headwind.

We hit a stretch of smooth pavement that felt smooth as buttah, and I finally drop into aero. Squirrelly, deep rims catching that wind, heart pounding — but I do it.

And in that moment, everything went quiet around me.

That kid in me, the one who used to jump off things way too high and think she had a magic force field, comes out again and I feel that joy and child like wonderment.

An immense wave of gratitude filled my soul.

This wasn’t just me getting into aero, this was gratitude for the thirteen years I’ve spent in this sport, for the uplifting and inspiring community of triathlon, for the people I’ve had the honor to meet and connect with along the way. Gratitude for the journey, and for everything still ahead.

Oh boy, tears are rolling down my cheeks as I type this. Because I’m grateful not only for that moment, but for this one too, sitting here, writing, and knowing that you’re reading it.

That in itself is immense. So, thank you. I’m hugging you for it.

We stop for hydration. I’m not comfortable taking a bottle out of the cage yet (aero bottle’s still on backorder, and for a short ride, not super necessary). My friend, cool as ever, is patient and encouraging. She’s new to tri bikes but already has this quiet fire. I told her, watch out, she’s going to soar higher in this sport. She’s humble, and she’s got serious capability to tap into.

We rode. We laughed. And we did it, together.

I was sky-high in gratitude for that ride.

Even though I’ve been on my road bike a few times this year, this was different. There’s something powerful about sitting in discomfort, making your body, mind, and emotions exist there without backing down.

I showed myself I could. I believed I could. And I did.

Sure, there were moments when my mind chimed in, “Whoa there, Jennifer, whatcha talkin’ ’bout, Willis? You sure about this?”

Yes, myself, I’m sure. I’m ready.

Triathlon. I like it. I love it. I want some more of it.

People have asked what races I’ve signed up for. The answer: none.

I’m not rushing that either.

Do I want to race? Yes.

When will that happen? When I’m ready.

And when I am, I’ll know it.

Doing It Scared

That ride reminded me what courage really looks like, it’s doing it scared. It’s not waiting until everything feels perfect or safe or certain. It’s choosing to show up anyway.

This is the space I’m in, ready and scared, both showing up together.

Courage doesn’t mean you’ve silenced the fear, it means you’re finally willing to coexist with it.

Therapy has been an incredible investment in myself, and this is the return on that investment. I’m learning how to carry my backpack differently, how to trust my timing, how to better honor the process even when it’s messy.

Because fear doesn’t mean stop, it means you’re alive, invested, and standing at the start line of something that matters.

This isn’t about being back. It’s about being brave. About believing that even after the fall, there’s still flight waiting in you.

“What if I fall?”
“Oh, but my darling, what if you fly?” — Erin Hanson

Thank you for being here.

Keep SHINING!