When the Spark Fades: Welcome to the Twilight Zone of Training

There’s this moment, the spark. The one that happens right after you sign up for the race, commit to the plan, and feel the rush of “this is it.”

Let’s call that the inception.

It feels bold. Charged. Like you just binged a 4 pack of Red Bull and your future self is already crushing workouts. You’re fired up, full of hope, ready to become the kind of person who meal preps, tracks protein, and stretches and foam rolls like a boss.

You register.
You commit.
You are THE main character.

And then... you enter the space between.

You know this place.
It’s where that zippidee-do-da razzle-dazzle feeling disappears like all your chapsticks. You know, the ones you’re sure you have one of in your gym bag, car console, coat pocket, nightstand, race belt, purse, side pocket of your puffer vest... and yet? Gone.

There’s something to be said about the security of knowing all your chapsticks are in place. It feels easy. Comforting. Like you’ve got life handled, hydrated lips and all. That inception energy? Feels just like that security. And then, just like the chapsticks, it disappears.

What’s left?
A training plan that doesn’t feel quite as romantic when it’s stacked on top of work, home life, menopause, aging joints, doctor appointments, physical therapy, anything and everything else, oh, and the constant loads of laundry.

Suddenly, this thing you chose feels a lot like work.
And the joy? Well, she’s not ghosting you, but she’s definitely not texting back right now.

This is the part no one glamorizes.
It’s not the shiny “I signed up!” post or the finish line tears.
It’s the ho-hum, sloggy middle.

The sessions feel small and thankless. Your legs are heavy. You’re tired of shuffling things around to “fit it in.”

But this?
This is where you start flexing your mental fortitude.

C’ mon Everybody! Sing it with me now! To the tune of Dem Bones:
“The mental fortitude bone is connected to the discipline bone…”

It’s not loud.
It’s not flashy.
But it shows up quietly.
Like that one sock that miraculously survived the dryer apocalypse.

You don’t always feel inspired. But you keep showing up anyway.
And that, my friend, is what begins to change everything.

Somewhere down the road, when you look at the calendar and realize race day is a couple of months or weeks away, something shifts. Those feelings you thought were gone? They come back.

Excitement. Nerves. Anticipation.

Your heart races a little, not from training, but from the realization that the thing you committed to way back at inception is actually happening.

But that joy won’t just come from the race.

It will come from the days you showed up when it was hard. When it wasn’t pretty. When you felt broken but trained anyway. When you cried and kept going. When you let the comeback be as layered and messy as it needed to be.

This is exactly where I’m sitting as I write this. From experience, I know what’s coming, this phase, this fog, this shift in energy.

And this time, I’m not surprised by it.
I’m aware of it. I’m accepting of it. I’m prepared for it.
That doesn’t make it easy, but it makes it familiar.
And that changes everything.

I’m in the early stages of training for the Carlsbad Half Marathon in January 2026. I committed to it with heart and hope, and yes, some nerves, knowing it would stretch me.

As much as I wish this worked like The Matrix—plug in, download, and boom: “I know Kung Fu” yeah… not so much.

This is real life.
Real work.
Real mental grit.

No shortcuts. No fast-tracks. Just the slow, stubborn process of retraining a body that’s been through it, and a brain that’s relearning what used to feel automatic.

Injuries are talking. Loudly.
My right arm and shoulder with atrophied muscles and has a very stubborn brain of its own.
My left quad that still carries trauma and fluid.
The imbalance, the tightness, the limitations.

I’ve had tears come out of nowhere on the treadmill.
Moments mid-RDL in the gym that triggered flashbacks I didn’t know were still buried in my body.

I’ve had to stop, breathe, and start again.
Not because I wasn’t capable. But because I’m human. Healing. Trying.

This isn’t the glamorous part of the story.
But it’s real.
It’s raw.
And it’s worthy.

Not the race day moment.
Not the finish line photo.
Not the PR.

It’s the middle.
The part no one sees.
Where you build something solid, honest, and strong.
One breath, one step, one imperfect day at a time.

And maybe, somewhere in that slow, steady grind, you start to feel something come back.
Not in a big dramatic way, just a little spark. A little strength.
Like finding a forgotten chapstick in a jacket pocket when you need it most.

The security isn’t in having it all perfectly together.
It’s in knowing that even when things feel messy or missing, you still show up anyway.

So if that spark starts to dim, if the excitement wears off, if the training feels heavier than you expected,
don’t panic.

Nothing’s wrong with you.
You didn’t mess this up.
You’re not falling behind.

You’re just in the middle.
Not the most exciting part.
Not the finish line moment.
But still a part that matters, just as much as the rest.

Keep going.
This is what training feels like sometimes.
And you’re doing just fine.

Thanks for being here.

Keep SHINING!