By the time I cross from Nevada into Utah, I’ve changed.

I’m stronger. I’m more capable. I’m running marathon after marathon and watching my body adapt to the workload. I can move around the RV and manage its systems in ways that felt completely new when we left California. Nate and I have figured out how to live together in a very small space while managing an event that never stops.

As I reread this chapter, what stands out to me is how much growth can happen when we focus on the day-to-day tasks. I didn’t wake up one morning suddenly capable of running across America and managing the event. I grew into it.

But being more capable doesn’t make the journey easy.

Often times, the opposite is true — that as we become more capable, we end up managing bigger challenges.

In Edges, Spade returns from Alaska just as I’m preparing to run into Utah’s Wasatch Mountains. Nate and I disagree over how I’m managing my point-to-point miles (an extra 75 miles creates tension), and my attempt to add a puppy to life on the road quickly falls apart. Among it all, the RV heads in for its third round of expensive repairs causing a lengthy delay in my miles.

Then, just as we’re dealing with another RV bill, I find that money has been stolen from the nonprofit’s bank account.

The business I’ve created seems to be failing, and I can’t help but feel like the problem.

But the undercurrent of it all is something much bigger than the run itself: the reason we were out there in the first place.

As each problem arrises, if I stay committed, so does a new solution. All I need to do is keep running.

I hope you enjoy the continuation of this podcast series! I’d be deeply grateful if you’d share it with someone who may find inspiration and comfort in these figure-it-out-as-you-go-along stories!

xo Ashley

Share

It was everything else.

As I reread this chapter, I’m reminded that the run itself only occupied a part of each day. The rest was spent moving vehicles, setting up camp, cooking, grocery shopping, finding water, dumping tanks, doing laundry, emails, blogs, interviews and then preparing to do it all again the next morning.

It sounds exhausting, and in many ways, it was. The running is what kept me anchored.

But what I remember most isn’t the work.

It was the sunrises over the Nevada desert. The quiet mornings out on the road. The stillness of being alone for miles. The contrast of warm afternoons and bone-shakingly cold nights. Out on the road, life slowed down enough for me to notice the beauty that’s easy to rush past.

I find this fact still true to this day.

This chapter also introduces a pair of cyclists crossing the country to raise money for brain cancer research. Watching them stirred up feelings I wasn’t expecting. I found myself comparing our journeys, wondering what life would look like after my own finish line, and struggling with thoughts of measuring my path and fundraising against someone else’s.

In time, I came back to the same thing that set me on this journey — that this was what I’m meant to be doing, something that felt more clear as I wrote the charity’s first donation, a $8,000 check for multiple sclerosis research. It wasn’t the full amount I wanted to raise, but it was proof that every mile was already making a difference and that my heart was in the right place.

This chapter is a reminder that the tasks will always be plentiful; that when I’m in a spot of comparison or feeling exhausted, all I need to do to find awe is step away from the metronome of tasks and view the world from a quiet run.

I hope you find what you need in this chapter.

Thanks for listening and coming along with me on this journey

xo Ashley

This chapter begins just six weeks after I ran an impromptu marathon from my parents’ home. Now I’m standing at the start of my first 50-mile ultramarathon, wondering if I’ve gotten in over my head. The night before the race, reading about the dangers of ultrarunning had me questioning everything. But as the miles ticked by the next morning, I remembered something it’s easy to forget when fear takes hold: my body knew how to run, I just needed to show up and do it.

That lesson carried into every part of this journey. Nate and I were still learning how to operate an RV we’d never used before, making mistakes, getting delayed, and figuring things out one problem at a time. As we drive up and over Echo Summit, the pass I have yet to run, I’m more confident than ever that I’m prepared for the climb.

Then, just as we arrived in Lake Tahoe we found ourselves stranded at a service station with winter weather advisories streaming across the tv screens. A broken spare tire hitch had us sitting at a Chevron station while we watched sleet turn into mounds of fluffy snow. And just like that, the biggest and most dangerous climb of my run yet would have to wait.

Frustrating moments become great stories later, and this is one of these moments.

This chapter ends with a moment I wasn’t expecting, and one that would change the rest of the run.

Thanks so much for listening to Chapter 8: Big Water, and joining as my journey continues!

xo Ashley

This chapter takes me from the San Pablo Bay through Sacramento and toward Lake Tahoe, where the miles begin to hint at the biggest climb of the journey so far. Along the way, our crew changes unexpectedly. Spade briefly departs for other work, leaving Nate and me on our own for the first time in ten days.

Together we begin figuring out the day-to-day logistics of life on the road—where to park the RV, how to make decisions together, and what it looks like to adapt when the plan changes. Long before #vanlife became a trend, we were learning how to live it one day at a time.

Looking back now, what stands out isn't how prepared I was—it was how willing I was to show up and learn along the way. I knew very little about running across America, building a nonprofit, or leading something that would last beyond the finish line.

I made mistakes and I figured things out as I went, and I find this version of myself endearing.

Reading this chapter is a reminder of how life progresses and often works out just fine despite what we don't know in the moment. I knew much less then, yet somehow it still worked out.

As this chapter closes, a local in Lake Tahoe asks me a simple question: "Do you know what you're up against?" The answer, of course, is no—and with my largest summit up ahead, there's sure to be some challenges.

Thanks for joining me for another chapter of The Long Run Home. If you’re enjoying these readings, please share them with someone that you think would find joy and inspiration here as well.

xo Ashley

Share

In Chapter 6, Tracks, I drop you into Day 2 of my run across America—when the idea of my run suddenly collides with reality.

Running the miles turned out to be only one part of the challenge. There were logistics to solve, people to connect with, and countless decisions that had to be made on the fly. Then there were the differences between those of us who were runners (me)...and those who weren’t. Those differences made for some interesting and challenging moments, especially with the two people traveling alongside me to support the journey.

Yes, I said two.

In this chapter, you’ll also meet another main character whose influence shaped not only the early days of my run, but the way I would eventually build MS Run the US for years to come.

As I reread this chapter today, I couldn’t help but smile at my younger self. Looking back, I was most certainly naïve about what it would actually take to run across America.

But I’ve also come to believe that my naivety was one of my greatest strengths.

Had I fully understood every obstacle waiting for me, I might never have started.

Instead, I believed I could run. So I began.

Everything else, I figured out along the way.

That’s still what Dare To Begin means to me today. You don’t need every answer before you take the first step. You need just enough to get moving and the confidence that you’re smart enough and resourceful enough to solve the next problem when it arrives.

If you’ve ever questioned whether you’re ready to pursue something meaningful, I hope this chapter reminds you that readiness isn’t the goal.

Beginning is.

Also, I want to say thank you!

The response to the Dare To Begin with Ashley Schneider podcast has been incredibly encouraging. My goal is to reach 500 downloads this week.

In the world of podcasting, 500 downloads might not sound like much.

But when I picture 500 people sitting together in a room, listening to a story inspired by my mom and dedicated to those living with multiple sclerosis, with a goal of helping others begin their own daring journey, it feels extraordinary.

This podcast is my own chance to dare to begin once again.

And wherever this journey leads, I’m grateful you’re coming along with me.

xo Ashley

Share

Chapter 5, Gateway, takes you to Day One of my run across America.

I wasn’t expecting a cinematic or emotional beginning. I was focused on the long game. After a year of preparation, I expected to put one foot in front of the other while Nate—my boyfriend at the time and my support crew—met me at the planned checkpoints with the motorhome.

Instead, we started at noon, I ran circles through a parking lot for the news cameras, and Nate got the motorhome stuck navigating San Francisco. For my first 17 miles, I had little support, and it was clear there would be challenges for us early on to overcome and adapt to.

As I prepared for this reading, I realized it’s a lesson I still come back to today.

I’ve thought a lot about the gap between desire and capacity—the fact that I can want to do something, while knowing the execution may look very different than I imagined. And that’s okay -- what gets us started doesn’t have to be the thing to keep us going.

Getting started and continuing often require different strategies.

I’ve learned that I don’t need a perfect plan. I need one that’s good enough to get me moving, trusting that I’ll learn, adapt, and solve the next challenge as it comes.

That was a lesson I wish I had known on Day One -- and it’s one I use often as I build new goals for what lays ahead, including this podcast and live book series.

Thank you for reading, listening, and joining me on this journey through The Long Run Home, one chapter at a time.

Share

Part 2, Chapter 4 of The Long Run Home is that moment.

After a year of training and imagining what it would look like to run across America, I found myself arriving to San Francisco just days before I would begin my run. There was no more room for planning—only whatever I had been able to accomplish up to that point.

It was exciting.

It was hectic.

And if I had given myself the space to think about it, there were still plenty of reasons to push back the start date—like my lack of route planning, sponsorship support, and general knowledge of how to manage the event while I ran.

In this chapter, I take you into my life and what it actually looked like to reach the starting line. You’ll meet Nate, my boyfriend at the time, who agreed to become my one-person support crew for six months. I’ll share the story of my first marathon—an experience that nearly broke me—and how we received the motorhome only weeks before departure.

From the outside, it’s easy to imagine that everything came together perfectly.

In reality, everything felt rushed—a mad dash to figure it all out before my self-imposed starting line.

Instead of delaying, I chose to believe in something that has shaped much of my life since: Taking the next right step often creates the opportunity for resources to appear.

That knowledge didn’t eliminate uncertainty.

It simply gave me the courage and focus to keep moving despite it.

Looking back on this time, I learned that confidence wasn’t something that would evolve before I started. It was something that grew because I started.

I hope this chapter reminds you that meaningful journeys (and really good stories you’ll want to tell later) begin under imperfect circumstances and a willingness to show up.

Thank you for listening to this chapter, and for following along as I continue sharing The Long Run Home one chapter at a time.

<3 Ashley

Share

They’re quiet.
Ordinary.
Easy to dismiss.

For me, one of those moments happened while running on a treadmill in Barcelona.

I wasn’t training for anything for anything in particular. I wasn’t trying to start a nonprofit. I had never run a marathon, let alone across an entire country. I had never raised money for charity.

Then an idea entered my mind:

What if I ran across America for my mom?

It was a wildly impractical idea. One that made absolutely no sense. And yet...it felt true to me. Like it had been waiting for me to come upon it all along.

In this episode, I’m reading Chapter 3 of The Long Run Home, Then Do It Now, where I share the moment that changed the course of my life.

Looking back, it’s clear that this dream did not arrive with a map.

It arrived as an invitation — it whispered: this is here for you, will you take it?

Everything that came afterward—3,288 miles across America, founding MS Run the US, raising more than $4 million, writing a book, and now sharing these stories with you—started with one thought and a willingness to take the next step without knowing the entire path.

And yes...

You also get to hear me enthusiastically singing, because that’s what I wrote in the book not knowing I’d be doing an audio version.

And no, I’m not a good singer.

But yes, I committed completely anyway, as if I were Katie Berg, my friend who has a wildly amazing vocal talent.

It felt appropriate to just go for it, because that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? EVEN IF I cringed slightly at the audio playback. Makes you curious to go listen now, doesn’t it?

If we’re waiting until we’re polished, confident, or “good enough,” we’ll spend our whole lives waiting.

Sometimes you just have to sing like you’re good at it.
Sometimes you just have to start so you can learn as you go.

I hope this chapter encourages you to pay attention to the ideas that whisper to you your next important step.

They just might change your life, if you’re brave enough to go after it.

I’m cheering for you.

— Ashley

Share

What they don’t always see is the ripple effect.

They don’t see the child watching their parent struggle to walk. They don’t see the worry, confusion, frustration, or helplessness that can accompany a diagnosis. They don’t see the ways family members adapt, cope, and sometimes carry burdens they don’t fully understand until years later.

Chapter 2 of The Long Run Home is one of the most personal chapters in the book because it takes readers back to my childhood and what it was like growing up with my mom’s MS.

As I watched her lose function, I was trying to make sense of something that felt unfair and completely outside of my control. Like many children facing difficult circumstances, I developed ways of coping. Some were healthy. Some were not. But all of them were attempts to navigate emotions I didn’t yet have the tools to process.

Reading this chapter aloud for the podcast was difficult.

Not because I don’t know the story, but because I know there are so many families who have lived a version of it themselves. And because saying these words out loud on camera brings them to a whole new light for me.

During the live reading of this episode, I also share a message from a reader who connected deeply with the book. Their note reminded me why I wanted to write The Long Run Home in the first place. If you’d like to hear their message, check out the video on my IG channel. It’ll also be up on YouTube later this week.

What I’m learning each time I share a piece of myself is that our stories help us feel less alone.

If you are living with MS, love someone with MS, or have ever watched someone you care about struggle with a disease you couldn’t fix, I hope this chapter reminds you that your experience matters too.

Awareness isn’t just understanding the disease.

Awareness is understanding the people whose lives are forever shaped by it.

Thank you for reading, listening, and allowing me to share our family’s story. If there’s been a challenge in your life that shaped you long before you understood its impact, I’d love to hear your story. Send me a message or drop it in the comments.

Ashley

🎙️ Listen to Chapter 2 of The Long Run Home above or wherever you get your podcasts.

Share

In Chapter 1 of The Long Run Home, I introduce you to my family—and to my mom, Jill.

Long before I ever dreamed of running across America, founding MS Run the US, or writing a book, multiple sclerosis was a large part of our story.

My mom was diagnosed with MS in 1980, years before I was born. Growing up, I didn’t know a version of life without MS. It was simply woven into our family—the doctor appointments, the uncertainty, the inconvenience and pain that became normal, and ultimately the resilience that built us into who we were as a family and individuals.

As a kid, I couldn’t know that our story would one day become my purpose.

But that’s the beautiful thing about life. What begins as pain and frustration can be made into something profound, if we let it—and if we take action.

We rarely understand the significance of our experiences while we’re living them.

As I reread these chapters, I’m reminded how grateful I am for my family, for my mom and the resilience her and my father built that was passed onto me, and for the many people living with MS who have shared their own stories with me over the years.

Our stories, and they way we perceive them, matter. They can remind us that we’re not alone, and often point us to people and places we never expected to find.

Thank you for joining me for the reading of Chapter 1 of The Long Run Home.

I’m so grateful you’re here.

And if this episode encourages you, please subscribe, share it with a friend, and leave a review.

— Ashley

🎙️ Listen to Chapter 1 of The Long Run Home above, or where ever you get your podcasts.

📚 Join me live on Instagram every Tuesday and Thursday at Noon Central for Lunch & Listen, where I’m reading a chapter of my memoir and sharing the lessons and memories that continue to shape me.

Share

What is something you’ve been wanting to do, but haven’t started because you don’t feel ready?

Today marks the beginning of a new journey for me.

Throughout the summer, I’ll be reading my memoir, The Long Run Home, live on Instagram twice a week and sharing the audio as a podcast — each episode ocvering a new chapter — including stories, lessons, challenges, and moments that shaped my journey running 3,288 miles across America and building a life I never could have imagined when I started.

I believe our stories connect us. And I know how the stories of others have helped me find courage, perspective, and the determination to keep going when I wanted to give up.

My hope is that these readings do the same for you.

In this first episode, I’m sharing the Foreword written by Robin Arzón and introducing the idea at the heart of this series: That you are more capable, resourceful, and resilient than you think.

Here’s what I want you to know — whatever it is you’re dreaming to build, change, pursue, or overcome, you don’t need all the answers before you begin.

You just need to take the next right step.

Thanks for being here!

— Ashley

Share

I got up…I had to get up, my inner drill sergeant informed me.

Staring at my reflection in the mirror while I brushed my teeth, I felt my shoulders tense. I was frustrated — irritated that I had to whip myself back into early-wake-up shape and annoyed that mounting responsibilities suddenly demanded more from me again.

The sudden influx of more to do pressed against my mind all at once. Tasks clambered at the back of my brain like a dog desperate to get out the door. I didn’t yet have a full grasp on all of them, but I knew they were important, likely difficult, and many.

Just the thought of them made me grouchy.

And that’s when I remembered…wait a minute — who is in charge here? And what do they expect of me?

I am one person. Literally just one person.

Yes, a very capable person, but still, just a single person.

Can you relate — trying to keep up with the imaginary superhuman your mind has created to tackle the collective responsibilities on your plate?

I found myself pondering that word recently — responsibility. At its root, it’s the ability to respond. Maybe responsibility isn’t about carrying everything. Maybe it’s simply about choosing how we respond to what’s in front of us.

Because we are always responding, aren’t we? The real choice lies in how we do it. And that choice makes all the difference in the world, especially to the person living inside your own head, which I could argue is the most important person in the room.

This drill sergeant of mine likes to take over in the face of big challenges. And I admit, they’ve been very effective.

And yet, I’m learning there is another voice available to me. One that is quieter, steadier, and far more powerful.

When I shoulder everything, as my drill sergeant insists I should, I dive into action-action-action. When I’m in action, I can’t ask for help or look at the resources around me because explaining things slows me down and there are important things to accomplish!

But when I pause the drill sergeant’s narrative, someone calmer and clearer comes to the surface. I stop trying to carry everything at once and accept that I am one single person who cannot manage it all alone.

Then, I can focus on the next right task.

Sometimes that task includes asking for help. Sometimes it includes resting. Sometimes it includes taking action. But when I focus only on the next right thing, whether done alone or with the help of my village, I’m often surprised by the immense strides accomplished by the end of the day.

You don’t have to do everything, Ashley. You only have to do the next right thing. I heard my inner voice say while brushing my teeth.

And at that moment, my day changed.

It became brighter and more manageable. Dare I say I even had fun? There was suddenly less to do because I only had one thing to do — the next right thing.

People ask how it was for me to run across America. They think about the entire thing and can’t imagine taking on such a challenge.

But I never ran across America all at once.

On day one, I wasn’t thinking about New York. I was thinking about running across the Golden Gate Bridge with friends breathing in the fresh ocean air.

That was manageable.

And the next day, I did the next mile. And then the next one after that.

When my inner drill sergeant takes over, it demands that I stare at all the miles collectively because look how many there are!

But when I pause and remember that I am one person — calm, clear, confident — I run one mile at a time.

I clicked the cap back onto my toothpaste and tucked the tube into the drawer. I turned the water warm and washed the sleep from my face. I pulled on my clothes and prepared to head to the gym.

And the day unfolded, as it always does, with or without added pressure, one task at a time.

And I did not feel overwhelmed.

I felt accomplished.

Share

I know, barf. Stick with me though—I’ve got something real here.

If you had told me six weeks ago that I’d be doing this, I would’ve punched you in the face and told you that you can’t put frosting on a turd.

Affirmations, in my opinion, do not work when life feels like a shit buffet. That’s what the kids these days are calling “toxic positivity,” right?

Six weeks ago, I wasn’t whispering anything to myself except, “What are you even doing?” and it wasn’t because I didn’t know the rules.

What you focus on expands. Yes, I know.
You are what you think about. Yes, I know.
You get to choose your thoughts. Yes, I KNOW.

When you wake up questioning the point of everything…the endless work, the long hours, the laundry that never ends, the stacking bills—and is that a new noise coming from the car?—whispering “I am a champion” feels like a joke.

So instead, I said the truth.

I am exhausted and I am drowning. Physically, emotionally, logistically drowning.

And when you’re drowning, you don’t pretend you can swim. You look for a life-ring and rest or wait it out until you spot dry land.

You rest.

You wait it out.

Here’s the thing. After my book launched, people kept asking, “What’s next?”

And with my pride inflated to the size of a hot air balloon (because I had the answer!), I wrote about taking time to rest before moving on to the next thing.

Eye roll.

Did I really think a few days off would refill a battery that had been draining for over 12 months through the hire of my first successive Executive Director and edit, design, and launch of my book? Not to mention all the planning and people-ing…

I was proud of myself for taking a few days, when what I really needed was a few months.

Space to not hyper-focus on work, growth, and productivity.
Permission to skip my alarm.
To take my time at the gym.
Read a fiction book that had absolutely nothing to do with productive outcomes.

And instead of doing all that, I took a few days off, then hopped right back to it.

I worked until I broke.

I began to wake up, morning after morning, to find there was no forward drive—just the sinking feeling that the rest of my life would be one long, looming to-do list unless I quit everything and moved to a cabin in the woods. (And yes, of course my family would have to come with me. Even if that wasn’t their dream.)

As it turns out, quitting my job and moving off the grid isn’t actually what I want or need.

I just needed to rest. Like, really rest.

So I did.

I slept.
I moved my body without rushing to the next thing.
I drank peppermint tea with honey curled up on the couch with a book—book, after book, after book.
I did the bare minimum. (My skin just crawled typing that…gasp. The horror.)

And I don’t know if it’s the shift into spring, or the fact that I finally took my foot off the gas for eight weeks, but something shifted.

My thoughts feel bright.
When people ask me how I am, I actually want to tell them.
I feel that steady confidence returning: I can do this.

This being…goals I can actually imagine working toward.

This morning, I whispered affirmations in the mirror.

And because I rested, they feel true.

Share

The messy middle is a precarious place to be. It takes time and patience, both of which feel in short supply. And sharing the messy middle publicly? Well, that’s either very brave or very stupid.

What if I’m too harsh?

What if I’m wrong?

What if I can’t see what I can’t see because it’s a blind spot?

What if I mean well but make unintentional mistakes.

There’s a fine line between being vastly misunderstood and being given the benefit of the doubt.

Lately, I find myself staring out the window, thinking through thoughts in my head, wondering about the way things are and where we go from here. Mostly, I’ve been carrying a heaviness—one that makes it difficult to feel stable. The constant noise, the uncertainty, the outrage—it pulls at my focus and leaves me feeling both activated and exhausted at the same time. My heart breaks.

The last time my heart broke like this, I quit my job, ran across the country, and created a movement. So, you know, I’m trying not to do that for the sake of my family and the things I love.

Still, I run. During recent miles, I kept mulling over my feelings of anger and frustration. So much feels outside of my control. And that’s when I remembered that my mom lived with a body that didn’t function properly. Each morning she woke up, and much was outside of her control. If it was a good MS day, she’d be able to accomplish more and feel less pain. If it was a bad MS day, the most she could do was lie on the couch and pray for a better day tomorrow. Through it all, she remained hopeful. She never got an answer for why her body malfunctioned and moved beyond her control, and yet she showed up each day.

She didn’t need an answer to choose her actions.

Now, I realize that I never understood the depth of her strength—to find joy among the pain. I am learning it more each day.

I find this skill especially important because the messy middle can take a really, really long time to figure out.

When much feels out of my control, it’s that much more important to focus on what I can control. When I feel unmoored, I focus on what I’ve learned from the messiness of the past:

Exercise. In whatever form suits you, from running-to dancing-to walking-to stretching, exercise is an absolute must. If you don’t exercise, start now. If you do exercise, don’t sacrifice the time you create for it for anything else. It’s a sacred space that you deserve. In itself, exercise resists negativity.

Meditate. I took up meditation in 2021 to calm my nervous system, and the rewards have been far beyond what I could have imagined. It’s my daily check-in with God and the collective conscience, and beyond the long list of scientific benefits I receive by meditating for at least 13 minutes each day, I get a consistent, resonating feeling that it’s all going to be okay. No matter what shit is happening, I feel the undercurrent of that truth.

Journal. Brain dump. Get your thoughts out. See what bubbles up. See what you’re able to let go of. It’s worth the five minutes it takes to sit and do this.

Pray. God exists. I don’t understand why things happen the way they do, but I do understand that I have the power to change my thoughts and actions—and those things are amplified when I pray, am grateful for the good that exists, and ask clearly for what I need. It doesn’t mean I always get it, especially not immediately, but it definitely can’t hurt, and at a minimum, it helps me stay centered on gratitude and what it is exactly that I want.

Finally, give yourself some time and space—to feel, to grieve, to learn, to grow. If you don’t take care of yourself, you’ll be raising the white flag long before the real work even begins.

Buy Ashley's Book!

Personal writings detailing Ashley’s journey writing a book about running across America for her mom, MS advocacy, and wrestling with self-worth.

“Wrestling with self-worth.”

Ouch.

Thanks, AI.

And then my conscience chimed in:
Is it incorrect, though?

Well… damn.

Buy Ashley's Book, The Long Run Home

What started as a mildly insulting summary quickly turned into a mirror I didn’t ask for. Truth has a way of stinging before it clarifies. That doesn’t make it wrong. It makes it real—and worth considering.

So I looked up the definition of self-worth.

Self-worth, according to the internet, is the internal belief that you are inherently valuable and deserving of love and respect—regardless of achievements, failures, productivity, income, or external validation. It’s different from self-esteem, which rises and falls with success and approval. Self-worth is meant to be steady. Inherent. Internal. Unconditional.

Cool, cool, cool.

When I look at it, and myself, this has been an adulthood struggle for me—and I’ll happily blame capitalism for at least part of that.

We live in a culture that ties value to output. To what you produce, accomplish, monetize, scale, optimize. There’s even a name for it—internalized capitalism—and once you see it, you can’t unsee it. We’re groomed early to believe that worth is measured, rest is earned, and busyness is proof of value—all things that feel in conflict with the hours, days, and years I spend rearing my children (of which there is technically output, but we don’t get paid to do).

So when I read prompts about “decoupling self-worth from output,” I nod along… and then immediately hit a wall.

Because I have a job, and a family.
And I want to keep working, and also spend time with them and do things I enjoy. And I can’t help but feel behind unless I set my alarm to early AF o’clock.

So yes, my self-worth is not supposed to come from my work.
But my work is still necessary to live in this system.

And then, as of late, I can’t help but notice my mind spirals a little further, because my job—meaningful as it is—can feel painfully small compared to the big problems. It doesn’t dismantle systems. It doesn’t fix structural injustice. It doesn’t single-handedly rewrite the rules of a culture that exhausts people and calls it ambition.

Last week, someone gave me this advice:

“Read history. This place has always been a shit-hole. So pick some things you like to do and do that. Pick some people you like to be around and be around them.”

Crude. Maybe oddly comforting. And also slightly irritating, because dammit, I do want to fix it all—not in a god-complex way, but in a why-can’t-we-all-just-get-along-and-let-eachother-live kind of way.

It reminded me of something my pastor once told me years ago, when I was deep in thought about life stages and productivity. I was fixated on how children arrive when adults are often at peak productivity—when time and energy are scarce—and then much later, when there’s more time, there’s often less energy and the inability to reproduce. It felt inefficient and obviously backwards.

His response? He just smiled and said, “Try not to think about it too much.”

As in: there is no solution here. So don’t burn yourself alive trying to find one.

I live in a capitalist culture.

I live in a place where my work helps people—but doesn’t fix problems for everyone.

Would I change it if I could? Yes. But for now, I focus on a necessary foundation of wellness that comes before existential despair.

Before I spiral, I do these things every day:

• Exercise early each day

• Meditate before the sun rises

• Journal before checking notifications

• Pray often

Not to save the world, but to save myself.
Not to absolve myself of responsibility, but to stay grounded enough to keep showing up.

Maybe the best I can hope for is that these practices help me feel a little more stable. A little more worthy of the joy I find. A little more present in my work. A little more capable of softening the edges of life for the people I am capable of helping.

If the darkness feels big—and it often does—then maybe the best I can do each day is simply spread light where I can. Not everywhere, immediately. Not on a mass scale. Just here.

And maybe that’s not wrestling with self-worth.
Maybe it’s just learning how to live in this place my friend likes to call a shit-hole.

Buy Ashley's Book, The Long Run Home

Listen, I know you know this if you’ve been following me for a while. If you haven’t—welcome, hello. I wrote a book about running across America for my mom and multiple sclerosis that you can find here.

But back to the point: I literally wrote a book. Which, by the way, is so fucking cool in a way that I am absolutely not humble or ashamed about. I find this remarkable because, for the longest time, I made an effort to be humble—dare I say meek—about my accomplishments. I didn’t always know how to react when someone found out that I had run across America, built America’s Longest Relay Run, and raised millions of dollars for MS—and they were standing there, right in front of me, floored. I’d get nervous. I could feel my cheeks flush, thinking, I wonder what they’ll expect me to do now—am I supposed to sound trumpets somehow? Or could I just talk about my weird bathroom misadventures like every other runner.

What I’ve found is that saying “thank you” squashes any unnecessary humbleness or social anxiety that would bubble up. I learned this from Montel Williams, actually, when he gently scolded me like a child years back at a news station in Denver.

“Don’t do that, Ashley,” he said, stopping abruptly in the hallway as we walked back to the green room after being interviewed on stage. “I just gave you a compliment, and it’s insulting to me—and to the fact that I want to give you a compliment—to deflect it like that. All you have to do is say thank you.”

He was right. No one had ever called me out like that before. Deflecting a compliment doesn’t make you look humble. It sends the gift back to the sender, unreceived. I’ve learned over the years to say thank you and to be proud of my achievements. It helps me know what I am worth. I worked for it, after all.

So when I say that I wrote a book, I am in awe—deeply grateful and proud that The Long Run Home is in print, in real life, in my hands and in the hands of readers. I open it up and smell its pages. When I read it—as I do often, flipping the spine open to any odd page—I cry.

I wrote this—this story that captures some of the most important chapters of my life and, from the messages and reviews I receive daily, it is a story that resonates far beyond my own experience. It also deeply honors what my family went through—especially my father, the unsung hero of it all.

Publishing The Long Run Home was an eight-year journey. Holding it in my hands now, I read its pages and laugh and cry all over again. I’m touched by the messages from those of you who are laughing and crying right alongside me. Despite my early affection for hyper-independence, sharing this with you has been an honor of a lifetime and is the whole point. All along, we were meant to do this together.

If you’ve read the book and feel inclined, your words—shared with me, in an online review, and within your community—help carry this story forward in ways I could never do alone.

Thank you so much for being here — and thank you for being my family.

This is the mantra that keeps me grounded in the present. It arrives unprompted from my mind—This is your life—and causes me to take note of what I’m doing, because the thing I’m doing at that very moment is my life, made up of the thousand tiny decisions I make each day.

This is your life—at the gym, warming up to lift, workout, or run. In these moments, I feel proud that I make time for my health and fitness when there are so many other responsibilities pulling at me. At times, the mantra makes me feel anxious—that I don’t have more time to workout if the day doesn’t allow it. And still, there’s space to make more room for it ahead, if I choose to create it.

This is your life—right now, at this moment, while I type this in draft form. My inner critic is loud: no one wants to read this. And this, too, is my life—overcoming that voice and deciding to write it anyway. Who cares if no one wants to hear this? Literally, no one cares, except that inner critic, who is quite the little asshole if I do say so myself. The act of writing it is the point, I have to remind myself.

It comes to me while scrolling social media, when in the moment I know deep down there are better things to be doing with my time. Those are the moments I am both aware and stuck—aware that I should stop scrolling and choose to do something else, while also living with the feeling of just wanting to space out for a little while. When I’m not careful, a little while turns into a long while.

How much of my life will I spend consuming the hot takes of other people’s opinions?

It comes to me while I’m organizing the closet, doing dishes for the thousandth time, packing up the car to go snowboarding. Activities with the kids are the moments I love most when the mantra comes to me—when I feel deep down that the time we steal together truly is my life.

I say that now, writing in a blissfully quiet (and clean) house while they’re all at school for the day. The clock ticks toward 4 p.m., when they’ll rush in with their noise and emotions and ssstttuuuffffff, and I’ll have to remind myself (sometimes through gritted teeth) that a cluttered mudroom really isn’t that big of a deal.

This is your life.
This is your life.
This is your life.

The prompt draws me to the question: Am I being, right now, who I want to be in the future?
If I want to be a writer, then I must write now.
If I want 15 minutes to walk between meetings on long workdays, then I must put it in my calendar—and also get up from my desk to do it.
If I want to make time to eat, workout, and connect, then I must do those things now.

There is no future place I can reach where I’ll finally feel like I’ve earned the space for the things that really matter. I already have the ability to create it—and so do you. No one is coming to give us more time.

It’s already here.

This is your life.

A friend asked the question from the front row at my book launch event, right as we were wrapping up the program and closing Q&A. Her words hung in the air like a challenge. What would come after publishing a book—an accomplishment many dream of but few ever reach?

It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked something like that. After I finished my solo 3,288-mile run across America, people wondered the same thing: What now? “You’ve achieved something monumental at only twenty-five years old,” an older gentleman told me. “What could you possibly do next that measures up?”

Big achievements tend to stand like mountains along the trajectory of life—massive mounds of uphill effort leading to an apex. And once you get to the top, you look around and may wonder: Now what?

I’m reminded of a scene from my book, when I was running up Loveland Pass in Colorado—the tallest point in the entire event:

My lungs ached. My muscles throbbed. My whole body pleaded with me to stop.

I refused.

Running a switchback, I looked out at a stretch of stunning mountain peaks that went on for miles, far beyond what I could see. The raw beauty of the range at this height was powerful; it stilled me in my place.

What a dazzling place, this earth, I heard from within.

I marveled at the truth. I could not disagree.

Nearing a peak doesn’t show you the end of the journey—it reveals all the other peaks still waiting. From that height, “What’s next?” isn’t just logical; it’s inevitable.

But as my book launch approached, what I focused on most wasn’t the next mountain. It was the fundamentals—the practices that carried me to this summit in the first place.

I stocked our kitchen with groceries and prepared fresh food. I learned that lesson the hard way the day I launched my author website and then got sucked into a vortex of social media messages and congratulations. Hours passed before I realized I hadn’t eaten or even paused for a moment. The headache was bad and my stomach grumbled audibly — it took hours to rectify and valuable time away from my family.

I cleared my work calendar for the day after the launch event. I didn’t want to pack my schedule or talk about the book nonstop. Instead, I wanted to wake up without an alarm, exercise, meditate, and sit by the fireplace reading a fictional book with peppermint tea in hand. I wanted to stare out the window and watch nature be nature.

I reminded myself—intentionally—that I am more than this book and more than my work at MS Run the US. That may sound obvious, but I’ve also seen and experienced how easy it is to believe that we must keep incessantly moving, doing, and creating without pausing or all will be lost.

These practices held me as the unavoidable let-down approached. Because it would come, of course, and the severity and duration depended on my ability to detach from the thing I had achieved and focus on the mundane, every day tasks I trained myself to feel good about.

And I did—weathering the storm like a cute little summer sprinkle. (Oh, dear ego. You think this one thing defines me? Come at me, bro!)

So what’s next?

Honestly… quite a lot. That’s why my alarm is still set for 5:35 a.m. It’s why my workouts and quiet morning rituals remain the anchors of my day. It’s why I celebrate in ways people sometimes find unusual—extra workouts, quiet moments with books and birds, quick naps under cozy blankets. These habits are what steady me across both peaks and valleys. They’re the bedrock I return to as I begin climbing towards what’s next.

I could tell you what projects I’m lining up, but instead I want to leave you with this:

Build a foundation you can stand on no matter what rises up in front of you. Because what I should have said to my friend that night was this:

What’s next is a workout and a nap—so I can begin again, rested, ready, and blazing with my LFG energy, fire emojis included.

Share

I find it incredible that it took me eight years to publish this book. Eight. Years. Four years writing, two years creating and pitching the proposal, and another two years giving it to God. Okay, God, this is your story, I prayed. I’ve done all I can. I’ll wait until you show me the door. I’ve learned I often have to come to the end of myself before God moves—lest my sneaky ego try to take credit for the work.

Get Your Copy of The Long Run Home!

And yet, those eight years went by in a blink. Which feels comical when I think about how many times I was frustrated with the process and wished it would just move the fuck along.

But now, looking back, it’s so clear that this is the right time. And I’m truly glad it didn’t come sooner.

Eight years ago I didn’t have the full breadth of friendships that filled the room at my book launch event on Monday night. Thinking about the love they poured over me during launch week still makes me teary. Years from now, it won’t be the media interviews I remember—it will be the long drives they made to be there that night and the way my local friends decorated my lawn and driveway launch morning with words of love, encouragement, and praise.

I opened the garage door, ready to head to the gym, and burst into tears at the chalk messages covering the concrete.

“I can’t take credit,” Aaron said. “Your friends woke up at 4am to do this.”

My friends—with kids and jobs and families and lives that move as fast as mine—pulled themselves from bed in the dark to decorate my house before dawn. I am still stunned. What can I even say about that?

Many of them joined me again on Monday afternoon to set up the venue for the celebration. As we carried boxes from my car and built balloon towers, I held back tears of gratitude—because time is the most precious resource, and they chose to spend theirs helping me get the space ready. Them being there overwhelmed me in a very touching way.

While I bounced from promotion opportunities in New York City to local TV interviews and radio broadcasts, I kept thinking about the people holding it all together at MS Run the US. Christian Jensen, our new Executive Director, and long-time staff members Carrie Berg and Haley Halverson have kept the work steady and growing through every challenge since they joined me in 2021. Their diligence makes it possible for me to step away from my desk and share our story with the world—something that simply wasn’t possible eight years ago. And I’m grateful all over again for the timing.

I want to say I’m lucky, but I also know these relationships are a circle. I give too—and an important part of giving is being willing to receive, a lesson I’ve had to learn the hard way. There is much in the receiving. It doesn’t make you weak; it makes you loved. And when you have love to return in the ways that are uniquely yours, nothing is owed.

The Long Run Home is out in the world, and I’ve never been more prepared for this moment or the miles that lie ahead. I feel deep gratitude in my heart and a fire in my bones that burns brighter with each passing day. The miles continue—and I am not running them alone.

Get Your Copy of The Long Run Home!

Share

• Why did I follow my gut to run across America when the idea came to me?

• Why did I never give up on MS Run the US through years of challenges and adversity?

• Why did I believe I should start writing a book with a toddler and baby in tow?

Looking back on the last sixteen years—on what’s come from a single yes, and my willingness to begin and not stop—I am profoundly grateful. More than anything, I want to pass that courage on.

I’ve been eager to write to you. I wrote to you so many times in my head while running. But y’all—I AM PUBLISHING A BOOK (Eeeek!)—and that has kept my days packed with time-sensitive tasks to stay on track for launch. These are things I love: editing (oh, so much editing!), cover design, interior layout, typesetting, and gathering endorsements so good I cry each time I read them. And still, I want to dish out all the details—so, LFG.

Celebrity Foreword – the juicy details!

You heard it here first – Robin Arzón: Queen of Peloton, 2x NYT best selling author, and a powerhouse woman in business has written the foreword to my memoir, The Long Run Home!

WHAT?! Fuck yeah! Now gather round the fire for the tale:

Robin and I crossed paths in 2012 when she applied to run on the inaugural MS Run the US Relay team in honor of her mother living with MS. At the time, I was pulling the event together with duct tape and barbed wire, and she—along with fifteen other adventurous teammates—was the hope and prayer holding the whole damn thing together.

Robin met me on the road for her segment in Utah’s Mormon country where she showed up to the motorhome in booty shorts and a leather jacket. She brought eleven pairs of shoes – both fashion and running – and played curated beats from her speakers each morning. Then I’d drive her in a worn and sturdy Toyota Camry to an obscure gravel road among the Wasatch mountain range, drop her off, and point east. It was gritty and real – littered with suffering, joy and so much growth that we could both taste it.

Afterward, Robin became one of the most recognized figures in the fitness and wellness industry as Peloton’s Vice President of Fitness Programming and Head Instructor. Known for one of her many mantras, “If it’s not a Hell yes, it’s a no,” I am deeply honored that endorsing my book was a Hell yes for her—and that she chose to use her time and voice to support it.

Publishing Date

Write it down: November 13th—the day the world finally gets my book! A date eight years in the making.

Eight. Years.

It’s easy to track because I started writing when Sierra was six months old. A tweet caught my eye, promoting a free webinar about writing a book in 30 days, and I dropped my name in the registration box. Afterwards, I had just enough fuel to begin so I set my alarm for 3:45 a.m. with the label: Write Like a Motherfucker. Spoiler alert: my book wasn’t written in 30 days. But by then I was already on my way.

That’s the thing about beginning – if you plan to finish what you start, simply keep going until it’s finished, no matter how long it takes.

Motherfuckers write at 3:45 a.m.—because that’s when it fits into the family schedule. They write in the gaps of their lives because they love to write and have a story to tell. They write for years—writing, editing, pitching, and praying—with patience learned the uncomfortable way, because that’s what it takes. I came to understand and appreciate that greatness isn’t a race.

A lot has happened in eight years. And I can say with full confidence that this book carries eight years of growth, learning, commitment, and assurance within its pages—and I am so proud of the finished product.

Pre-order + Purchasing

For now, it’s a bit of hurry-up-and-wait as the purchasing details get finalized. But I cannot wait to share the pre-order and book website page with you in just a few weeks.

Thank you for walking this long-ass road with me. If we’ve got to walk anyway, we may as well walk toward something exceptional, right? I can’t wait for you to read the story of my run across America—and see what it sparks in you to begin.

Share Meaning In The Mess