Hello, everyone. Sorry it’s been a minute. I hope you all are doing well and have had a lovely summer wherever you live!

You may have seen in my free post that this block delivered its own bunch of goodies. But as I’ve said before, this is where I actually get into the nitty-gritty details of each block.

Going Into the Block: Mentality

Last year I broke my…

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For a while now, I’ve had this phrase stuck in my head, ever since Broken Arrow: “rewiring my brain.” The idea that I found success in my first race of the season because I’d worked so hard to rewire it, to learn how to accept and work with my perfectionism, to keep seeing my sensitivity as what makes me me instead of something to hide, to learn to meet myself where I’m at, and so much more. For weeks I had a nearly finished Substack post about exactly that. I never published it, because something still felt missing. It read like a half-baked thought, and I couldn’t figure out why. So I waited for the ah-ha moment to tell me what it needed. Eventually it came, just not in the way I expected.

This block, between Broken Arrow and CCC, was tough in its own way. Two weeks in particular knocked me sideways, and those were the weeks I chose not to push through, but instead to meet myself where I actually was, instead of forcing a plan onto a body and heart that weren’t in it.

The first was my younger brother. I haven’t shared this publicly until now, but that little guy has had quite the last few years and so has our entire family. This year he hit his first year of sobriety, a huge milestone. But not long after he left his rehab facility, he found himself homeless and sleeping on the streets. With him being young, bipolar, and a recovering addict, this was very difficult for me and my whole family. It was his own choice, but we were all deeply concerned for his safety, and my dad flew out to SoCal to find him and figure out what had happened. That week I was a mess. I struggled with intense emotions: mad, disappointed, upset, but above all, scared for his safety. Anyone with a loved one who struggles with these things knows how complicated that mix of feelings can be. To no surprise, my glute med flared up out of nowhere, and I ended up walking what was supposed to be a workout day. Another day I went out for a run, then just sat on a rock and cried, then walked home. But as each day pass things got a little easier, especially once he was found and safe, and as a family we felt a sense of relief.

Then the next challenge came after Ragged 50k. I flew home thinking about my race and what I’d learned from it. Then, Tuesday morning, I got a text from one of my best friends saying she needed me. I dropped everything and went straight over, because I had a terrible feeling something had happened. When I arrived, the house felt dark and heavy, and that’s when I found out her fiancé, one of our dear friends, had died in a climbing accident just a few days earlier.

I will never forget that morning for the rest of my life. Losing Jake, and watching my friend Emma sit in that pain, broke my heart. (You can learn more about Jake and the legacy he leaves behind here.) Only a month earlier, he’d been at my birthday party, celebrating, laughing, playing. A few weeks after that, he was at the top of Stairway to Heaven at Broken Arrow’s 46k, cheering me on with a huge smile and pure Jake stoke. And now I was standing with one of my dearest friends as she grieved him as a young widow.

For the next few days I visited her, then tried to run. Three days in a row, I couldn’t. I’d start, then walk, then cry hard. And at the same time, one of my other best friends in Mammoth, from that same friend group, was getting married that weekend. Our community in Mammoth is small and mighty, and this particular friend group is even smaller and mightier. We hang out constantly. We make time for each other. We love each other.

It was one of the wildest, most difficult weeks of my life. I was trying to be there for both the bride-to-be and the new widow — helping with wedding details one moment, being a shoulder to cry on the next. I held space for two competing, intense feelings at once, and I don’t know if I’ve ever worked harder at anything.

But I didn’t do it alone.

That group of friends I mentioned, our core people in Mammoth, we did it together, and it was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever witnessed. So many of us were holding space for two enormous, competing things at once: grief for Jake and Emma, and joy for a wedding that we had all been looking forward to for a long time.

The week of Jake’s passing and the wedding, I was convinced I wouldn’t make it to CCC. I was that tired, that depleted, my cup was emptier than it had been in a long time. But somehow, day by day, I started feeling more like myself again. I kept telling my friends the same thing, over and over: time helps. And I made small, conscious efforts to let it.

At the wedding, I was so proud of all of us. We showed up for Tim and Chrissy and made it a celebration, because I think humans are better together, sharing the load through the dark, the light, and everything gray in between. We laughed, cried, and danced our butts off. There were moments that were so beautiful it felt surreal. It reminded me of a line from Taylor Swift’s “Opalite,” about finding joy in the middle of a storm instead of waiting for it to pass. For too long, I thought sadness and happiness were mutually exclusive, that you get one or the other, not both. I’m learning they can coexist. It’s a lesson that’s been coming up more and more in recent years, but this experience was the most intense and beautiful example of that I had ever experienced.

It’s also the lesson I carried straight into the rest of my CCC training. Because if grief and joy could share a room at that wedding, I had to believe my body and my heart could hold a hard block and a good race too.

This race week and I have a complicated history. In 2022, I podiumed at OCC. In 2023, a stomach bug hit three days out and I DNF’d, completely wrecked. The next year, while I finished 6th, an up-and-down race ended with a broken ankle on the final downhill. And, last year, I showed up with a broken toe and made it worse.

Needless to say I have felt defeated by and also very inspired to get back to Chamonix for this week in particular. So when I got cleared for my first run-walk program in February, all I could think about was getting to CCC in great shape. At that moment I believed it would require one of those ‘great’ blocks. The type with clean weeks, no injuries, no chaos, just training. But after Broken Arrow 46k this year, and these past few months on top of it, my definition of a “great” block has changed. Now I believe you do the best with the time you have, and if you truly believe that’s enough, then it is enough. Blocks like this one, where I didn’t check off every single prescribed run, hand me different buckets to pull from, ones a clean block never could. And those buckets are filled with a different kind of energy, not just what comes from fitness and ease. For someone who considers herself a soul racer, that might make me extra ferocious, if the day presents itself.

Life happened to me in this block. In all its colors and shades. And now that I’m finally here in Chamonix, it’s because of those difficult weeks that I’m convinced I was never rewiring my brain at all — rewiring would mean swapping out parts, working with something other than what I started with. What actually happened is that the same parts got stronger. I didn’t become someone new. I became someone who can carry more. I faced new storms this block and learned how to dance through them instead of waiting for them to pass.

And it’s because of that growth that I know I’m ready to lay it all out there.

There’s been this interesting shift happening lately. Not just physically, but mentally.

One of the biggest things I’ve been working on (and honestly, still working on) is breaking the habit of comparing myself to past versions of me. And instead, treating this like a completely new chapter. Because the truth is, those chapters already happened. There’s no going back to them. So the question becomes: what can this version of me do?

And what’s been surprising… is how quickly that answer is unfolding.

I’ve been thinking a lot about why my fitness seems to be coming back as quickly as it is. And honestly, I keep coming back to something very simple: rest.

Like, real rest. Not modified training. Not “kind of” backing off. A full stop.

I think I accidentally gave my body the perfect environment to reset. (See all the things I threw at it here.) A full hormonal reset. A chance to actually absorb everything I’ve put it through over the past few years.And I don’t think I fully appreciated how powerful that could be until now. Because as much as it felt like I was losing everything during those months, and to a certain extent, I did, what’s happening now is… unexpected?

Depending on how you slice the cake, one can argue the data I’m seeing are somehow ahead of where I was last year. Yes, I know, I just said I’m not comparing myself to my past self. But I’d be lying if I said that part doesn’t feel good.

When I got my first round of clearance in early February, I told myself this would be a year of no excuses. A little bit of tough love, balanced with also being proud of myself. Train like I have nothing to lose, because, in a way, I already lost the fitness and am at baseline zero. So the only way out is out, and the only way up is up.

Of course, that mindset will get calibrated with a race or two. But for now, I’m choosing to believe that perhaps this will be a great year. And if there is anything I learned while hurt is that I rather hope and believe, than numb myself to any optimism. It is just how I want to live my life.

What Training Actually Looks Like Right Now

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Hello everyone, happy March!

Before getting into anything else, I want to start here…

In the caption of my last IG reel, I wrote, “Thank you to everyone who came down into the ditch with me.” I mentioned my husband, my family, and my close friends—the people who were physically there through it all.

But I want you to know that includes you, too.🫶

The longer I’m in this sport, the more I’ve noticed how engagement naturally rises with podium finishes and the highlight moments, the moments filled with giddiness, smiles, and celebration. That’s just the nature of it, and I 100% get it. We’re all drawn to joy, momentum, and things that feel light.

Which is why I don’t take it lightly when people continue to follow along through the quieter, harder chapters. So to those of you who stayed, who kept reading, who kept showing up, thank you for coming down into the ditch with me.

As I move through life, the more I’ve come to believe something simple: the highs might inspire us, but the lows are what truly connect us.

And for me, it feels important to share both.

Genuinely, thank you.🙏

So on that note, it’s actually time to get into some happier sh*t.

For those who have followed along on the podcast, you know how I’ve joked here and there that what I thought was a limited series somehow got renewed for multiple seasons. But somewhere along the way, the universe decided it was time to jump the shark and bring this most recent saga to an end, because things have started to shift.

There wasn’t one big moment, but more like a series of small ones that slowly but surely began to build on one another.

The first time it really hit me, that this might actually work, that my toe would heal and I would get another true shot at this professional running life was when my second-to-last X-ray in early February showed a big improvement from the previous one. Seeing that visible proof, and getting the go-ahead that I could start to load the toe in ways I hadn’t been allowed to for months, felt huge. The weight was still there, but it was noticeably lighter.

From that moment on, I began biking and starting a return-to-run program. One that included a lot of walking, then hops on both feet and single-leg, then eventually a mix of walking and jogging. I did this for another six weeks, leading into my next X-ray on March 17th.

Leading up to March 17th, part of me felt deep down that it was doing better—both in appearance and feel—but I decided to keep it on the calendar and I’m so glad I did.

So I went back for another X-ray, my 5th one in 6 months. This time showing it had made another leap forward, and night and day from my first image back in November. I truly didn’t realize how powerful having that final image would feel. It made me feel so empowered and at ease. And it also came with the surgeon’s words: “It would take a lot to break this toe at this point, you’re cleared to increase intensity in running.”

Of course, that clearance comes with nuances. But it only takes milliseconds to remember back to this winter, how dark, heavy, and impossible things felt, and here I was hearing words that, in their own way, all said: Dani you did it, you get another shot at this, with a full and working toe. Let’s do this thing.

With the green light, my running build continues to stay conservative. I’m still working up to running one hour, which I get to do for the first time this weekend (big win, woot woot). These conservative efforts are more for the tendons and tissues in my right foot, as those went a long time without being used at all. It has been mostly smooth sailing outside of a mini flare-up in my arch, which I addressed ASAP with my physio. With her help, we were able to determine the root cause, and it calmed down in less than a day thanks to treatment and some new activation exercises.

It has been cool to feel within myself that I’ve built a base of resilience where, when things come up, I know I’m going to be fine. Not only because I just endured a very difficult chapter, but because I know how hard I’ve been working for months at this point. Back in January, I started piecing together long PT sessions every day, and in February that became 90–120 minutes a day of pure mobilization and PT.

Outside of that, this more fortified sense of self-belief has become a muscle I work every day, reminding myself that everything I do counts, not just the running itself. Before my first major injury (end of 2024 into early 2025), I was still trying to convince myself that cross-training counted just as much. I felt stuck in this mindset that I needed to be running to be a better runner. But through that, and then getting reinjured, I’ve been reminded (and honestly forced to accept) that the strength and confidence I have now come from months of consistent work across the board.

When I look back and think about past Dani not giving up and choosing to endure instead, I think of the tools she was able to utilize. And, if I had to rank the most impactful pieces of this process, it would look something like this:

8. Sleep / Rest
This was massive. I rested completely for months. I’ve joked with my husband and friends that in 2024 God was like, “hey, you need to calm down,” and there I was with a broken ankle and torn tendons, but I still swam and biked through most of it. Then this time it was like, “NO, you really need to chill TF out,” and boom, full stop.

I did a little core here and there and some scooter rides, but I could’ve pushed that more. However, that came with risks I wasn’t willing to take. So I chose to rest. Even as someone who already sleeps a lot, this is probably the most I’ve ever slept in my life.

7. Red Light Therapy
The most consistent thing I did. Not flashy, super easy to use. I do think it helped with inflammation in my foot. It wasn’t the end-all be-all, but I’m sure it contributed.

6. Hyperbaric Therapy (HBOT)
This was a new one for me. After learning about it, I committed to two blocks : one post-op and one during the early remodeling phase. What I noticed was pretty wild: after each session, my foot visibly looked better, less red, less angry. The color would return later, but then the next session the same thing would happen again. It was enough to convince me something was working. HBOT has traditionally been used for burns, carbon monoxide poisoning, and premature infants, situations where oxygen delivery really matters. Now it’s also being used more for tissue healing, inflammation reduction, and post-surgery recovery. I also noticed that, despite not being able to exercise, I slept significantly better after sessions. (Hyperbaric Center of SB is where I went, they have hard-sided chambers).

5. Pulsed Electromagnetic Field Therapy (PEMF)
Something I layered in later, but it quickly became part of my recovery rhythm. Honestly, I wish I had started this sooner. I could see and feel the effects more immediately versus the red light which took more time. I also used it during my most recent arch flare-up, and after one 90-minute session, it calmed down significantly. This is 100% in my rotation for any injuries going forward.

4. Nutrition
This was huge. Kyla Channel of Nutritional Revolution is a genius, period. I started working with her last year during my injury, and she has been there every step of the way. I had multiple blood tests, and every time the goal was to make sure my body had everything it needed to recover. And that meant eating, a lot and with intention, even throughout my various stages of my menstrual cycle. When you’re not working out, it’s easy to think you need less food. But in reality, if you’re injured, you often need more. There were days I’d look at my Cronometer and think, dang, I need even more protein today, but I did it. And I truly believe that’s a huge reason why my training is trending upward right now. I didn’t dig a nutrient hole, I filled it constantly, alongside full rest.

3. Strength + Physical Therapy Consistency
The unsexy work. Usually made up of a bunch of tiny movements that take forever. Day after day of showing up for 90–120 minutes of mobilization, activation, and strength. At times it felt repetitive, almost excessive, but looking back, this is what built the initial foundation. Not one session, but the accumulation of all of them. I couldn’t start this until I was cleared, but once I did, I haven’t stopped. My PT team at the hospital, my main PT Chrissy , and my sister helping with strength programming, big thank you to all of them for being there for me.❤️

2. Mindset
This one evolved the most. I thought I had learned a lot during the winter of 2024, but this was an entirely new level. I had never felt this dark and heavy before. There were days where I just lay in bed, staring out the window, and cried. It honestly scared me how sad I felt at times. But I always made a point to share that with my husband and the people close to me. And even in those moments, I would say: this sucks, but I know I won’t give up—that’s not who I am. I also worked with a psychologist during this time, which helped a lot.And through the frustration, sadness, and darkness, something else was building, almost without me realizing it: a new layer of mental grit. Learning to rewrite the narrative in real time. Slowly shifting from “why is this happening?” to “what can I build from this?”

And in its own way, it’s been a strength-building journey ever since.

1. Community
In the end, this was the most important piece of all.

The craft nights, Tuesday trivia, movie nights, scooter strolls, coffee mornings. Driving me places, helping with laundry, stopping by just to say hi. The random calls. Being up for trying new things in town. All of it.

My community was everything to me. And it constantly reminded me of something simple but important: how much human connection matters.

I think the biggest takeaway from all of this is that so many of the things we tend to overlook are actually the things that end up mattering most.

The basics. The unsexy stuff. The things that don’t always feel like they’re “working” at the moment—resting, eating enough, showing up day after day, leaning on people, doing the same small things over and over again.

I personally had a hard time hearing phrases like “you’ll be stronger after this” or “it will get better,” because when I was in a pity party, I wanted to believe I was the exception. Like this was too painful to ever improve.

But in the end, it wasn’t one big thing that pulled me through, it was all of it. Layered together. Repeated daily. My choice to keep showing up, even when it felt like an elephant was on my back, that resilience and choice to engage even when I wanted to shut down is what is paying off dividends now.

So what’s next?

Right now, the focus is simple.

I’m building back toward consistent running, getting to an hour pain-free this weekend is a big goalpost for me. After that, when I get to do a real running workout, I’ll be pretty stoked (everything is still on the bike or elliptical right now).

If I’m being honest, I’ve had somewhat of a hard time getting excited about races, but not in a bad way. I think a big reason I’m in this headspace is that I’m actually really enjoying laying down my foundation. I didn’t get my winter—so this Spring is my base for Summer and Fall and I feel motivated to do as best of a job as I can.

I am signed up for Broken Arrow 46k, and some days I feel excited about it, and other days I don’t think about it at all because I’m just enjoying stacking time.

Regardless, my main goal this year continues to be CCC.

I laugh a little when I say that, because it feels like I’m torturing myself—but I also know that when I’m the best version of myself mentally, despite the pain I was dealing with in that race, I made a quiet but loud promise to myself:

When I am healthy, I am going to run the heck out of this course.

Time to keep getting strong and fit, and let’s see if we can make summer 2027 a good one.

More to freaking come….

After my knee injury, something unexpected (maybe expected?) happened.

As frustrating as it was, it gave me more time. Time I 100000% didn’t ask for, but time I have been using.

I’ve been thinking a lot about rock bottom.

I want to say this clearly: my rock bottom is not universal. It’s not comparative. It’s not a competition. I’m not ignorant to the good in my life, I have a loving husband, a safe home, family who shows up for me, the ability to take care of myself, and so much more. I’m deeply aware of that.

Rather rock bottom is personal.

It’s defined by the deepest, most difficult challenges, it is where you have never been before.

And for me, that moment on the concrete felt unbearable not because it was the hardest thing anyone has ever endured, but because I had never been there. I didn’t yet have a framework for it. I didn’t know what was going to happen, solely that I was already suffering, and in the moment the universe said, you’re not done yet here is more suffering.

I’m aware that I am a problem-solver by nature. I recognize patterns. I replicate what works. I build systems. I adapt. That’s how I’ve lived and built my life, and it’s how I’ve trained as an athlete.

And this stretch has bent, broken, and overturned that model.

It has been relentlessly hit after hit after hit, without enough time in between to stabilize. Every time I thought I’d found my footing, something else gave way. And eventually, I found myself in a place I didn’t recognize, not only physically, but internally.

Recently while recording my own thoughts I self authored a metaphor that worked for me : the ditch dilemma.

I don’t think the ditch is unique to me. I think everyone finds themselves in one at some point. What’s different is how deep it is, how often we get thrown back in, and what we do once we realize where we are.

For me, over these past 15-16 months, I think I’ve been thrown into ditches, over and over again. Sometimes shallow. Sometimes familiar. Sometimes deep enough that I could still see the edge.

And sometimes so deep and dark it felt as though there was no light in sight.

That darkest one, the one where I felt like giving up, may not have been “rock bottom” in the grand sense, but it was the deepest ditch I’d ever been thrown into. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know how to get out. And that scared me more than the raw pain itself.

What I’ve been learning, through therapy, reflection, sharing, and honestly just trying my best to listen these past 16 months, is that it’s okay to grieve those moments. It’s okay to let them feel heavy and let out a howling deep cry. Grief doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re open to orienting yourself to new terrain.

Of course this felt overwhelming. Of course I didn’t know how to handle it at first. I’d never had to before.

Strength isn’t something you’re born knowing how to use in every scenario. It’s something that’s built and refined—slowly, painfully—when theory turns into lived experience.

And while this season of life has asked more of me than I wanted to give, it’s also reminded me of who I am.

I love life. I love love. I love optimism. I love the underdog. And so much more.

But above all of that comes hope.

And while the Dani-hope-a-meter has been running low, I’ve realized I’d rather feel the ache of hope slipping than the emptiness of no hope at all. Hope is a vulnerability I’m choosing to keep — not because it’s comfortable, but because it keeps me awake to my life.

I also decided I don’t want to go numb.

I don’t want to bypass the sadness or rush the process just to feel “better.” I want to feel what’s here, grieve what’s been lost, and still believe this isn’t the end of the story, even if I don’t yet know how the next chapter reads.

Later this morning, I’ll get my next round of X-rays to see if my surgery was a success.

I don’t know what they’ll show. I don’t know whether I’ll start climbing out of the ditch, or whether I’ll find myself back in it again, reaching for different tools.

What I do know is this: I’m going to try my best to sit with uncertainty rather than shut myself off from it. And while it hurts, I’ll also try to keep feeling deeply instead of being scared of it.

So, even if this ends up being the longest climb out of a ditch I’ve ever faced, it doesn’t mean I can’t do it. t just means I’ll have to learn as I go.

And that ladies and gentleman, is life.

As I lay on the cold concrete, feeling blood drip through my tights, I stared up at a blue sky streaked with clouds that weren’t fully formed. Then it began spinning and it wasn’t stopping.

I tried to calm my breath, but no matter how hard I tried, it kept spinning. I knew my breath was the one thing that could keep me anchored to reality, so I focused on breathing out and in, making sure it was loud enough that I could hear it. I knew what was happening. My adrenaline was at an all-time high. The hyperventilation was unstoppable and palpable in my chest.

As the sky continued to whirl above me, different faces came into view, asking if I was okay.

Jim, a good samaritan, made sure my head was okay, watched River, and called the ambulance. A woman with a calming aura offered to take River, my dog, home, only for us to quickly realize we lived in the same complex. Others wanted to help but backed off once it was clear everything was under control. The sirens came quickly, which made sense considering the fire station was less than a mile away.

While all of this was happening around me, I was mostly focused on my running career.

This was it, I thought. This is the end. I don’t know how I can come back from this. I think this is where I finally give up.

Just moments earlier, I had been walking with my knee scooter and my dog — something I had done without issue for seven weeks. I’d taken that scooter on little adventures, doing what I could to keep my love for life intact while waiting to be given permission to become weight-bearing again after surgery on my right foot.

That permission had only come four days earlier, when my pin was finally removed. I decided to ease into walking full-time in the boot, but for longer dog walks, I still used the scooter. It felt like a way of inching my body back into the deep end of the pool, giving it grace after seven weeks of rarely touching the ground.

As I walked home, I fell for the first time in a parking lot. I got up and felt fine. Weird. Ouch. What are the odds? I shook it off.

Half a mile later, I fell again, this time much worse. The way I pitched forward slingshotted my right knee into the pavement and the scooter. I heard a dull thump and felt a sharp pain shoot through my knee.

Four days. That was all I had to feel forward momentum. Four days of learning how to navigate life without a pin in my toe. And now I was lying on the ground while strangers made their own guesses about what had happened to me.

I don’t blame them. I don’t blame Jim for thinking I may have fractured something. When I pulled my tights up, I saw the top of my tibia poking through a curtain of freshly severed skin and fat. Something I shared when he first pulled over to help.

But my cry, which sounded like a deep, primal howl, was about so much more than my knee. In that moment, my world — my day, my month, my entire last year — flashed in front of me. I wasn’t gasping solely because of the wound. I was mourning everything I’d endured over the past fifteen months. It may have looked like I’d lost someone I loved. And in a way, I had.

I was mourning the loss of hope that had just started to come back into view. I missed running. I missed meditating in motion. I missed doing my favorite activity with my friends. I missed chasing endorphins, pushing my body to new limits, and entering that surreal space where deep thought and total presence coexist.

When the paramedics arrived, I felt myself get pulled back into real time as they asked, “What hurts?”

“My pride,” I replied.

I let the pause land. A few laughs. Then I told them what actually hurt.

At the hospital, my friend Emily arrived. Her presence felt angelic. It was there that I finally said the thing sitting heavy on my chest: “Em, I’m really tired. And this is the first time I’ve felt like giving up. I think this is what a version of rock bottom feels like.”

She stayed as they numbed me and gave me thirteen stitches.

In the days that followed, the feelings from that spot followed me home. They lingered at outings with friends and soon Christmas dinners. They showed up every time someone asked how I was doing, and while it was difficult to get through without tears shedding I answered honestly.

I used to think I knew what depression felt like.

Now I do.

Everything felt heavy. Hopeless. I kept asking myself how I was supposed to come back from this. I didn’t know if I had any fight left in me.

Perhaps I am not as tough as I thought I was.

That spot, the concrete, the sky, the spinning, I pass it almost every day. And every time I do, I’m right back there.

That was rock bottom.

And now that I’ve been there, I can finally tell you what it feels like to be standing just above it.

Recognizing it for what it was, not what it is.

Further reading continuing this train of thought can be found in my next post: The Ditch Dilemma

Hi you.... yes, you. 👋🏼

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This post is what comes after that realization: the next chapter in my story; the part where acceptance settles in and the real work begins — learning how to live inside the pause.

A few days after surgery, the post-op fog began to lift, and in its place came a strange kind of restlessness. My body was heavy, but my mind was wide awake, already trying to make sense of what this new stillness was asking of me.

The first stretch in Mammoth felt like being zipped inside a down sleeping bag on a cold mountain night: insulated by care and warmth. My friends Chrissy and Tim opened their home and filled it with small kindnesses — meals waiting, stairs managed, River happily trotting in and out. Chrissy, a physical therapist, happened to host a women’s co-working dinner the night of my surgery, and somehow that room of caretakers became the best place I could have landed: a table of women whose instincts are to tend and nurture. I didn’t have to explain or ask, they just knew.

When Mike came home from his work trip, he took over seamlessly — steady as ever. On Sunday, he drove me down to Santa Barbara, dropped me off at my next stop, and headed to LAX for his long-planned fishing trip. It wasn’t perfect timing, but it was the kind that somehow works out anyway.

Sunshine and Oxygen

If my comfort food were a city, it would taste like Santa Barbara. My dad flew in the next day and instantly turned the house into a sanctuary: homemade meals, morning coffee, walks with River, and help wherever it was needed. He also drove me to my sessions at the Santa Barbara Hyperbaric Center, where I began a series of 90-minute dives breathing pure oxygen inside a pressurized chamber.

People often talk about HBOT in scientific terms — how it boosts circulation, accelerates bone and tissue repair, reduces inflammation. All true. But inside that clear capsule, I found something harder to measure: stillness. The sound of my heartbeat; the slow rhythm of my breath; a space where healing stopped feeling like waiting and started feeling like practice.

Every day I left the chamber feeling clearer, stronger, more awake. I read multiple chapters during each session and finished a book in a week, a new personal record (woot woot for small wins).

Each day in Santa Barbara brought its own version of care. Friends dropped by with coloring pencils, conversation, or company for slow scooter walks. I read; I colored; I sat in the sun; I even managed a little gardening with my dad. There wasn’t a single day I didn’t see a friend. It was abundance disguised as rest.

There’s something deeply humbling about being cared for; it dismantles the illusion of independence and reminds me that my community has always been one of my main anchors, the reason I never truly fall.

After promising myself last year that I’d learn to ask for help more often, I can finally say it’s become easy, especially with people I love who I know love me back. There’s a quiet strength in realizing you don’t have to do hard things alone; I’m starting to believe that sharing life’s many loads isn’t a weakness — it’s what we were made for.

Asking for help can be humbling; it softens pride, dissolves isolation, and reminds you that strength was never meant to stand alone.

Coming Home

When Mike returned from his trip, my dad flew home and my mom arrived in Mammoth. We slipped into an easy rhythm: slow mornings, World Series nights, games, and big dinners.

An extended fall meant crisp air, golden light, and no snow yet which made scootering around much easier than I’d braced for. After my mom left, more friends rotated through with treats, conversation, and warmth. My autonomy had shrunk, but somehow my world felt bigger.

New Rhythms

These days look different. I’m building small rituals that remind me movement can take many forms: setting up my DJ turntable has become a new way to chase rhythm while my foot rests; coloring in late mornings; writing when my brain feels full.

I started using the Gratitude Plus app back in August, but its impact has deepened during this recovery, first with my family, then my Mammoth crew, and now with my friend Toni McCann, who’s also navigating injury. Each day we share a few things we’re thankful for; it’s simple but grounding — a daily reminder of how much good quietly exists.

My dad’s cooking kick-started another layer of healing — simple, nourishing meals guided by Kyla from Nutritional Revolution, who’s kept me dialed in on the nutrition that supports bone repair. Heavy on protein; rich in color; her plan reminds me that even when I’m not training, my body is still working overtime. Following her guidance feels like one more way to honor the job of being an athlete — soft but intentional work that counts, even in stillness. The clearest sign of it’s success was when my period returned not missing a beat after my surgery. She’s stellar and I couldn’t recommend her more.

Between all that, I’ve been writing again… postcards to friends, Sub Hub Headlines drafts, Trail Diaries essays, a story for the PTRA Substack. I’m starting to think the pages I color, read, and write have quietly become my new mileage.

While I’m learning to love the slower time, I can’t deny my love and passion for pursuing progress.

Looking Ahead

My pin removal is scheduled for November 25, which, in perfect cosmic humor, aligns with the release of Stranger Things Season 5, one of my passionate sci-fi obsessions, and family gatherings through some pinnacle holidays. The timeline feels symbolic: pin out near Thanksgiving, boot off by Christmas, and, if all goes well, a first return-to-run by New Year’s Eve.

Until then, my world is intentionally small: core work, gratitude, writing, music, friends, and the weekly rhythm of the NFL. I started watching football last fall during my last injury, and it stuck. While I’ll always root for the Rams, I’ve found myself following other players too, especially Joe Burrow, who’s also sidelined this season.

It’s funny how sport keeps teaching the same lesson in new ways: everyone sits out eventually, but the ones who come back stronger are the ones who stay intentional while they’re still. And maybe that’s where this new chapter begins, in learning how to stay engaged even in the stillness.

In my last post, I wrote that “it’s never a good time… and maybe that’s the point.” This time around, I’m realizing that once you make peace with imperfect timing, the next step is learning how to live inside it: to treat each unpredictable moment like training — showing up, adjusting, trusting that the process still counts, even when it looks different.

Because recovery, like running, rarely goes exactly to plan. You adapt to weather; to terrain; to how your body feels that day. Healing asks for the same thing: presence over control.

I’m learning that the quiet work: gratitude lists, good meals, deep breaths, sunlight pouring through the Mammoth windows, can be its own kind of training block; progress is still happening, just in a softer register.

So I’ll keep building from here, because life doesn’t stop when you do; it just asks you to participate differently.

Healing isn’t a pause in the story; it’s the quiet chapter before the next twist — the one where strength is gathered in silence, and the reader has no idea just how much is changing behind the scenes.

❤️

💌 If you haven’t read “It’s Never a Good Time… And Maybe That’s the Point,” I recommend starting there; this piece picks up where that one left off, moving from acceptance into practice, from timing into trust.

It’s time to catch you up.

On October 16th, I felt both excited and uneasy heading into my orthopedic follow-up appointment for new X-rays of my right fifth metatarsal. After getting some discouraging scans a month earlier, I kept reminding myself that information, good or bad, is still progress because it informs the next step.

I reminded myself there’s never a good time for setbacks; they just arrive when they’re meant to test you. Still, that didn’t make the drive to the doctor’s office any easier. As I drove to what had started to feel like visiting an old friend’s house for a hard conversation, that uneasiness began to creep in. Deep down, I already knew what the results would most likely show.

When my doctor, Steve, finally entered the room, he shook his head.
“It doesn’t look good, it’s a non-union.”

I took a breath, absorbed it, and said, “I mean, that’s not surprising, it’s kind of what I expected based on how it’s been feeling. What are my options?”

He explained, “We could try the less invasive route, PRP, plus throw everything else at it, but we’d have to give it five to seven weeks to see if it works. If it doesn’t, the remaining option would be surgery.”

As he spoke, I could feel my heart pounding out of my chest, my temperature rising, my hands starting to shake. I focused on my breathing; anything to keep my tears from spilling over. I thought I was doing a good job until he started explaining what the surgery would entail, and my world slowed down. In my head, the only words that surfaced were, f**k, here we go again.

My mind raced as he spoke. PRP could work, but it also might not. And after challenging myself to believe in the impossible through CCC, my instincts anchored me back to reality. It clicked: I would do surgery, but I’d schedule the PRP for now until I could sleep on it.

I left the appointment with watery eyes, half-committed to the PRP, but grateful my doctor gave me the space to think before deciding.

So I did.

That afternoon, I took my dog River on a long walk along a winding path that’s been my refuge for the past five years. The golden aspens were quaking in the wind, River was happily prancing, and I felt clarity settle in. I would proceed with surgery.

Last year, when I did PRP for my peroneal tendon, I knew it would work — I felt that energetic buzz that comes with confidence and intuition. This time, that feeling wasn’t there.

PRP might have let me stay somewhat mobile for a little longer, but deep down, I knew the reality: my toe had already been given ninety days to heal. Sure, I hadn’t given it the best environment, but it had its chances and never caught up. So why not go all in with the option that offered the highest chance of success, instead of taking another shot in the dark?

The next morning, I texted my doctor explaining why I wanted to move forward with surgery and asked how soon we could do it. He replied: “Tomorrow.”

So, without hesitation, I shifted gears from this sucks to let’s get this done.

The timing wasn’t ideal as Mike was away on a business trip until Saturday, and the weeks ahead were packed. But I wasn’t fazed. I’ve built a strong community here, and I knew I’d be okay.

Before I knew it, I was in full “Dani-mode” making lists, problem-solving, and rallying my people. I figured out who could take me to the hospital, who could stay with me until I went into surgery, who could pick me up afterward, and who could house me during the first days of my recovery. They didn’t hesitate for a second. I dropped my things off at my friend’s house before the procedure, feeling that mix of nerves and deep gratitude that only comes from realizing how supported you are.

The next morning came fast. Soon enough I was signing consent forms and changing into a hospital gown. I remember the chill of the pre-op room contrasted by the warmth of having my friend Emma there who brought coloring books to keep me distracted. Around us, nurses moved quietly but efficiently. Each time they asked if I understood the procedure, I repeated my answer, and each repetition brought a calm kind of surrender. I knew without question this was the right decision.

Between other patients being wheeled in and pre-op checks being completed, I kept reminding myself: It’s not over yet, Dani. You can smell the finish line. Just hold on a little longer. This is the beginning of the end.

Shortly after Emma left, I was wheeled into surgery. The anesthesia started to kick in, and I heard the anesthesiologist say, “Some people say their butt feels itchy.” I laughed, said mine did and then I was out.

When I woke up, my foot was wrapped and my mind was a blur. My doctor stood at the end of the bed with a smile, explaining that the procedure had been a success. Not long after, I saw my friend Kristi waiting to take me home. As she wheeled me toward the exit, relief moved through me like light through mist. The waiting was over; the decision made. What came next would ask for patience, not force. The storm had passed, and for the first time in months, I exhaled

So here I am once again nursing an injury, revisiting lessons I once thought I’d checked off but maybe that’s the beauty of it. I’m starting to see that there’s no final version of me to master, just an ongoing project of becoming. It’s oddly freeing once you let go of the idea that growth has an endpoint. Without a finish line, there’s no falling behind, only evolving on your own time.

I’m rediscovering what brings me joy beyond running, what truly fills my life, who I am when forward motion is off the table. I’m asking the bigger questions: How dimensional am I as a person? What do I want beyond race results? What else feels like purpose?

Maybe what’s “new” this time around isn’t the situation, but my understanding of it. I’m starting to see that there really is never a good time for most of life’s biggest challenges or opportunities — the same way there’s never a perfect time to buy a home, have kids, change careers, get a dog, or, apparently, get injured.

But that doesn’t have to feel half-empty. It can actually be freeing. The more I accept it, the more I bend without breaking — calmer, grittier, more grounded in who I am.

So yeah, it’s never a good time.

And maybe that’s the point.

❤️

Next post: what healing actually looks like — the friends, the food, the small joys, and the new rhythms that have made the stillness feel full.

What a year this has been.

At first, I thought I’d write a straight recap of CCC, but every time I sat down, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Which told me something: maybe I wasn’t inspired to tell that story that way.

I didn’t want to relive every split or aid station. What felt truer was to reflect on what the race revealed—the layers underneath the training and results.

Because as much as I pride myself on being realistic, I’m also deeply, sometimes wildly, optimistic. It’s one of my favorite parts of who I am—that voice that says take the shot, you never know what might happen.

This time, though, I had to learn what happens when that optimism collides with reality, when you take the shot and it doesn’t land.

When I got home, I was in limbo, waiting on another x-ray of my right fifth metatarsal—aka my pinky toe. I like calling it the fifth metatarsal because it sounds more important (and honestly, it is).

Those days felt strange. I was sitting with yet another DNF at the UTMB World Series Finals. That end-of-summer pilgrimage is always a big deal, but this year it really hit me how massive it’s become. I love that—the energy, the community, the chaos.

But on that cold, crisp race morning, pain hit my toe almost right away. I tried to brush it off and climb with gratitude, but by the top of the first climb, the sharpness was undeniable. At the first aid station, I told myself the flat section would help. So I tried to “start the race again.”

I began moving well, but the pain never stopped.

I made a deal with myself: get to La Fouly, then drop.

But partway up to Col de Balme, I ran into my friend Yngvild Kaspersen, who had badly rolled her ankle. We chatted for a bit. In the middle of holding back my own tears, I felt some kind of strength trying to be there for her. It gave me a small burst of energy—to try again, for what felt like the third time.

I pulled out the poles and challenged myself to see how many women I could catch before the top. I think I caught a few, finding myself just outside the top ten. But when I put the poles away, the pain came roaring back.

I laughed to myself—what a strange, humbling sport this is.

This was the second time out of four that I felt more like a fan with a front-row seat than an actual racer. The first was at OCC 2023, when I started the race after a four-day stomach bug.

The difference this time was the pain—it was real, sharp, and unavoidable. With a downhill as long as that one, roughly a half marathon, my right knee started to hurt too, clearly from compensating for my toe. I tried not to, but the body does what it must.

When I finally made it to La Fouly, I smiled the best I could. My husband Mike was there, and I’d already decided for the last hour that I would stop.

He asked all the right questions, and soon they were clipping my bib. Just like that, I was in the car heading to the team chalet in Chamonix.

Then came the part no one likes talking about, being at a massive race, not having your day, and still showing up for everyone else.

As a pro athlete, that balance between individual and team is one of the hardest things to navigate. But discomfort is where growth happens.

With Adidas, you’re in it together. You’re around everyone. It’s not easy—but it forces you to open up. To talk. Because everyone cares.

Once we were back home, I kept replaying the week, trying to pull out details like fragments of a dream.

I hoped that maybe, like a dream, the pain would fade. But part of me also wanted the validation—that it wasn’t just in my head. That I did, in fact, know my body.

The Rollercoaster

Deep down, I knew the toe was still broken. And when I finally got the x-ray the second week of September, it confirmed it—still fragile, not quite healed, but almost there. The frustrating “so close” stage.

That’s when the real reckoning began. The six weeks leading into CCC were hard, but living with the aftermath was harder.

At first, I was mad at myself—mad for letting outside voices sway me to “just try.” Inside I was screaming, You knew this would happen. Why didn’t you stand your ground?

But over time, I realized those voices weren’t wrong or ill-intentioned—they were speaking to the most optimistic part of me. The one that believes in possibility, in taking the shot even when it feels scary.

And honestly, that’s a big part of who I am.

It’s important I don’t let her disappear. That side of me—the dreamer, the believer—is what’s carried me through so many of life’s miracles. Yes, it’s good to be realistic, and I take pride in that too. But some of my best moments have come from trusting that little voice that says go for it anyway.

The “shoot your shot” moments don’t always have to be the most calculated ones.

So when I look back, I’m not angry at anyone. The decision was mine. And while sadness made it easy to point fingers at first, I can see now that it all came from me and that’s okay.

Then came the sadness again. The quiet kind. The one that shows up when the anger burns out and you’re just left with what is.

I let myself feel it, because pretending otherwise never works.

After a few days, I pulled myself out. I reminded myself: you’re just living with the results of your choices. Healing doesn’t bend to willpower. It takes time.

So I accepted it—no resistance, no fighting, just acknowledgment.

But acceptance doesn’t always mean peace. Sometimes it opens the door to another wave of emotion. And when that came, I felt sad all over again. Not in a dramatic way—just human.

That’s what this year has shown me again and again—life moves in waves, and the rolls of the rollercoaster aren’t evenly spaced.

Some years, like 2021 through 2023, the climbs were long and smooth. But lately, they’ve been coming faster, closer together—sharp turns followed by brief straightaways.

And honestly, that’s okay. It’s just life asking for presence.

Each wave has taught me something small: how to pause, how to feel, how to listen. But together, they’ve all taught me the same thing—to not lose myself in the process.

To remember who I am underneath the outcome.

Last September, I had a much worse injury: a boot, torn tendons, a fractured cuboid. And, while scary to admit, I think I was secretly relieved. I needed the break.

My flame had faded after an exhausting year. I had convinced myself I was “so close” to that big, earned win—but in doing so, I burned out. That accident forced me to slow down, to attend to all the little things.

This time, it’s just a toe. A small fracture that’s close to healed.

This time, I feel resilient. The fire is massive. The hunger sharper. The mental game stronger.

On the surface, it might look like déjà vu—but peel back a layer, and it couldn’t be more different.

I can’t sum up the year in one post. But if I had to name the thread that ties it all together, it’s this:

Remember who you are.

The athlete.
The optimist.
The realist.
The person who shows up even when it hurts.

Because here’s what I keep coming back to:
Fitness disappears. But the person who built it doesn’t.

The drive, the work ethic, the resilience—that stays.

That’s why I’m not in the same place as last year.
Not even close.

Now, it’s about one thing: getting healthy. Truly healthy.
Once that’s there?

It’s go time.

Both photos taken by Matt Shapiro

The real lesson wasn’t patience, or optimism, or acceptance—it was remembering who I am, again and again, no matter how many times the rollercoaster turns. Fitness fades, but the person beneath it remains.

It’s carried me through pool sessions, injuries, and comeback races before. But to understand why I’m questioning it now, we have to go back to where it started.

It’s April 2011, and Santa Barbara is doing its thing—sunlight bouncing off terracotta roofs, ocean air heavy with salt, heat radiating from the pool deck. I’m sitting on the edge, legs dangling in cool blue, eyeing the high dive pool like it’s my office.

My partner in crime? An iPod Shuffle.
Step one: slide it into a Ziploc bag.
Step two: wrap it in a hair band to “waterproof” it.
Step three: thread my headphones through a UCSB baseball cap, perch the iPod on top of my head like some DIY crown, and pray that if it falls in, the bag does its job.

Around my waist, I cinch a faded blue water belt that smells faintly of chlorine and desperation. I drop in, keeping my head just high enough to protect my jerry-rigged setup, and start “running” in place—arms pumping, knees high—trying to replicate what my form might look like on land.

This is my third pool exile of the year, courtesy of a stubborn stress reaction in my left talus. Just weeks earlier, I’d run my first-ever 5K in a Gauchos uniform, a 17:37, and had my sights set on another race in a few weeks.

Everyone told me the same thing: You can maintain fitness in the pool, but you can’t build it.
As a fiery freshman who had already spent her entire first cross-country season on the sidelines, I was determined to prove them wrong.

Two and a half weeks later, I was back on land for just a week before lacing up spikes for a 5K rematch—this time against Cal Poly San Luis Obispo. Somehow, I PR’d, running 17:27. Two weeks after that, I PR’d again, eight seconds faster, the day after my debut 10K, where I finished 6th at Big West Conference and unknowingly got pigeonholed as a “10K specialist” for the rest of college.

Sometime around then, my friend Ari Selix—one of the best humans I’ve ever met—shared something with me: secret shape. It’s the belief that you know exactly what kind of shape you’re in, even if no one else does. You count everything that matters toward it—pool sessions, cross-training, eating your protein after a lift, moments of grit—so when someone tells you something can’t be done, you know, deep down, it can.

Back then, I loved it because I was an eternal optimist and, frankly, I didn’t fully understand training science. I believed a couple of good weeks could turn me into a contender. Maybe it came from being injured for over a year, or from thinking anything past four miles was monumental. Either way, my college career was shaped by moments of “yeah, I think I can do that”—even when logic said otherwise.

I’d already put secret shape to work earlier this year at Broken Arrow.
My only goal was to finish—maybe sneak into the top ten—but somewhere along the way I found myself in podium contention. Going into the last downhill, I passed Robbie Britton, an incredible athlete and coach, and he shouted, “You’re about to fly. Use that 1:10 half marathon!”

Even though I’d done no speed work in months, I chose to believe him. I reached back to that 1:10 from 15 months prior, pushed hard, and somehow held off Grayson Murphy for third.

Afterwards, it was clear the race had drained me like a mutant who’d burned through all their powers—but it also reminded me just how powerful secret shape can be when you commit to it fully.

Then came the curveball: a broken fifth toe, just weeks after that high.
On paper, it’s a small injury. In reality, the timing was brutal. I was signed up for my first 100K—CCC—and had just come off my best workout in nearly a year. My instinct was to lean on secret shape again. Believe. Push forward. Keep the glass half full.

But here’s the truth: I’m finding it harder this time. Harder to trust that belief alone can bridge the gap between where I am and where I want to be.

Belief systems, whether you call them mantras, philosophies, or coping mechanisms, are easy to embrace when the evidence is in your favor. When your legs feel sharp, when the workouts stack up, when the race calendar lines up like dominos… belief feels effortless.

But what about when the opposite is true?

That’s where I am now. The pinky toe has thrown me off more than I expected—not just in training, but in trust. Trust in my body to adapt. Trust in my ability to show up for CCC as more than just a participant. And maybe most of all, trust in my own secret shape.

The catch is that secret shape works best when you have quiet evidence tucked away—those hard strength sessions nobody saw, the grindy solo runs, the daily mobility work, the little moments that make you think, If they only knew what I’ve been doing… But this time, my evidence folder feels thin. Sparse. And I’m not sure if trying to fill that gap with pure optimism is wise and strong-willed, or just stubborn and self-sabotaging.

In my experience, optimism works best when it shows up unforced—when you don’t have to convince yourself it needs to exist in order to do what you want to do.

I know my optimism comes in waves. Tomorrow, I might be in a different tide altogether. I want to believe the same philosophy that carried me through college injuries, pool workouts, and Broken Arrow can carry me again. But I’m also old enough in this sport to know belief isn’t a one-size-fits-all tool.

Maybe the belief system I need for CCC isn’t the secret shape I’ve leaned on in the past. Maybe it’s a different shape entirely, one that makes room for unknowns, for vulnerability, for the possibility that this race might not look like the vision I had back in June.

That doesn’t mean I’m giving up on secret shape. It just means I’m letting it evolve. Because the beauty and the pain of this sport is that you’re constantly forced to adapt, even in the way you believe in yourself.

So here’s the real kicker: I don’t even know if I’m racing CCC.

The toe pain is still there especially on steep climbs and long descents. Weeks ago, I decided to give it some time fully off, but not so much that my body would go into full shutdown mode. If CCC weren’t on the calendar, I probably would’ve gone overkill and put it in a boot for 4 weeks, let it heal, then slowly start hiking and running. That would’ve been the fastest path to 100%, but it also would’ve meant missing this race completely.

Instead, I’ve been walking the line. A few weeks very easy, just enough movement to keep things ticking, then easing into short runs letting pain be my guide, as my doctor suggested. And while it hasn’t gotten worse, it hasn’t gotten better either.

I knew that risk when we made the loose plan, but it’s a different kind of frustration to watch the needle stay still now in real-time.

What makes it harder is knowing the reality: there’s a real chance I might not even make it past 50K on race day. And I have to ask myself—am I willing to risk a potential highly theoretical long-term compensation injury for a race I might not finish?

That’s where secret shape and reality are colliding right now. Belief is powerful. But so is honesty. And if I do toe the line in Courmayeur, it won’t just be about believing in a shape I think I might scarcely have—it will be about trusting myself to make the call, in the moment, about whether finishing is worth the cost in the long run, if there is even a cost outside normal debut 100k stuff.

And if I’m honest—after how long I’ve waited to debut at the 100K distance, and with last year’s hefty emotional and physical load—in this moment the voice that thinks it’s not worth it is by far the loudest. But a lot can happen in two weeks. So, for now, all I can do is take it day by day, and go from there. Time is my variable so I will let it continue to do it’s thing and I expect some clarity to emerge in the coming days.

It all started a week earlier, when my husband and I snuck burritos into the theater to watch the new F1 movie as part of our "blockbuster summer." While I wanted to watch Jurassic Park, he convinced me F1 would be right up my alley, and oh, was he right.

The film hit all the marks for me: action-packed, sports-driven, and with just enough of a simple plotline to make it the perfect summer flick. As I watched the F1 movie, I couldn’t help but think about the parallels between the race car world and my own life. I started imagining my team as the F1 pit crew. My coach, Tom Evans, advises on how to build the engine, crafting my training and ensuring I’m operating at full potential. My nutritionist, Kyla Channel, is the fuel chemist, making sure the right formula powers me day in and day out. My sister, Annmarie Moreno, my strength coach, designs my body to withstand the grueling demands of the CCC course. My mental coach helps me sharpen my focus, my sponsors build the parts to customize my build and premium race day fuel, while my husband is the co-captain, navigating the entire process with me. And me? Well, I’m the racecar driver, but also the team manager, executing the plan everyone else has built for me.

That’s when it hit me: The alignment between the car and its driver is a lot like how my team and I are operating. I’ve been feeling more in sync with myself than I have in a long time, and it’s all thanks to the team working seamlessly together. Empowering and stress-relieving all at once.

It made sense that my workout that day was a reflection of this, it was a really good workout, the kind where you hit your numbers but feel like you’re holding something back. The mantra that I’ve unconsciously adopted became clear: Don’t rush or force fitness, let it come to you. Just like a race car, I’m not meant to overheat or push past my limits unnecessarily based on the current status of all my parts. Drive the car I have, and as the new parts come in, the driving gets a little easier. The beauty lies in the balance, the precision, and the intention behind every move, with the belief that things will unfold as they should. And that as the driver my skillset to push becomes more of an asset the better my car becomes.

In training, I’ve found a version of myself that’s more focused than ever. I’m recovering on the easy days and executing on the hard days without forcing anything. I try to get as close as I can to those workout numbers, but in the end, I push when I’m told to push and recover when I’m told to recover. There’s no rush to reach peak fitness. I’ve stopped forcing it, and instead, I’m letting the fitness come as it wants, or, to put it more scientifically, as fast as my physiology adapts. I’m working with what I’ve been given in the moment, and I’ve seen how consistency and recovery make the hard work even more powerful.

Going back to how I felt July 22nd, I was so happy. There she is, I thought…my confidence, that is. Something I’ve somewhat sheltered since April, when I re-injured my left foot that I had worked so hard to rebuild and nurture in the winter. I thought to myself: Dani, this is it. 5 weeks to go. Let it keep coming to you. The timing will work out. No need to push. Just keep filling the soul cup, listen to your team, and do what you do best—drive.

I finished that day’s strength training thinking, Damn, I’m actually starting to believe I can run under 12 hours at CCC. A time that usually gets you a win, but I wholeheartedly believe you’ll need to run faster to be in the top 5 this year…*cough* my goal.

The day went on. I attended a social event with friends at the park and headed home feeling at peace. Then, as I was brushing my teeth that night, wearing my toe spreaders I have been wearing for years, I turned too quickly and hit my right pinky toe on a door frame, I heard a pop and immediately yelled, “F*$k!” My first thought: I think I just broke my toe.

I teared up a little but honestly couldn’t believe it…No way, I just did that. You’re overthinking. It’s just a bad sprain. Yeah, 100% bad sprain.

I slept through the night, woke up the next day, to honestly a pink toe but not a bruised toe, did all my foot warm-ups, then did a test run. I felt it, but it was consistent—no movement worse than another. But after I pulled my sock off, I thought, Damn, this thing is fully purple.

There was the initial wave of hope, followed by denial, then more hope, and finally, the sobering realization: This isn’t good. After some messages to my doctor, 36 hours, and an X-ray, it was confirmed: I had indeed broken my toe.

Next thought... what in the heck am I going to do?

Next post, "SECRET SHAPE," coming out this week.

In the past two weekends, we've witnessed so many races, but by far the most iconic, both historically and currently, are Western States 100, Broken Arrow Skyrace, Mont Blanc Marathon, and Lavaredo.

While there's crossover among fans, each race has its own unique spirit and essence that makes it special.

What’s also fascinating this year is the increase in cross-pollination of marketing efforts and media coverage. With more eyes on the sport, there's more attention on what athletes are saying and how they’re putting themselves out there. And this year was no exception. One of the most notable moments was Italian versatile running star Francesco Puppi boldly stating that he aimed to break 4 hours at Lavaredo 50k, which would’ve made him the first person to do so. Ironically, this coincided with Nike’s “Breaking 4” project, where Faith Kipyegon aimed to be the first woman to break 4 minutes in the mile on the same weekend. Another interesting narrative was the ongoing debate around if a male athlete would break 14 hours at the historic Western States 100 this year.

What was especially intriguing was how the public and media responded to these audacious goals. With an ample amount of commentary in the weeks and even months leading into the events. And then, the races happened. What did we see? None of the shared goals were achieved.

Francesco ran 04:02:31, just shy of the 04:02:16 he ran in 2023; Faith ran 4:06:42, seconds short of her goal; and Caleb Olson won Western States 100 with a time of 14:11:25. It’s worth mentioning that Caleb never publicly claimed he would break 14 hours, though other men did share openly that breaking 14 was their goal, most famously David Roche.

What’s been fascinating in the aftermath, though, is the backlash athletes often face when they miss the mark. Francesco Puppi shared on Instagram that he was being criticized for falling short of his goal. Immediately my question became: why? Why is there often resistance to boldness? Why is there skepticism when athletes declare big goals, even though they push the sport forward and inspire others to dream bigger?

Admittedly, even my own realistic mindset can make me skeptical at times, but I also have an overwhelming sense of self-awareness that this exact mentality can hold me back. Because while an athlete who proclaims their goal may not always hit the mark, these are the exact athletes who are playing by a different set of rules: they are defining their limits, not waiting for someone or something to tell them what they should be. And that to me is freaking admirable.

I think what’s also interesting is considering how none of us truly know what is possible yet in the sport of trail running. We all say it, and we see it: every year, the sport gets faster. As a professional athlete myself, I’ve now become extremely comfortable with the understanding that if I want to win a bigger race, I need to mentally prepare myself to run faster than any female has ever run the race.

Another layer is running in general; it’s a humbling sport. And I do think that humbling nature bleeds into how many personify how the sport should “operate”, an unspoken set of guidelines, if you will. The “work hard in silence, let success be the roar” mentality. But when you look at other sports like football, basketball, and soccer, there are many bold figures. Yet, when a track and field athlete like Noah Lyles calls their shot, it often makes people uncomfortable. The reality is, athletes being confident and setting high goals for themselves, even if they don’t always achieve them, is ingrained in sports culture.

So, how can we let these ideals coincide and live simultaneously? I think when it comes down to it, even if you don’t admire boldness, there’s someone out there who does. Because, believe it or not, boldness is part of human nature, and it’s boldness that changes human history. From Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech to Muhammad Ali’s bold proclamations in the boxing ring to Amelia Earhart’s solo flight across the Atlantic, these are moments where boldness altered the course of history. People want to see others take risks, and there’s something inherently inspiring about someone willing to call their shot and put their ambition out into the world.

In sport, we wouldn’t have Title IX in the United States without boldness, or the impact of Serena Williams’ dominance in tennis despite widespread skepticism. It’s these bold individuals that reshape our understanding of what is possible.

I’m not saying boldness needs to overshadow everything else. No, I’m saying that it pairs well with humility. And it is possible to have both.

At the end of the day, the magic happens when boldness and humility coexist. Boldness pushes the boundaries, daring us to imagine a future greater than what we thought possible. Humility keeps us grounded, reminding us that every goal, whether achieved or not, is part of the journey.

In sport and in life, we don’t need to choose between these two. We need both. Boldness without humility risks arrogance, while humility without boldness can lead to missed opportunities and untapped potential. When we embrace both, we unlock our true power, facing challenges head-on, and showing up with the courage to take risks, no matter the outcome.

As we continue to watch athletes push the limits, let's celebrate their ambition as much as we celebrate their resilience. Because, ultimately, the heart of every sport is not just about winning, it's about the courage to try, to dream, and to fall, only to rise again stronger. We love the greats, we love the underdogs, and we love everything that falls in between…. for a reason.

So, the next time you see an athlete calling their shot, whether it’s a sub-4 hour race or breaking an iconic record, remember this: boldness is a necessary ingredient for progress, and humility is what makes that progress meaningful. Together, they shape the future of sport, and the future of who we all can become.

I originally wrote this for the Sub Hub Podcast monthly newsletter, The Sub Hub Headlines. You can read this and other previous editions here.