I’m a few weeks out from what was supposed to be the biggest race of my year—my first 100K at CCC—and I’m not even sure if I’ll be on the start line.
A broken toe has turned my training into a constant negotiation between hope and honesty.
In moments like this, I lean on a philosophy I picked up in college called secret shape—the belief that you know the fitness you’re in, even if no one else does.
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.
This little pinky deserves to be given time to heal properly. I would use the examples of team mates like Ruth Croft and Abby Hall. They have had the wisdom to step off the start lines in those big races. Come back strong next year and run the race you really want to.
Came here after the Single Track podcast. Normalize putting the big scary goals out there. Whatever you choose, may you stay amazing. Let's Fly Gorgeous.