Down, but never out.

There’s a certain pain that comes with losing something.

But when it’s something that you’ve worked so hard and long for, it becomes a special kind of pain.

The pain that lingers on your heart and fills your mind with “What ifs”.

This is the pain I’m going through.

It’s 11:09AM on the 14th July — exactly a week on from my collapse at my first marathon.

Waking up in the ambulance, I had no recollection of my memories after blacking out upon collapsing at the 32km mark. I wasn’t sure who I was nor why I was in Gold Coast. Focused on regaining my sense of self, I was numb to any hurt that would eventuate from not finishing my marathon.

It was a scary few hours in the emergency room, being told my body had shut down due to a heatstroke and dehydration. I was left scrambling to retrace my memories, unsure Having trained so consistently and coming into the race so confident about my work, I was left questioning myself what the f*ck went wrong.

As the days went on and the loneliness in the hospital caught up to me, I was left with nothing but head noise. Despite being reassured by loved ones that this was an unexpected accident — one that I had no control over, I couldn’t help but feel responsible for my own downfall.

I tried fighting hard to shut down these intrusive thoughts, but I couldn’t. When you spend 6 months committing to a goal where you’ve become consumed and redefined in the pursuit only to then fail at it, not just fall short of, the head noise becomes almost deafening.

As I celebrated the success of other fellow runners, the feelings of self-failure and defeat loomed strongly.

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I'm only human...

I spent all week tossing and turning late at night in the hospital by myself.

It was gut wrenching to say the least.

No matter how hard I tried to accept that I gave it my all (even to the point of collapse), the thought of being a failure was too hard to shrug off.

The feeling was warranted. I have never trained so hard for something like this. And above all, I don’t think I’ve ever “failed” at any goals I’ve set for myself.

Growing up, athletic pursuits were never in my realm of interest so embarking on this marathon journey was truly a transformative journey. I was redefined by the past six months, consumed by the obsession and commitment that demanded all of me.

So when I started coming to my senses that I hadn’t finished my marathon after blacking out, the feeling of hit me like a tonne of bricks.

The angst and despair weighed heavily on my shoulders, sinking me into the dark corner of my hospital bed.

I couldn’t help but feel that all those early morning runs at 5AM in the cold, the tired runs when I was travelling the world, the sacrificed weekends, the times I didn’t want to lace up the shoes; as well as all the eczema pain in between; amounted to a DNF… it shattered me.

It’s been a sobering realisation. The realisation that NOTHING is ever guaranteed.

You can work so hard for something, but that won’t necessitate you accomplishing that goal.

Being informed by medical professionals that I had a mix of “demand myocardial ischemia” caused by “viral myocarditis”, I was somewhat more forgiving. In simple terms, the viral infection that I caught on the week of the race was still in my system and had caused problems in my heart’s ability to pump oxygen to my body. That compounded by ongoing anxiety from other personal problems, I had no right to be at the starting line. And boy did I find out quick, as I felt incredibly abnormal just only 5km in.

When you think about the intensity at which I was running at (5:15-5:20 pace) for the distance I was running at, it only makes sense how my heart took a beating. A beating so hard, that after being hospitalised, was told my kidney and liver were failing.

Not to mention, I made some costly rookie errors leading into the race — running a 5k PB on the week, steaming throughout the week without hydration afterwards and trying cold water therapy a few days before the race.

But then when the doctor had told me I was very lucky to collapse at 32km, because had I kept going, it would’ve resulted in a heart attack…

On giving myself grace

The saving grace that has kept me grounded has been this:

I started my running journey with the hope of getting fit. Fast foward one year later, I did just that AND more. I gained so many new friends and gained so much confidence in myself. Never would I ever imagine

Something else that I’ll learn from this all is that being emotionally disciplined to your goals is so damn important.

At the end of the day, while the hurt from not finishing is overwhelming me right now, the bottom line is this:

I’m that man who ran all those runs.

It was me who put in the work.

I pushed through the self-doubt and ran all those PBs.

I built an unprecedented self-belief and confidence in myself, and from that became a new person.

I turned up for myself, week in, week out for 6 months straight.

At the end of the day, I really ran til I collapsed.  I really ran til I physically could not anymore.  And not that I’m celebrating that reckless behaviour, but god I don’t know what else would show more tenacity and heart. And no one will and can ever take that away for me.

If I did it once, then I can do it again. Only this time stronger and smarter.