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This is your life.

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.

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.

The book launch week of The Long Run Home came and went like a shooting star burning bright across a midnight sky—brilliant, stunning, and singular. As I reflect on it all, I realize: I will never publish my first book again.

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.

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.

Dare to Begin—this is the message that’s been echoing in my mind. It’s the call to action from my upcoming memoir, releasing in less than eight weeks! When I think about my greatest wins—and when I think about people reading my book—that’s the message I want them to carry long after the final sentence: What must I begin?

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:

“You can do it, AJ. You can do it, AJ. You can do it, AJ,” I heard my son whimpering quietly behind me on the tag-along bike attachment. He was scared of biking, and this was our first attempt on the tag-along after years of trying to get him on his own bike with training wheels.

We had given it valid attempts, and after two mildly hurt-filled spills—that he recalled as severely memorable—he refused to get back on a bike. I couldn’t blame him. The thought of falling from my bike at speed and gashing road burns along my arms and body had crossed my mind many times. The only difference between AJ and me was that I had taught myself to ignore these images.

I didn’t want to force him, but the girls and I are bike riders. The activity fills our warm days as we trek around our rec trail community—to school, to parks, to ice cream shops, and to friends. I was making it work with AJ towed in a Burkie, but he was nearing 60 lbs in weight, and pulling him—especially uphill—was getting ridiculous.

I was hopeful when purchasing the tag-along, but the thought of balancing on a bike terrified him. When I showed him the setup, he sobbed. I coaxed him onto the frame while gazing at his tear-streaked face.

“I promise you we won’t fall,” I said. “I promise you I won’t let you fall.”

I had never biked with a tag-along before. I prayed I wasn’t lying to him.

Now, slowly and steadily riding down the path with him at my back, I heard him repeating the mantra I asked him to say if he felt scared: You can do it, AJ. His voice, whispered and shaking, clung to the words like a life vest on stormy waters.

We were on our way to the library, less than a mile from our house—a reasonable goal. We’d bike there and back, with an option to stop half way at Ms. Emily’s house to ride the zip line if we needed it.

We needed it.

Later, we coasted into our driveway and AJ hopped off the bike. We had visited Ms. Emily’s zip line and the library and made it back home without any spills. Still, he was shaken.

“Mama, I don’t want to do that again.”

I dropped to one knee and took him in my arms. “Hey, bud, that was a lot of hard work, and you did so well! Let’s eat some food and see how you feel after sleeping tonight. I think your brain needs some rest.”

Of the things I’ve learned from managing MS Run the US—and the plethora of challenging experiences that happen when a person pushes themselves to their physical and mental limits—it’s this: there’s not much that can’t be managed after a heaping plate of french fries, a shower, and sleep.

The next day after work I saw his bike with training wheels out in the driveway. He had been practicing on his own, Aaron told me—and that’s when I knew we’d made it to the other side of his fear.

By-when? — It’s the question that lingers at the edges of my mind. If I’m to do a task, by-when is the rudder that steers my sails.

Wind is needed, certainly. But I can’t control the wind—I can only harness it when it comes, and wait patiently when it doesn’t. I’ve had to revise my by-whens more than I’d like to count—like when I told myself I’d have a solid book proposal and a literary agent within six months of writing. (That was in 2017.)

Still, I’ve hit significant by-whens that mattered—ones that changed everything. And today, I am deeply excited (and overwhelmed) to share another. Before I reveal the big announcement though, I’m taking you back to my run across America in 2010 to one of my favorite moments in San Francisco. This is an excerpt from Chapter 4: The Date Is Set of my memoir — the morning a family gifted a car to my non-profit just days before I began my crossing, and ultimately, the launch of something much bigger than me.

Chapter 4: The Date Is Set [excerpt]

Sitting in Skye’s Toyota—which was now my charity’s Toyota—I ran my hands across the top of the smooth leather steering wheel. 

They knew we needed a support vehicle because I had asked them where to buy an inexpensive moped, which had been my cheap solution for getting to and from the route each day from the camper. 

Sitting in the Camry now, I realized how silly that plan had been—me, loading up my running gear, food, and supplies into a moped basket. Nate, driving down the highway with me teetering on the back, heading to and from the route every day for six months after running a full marathon—through rain, snow, and whatever else we’d face until we reached New York. 

Really?

I chuckled at myself, shaking my head.

We love setting big goals. It’s easy to dream big: imagine the perfect outcome, visualize success, and aim for the moon — “because even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars,” right?

But what happens when those dreams stall? When your motivation fades, and your energy dips just weeks into your fitness journey, entrepreneurial pursuit, or personal growth plan?

That’s the turning point — where most dreams die. Unless you plan in advance or learn to shift focus: From the moon… to the dirt.

The dirt – that gritty, dark matter beneath you. It’s real. It’s hard. It’s the bare minimum you can require of yourself that’s needed on the days when your big goals feel galaxies away.

I’d never look at a daffodil bursting through the earth in the spring and criticize it for not blooming sooner. Knowingly, I am above the snow and grasp that the flower won’t survive in any season other than the one intended for it to bloom. It’s effortless for me to witness, above the soil. Below—unseen, within the flower’s seed—is where the effort unfolds.

And the daffodil isn’t the whole garden. Or at least, it shouldn’t be. If the garden were filled with multitudes of daffodil bulbs, it would bloom once for a couple of weeks each spring and be void of color for the rest of the warm season, leaving us with only a short period of beauty—and then disappointment thereafter.

A well-cultivated garden blooms in stages. The crocuses first, followed mid-spring by tulips and irises. Into summer, the perennials—phlox and daylilies—take the stage. Ending in autumn, the asters and chrysanthemums bring the color until the light changes, frost settles in, and all is quiet until the ground thaws once again.

This knowledge is useful to a gardener—which I was not—until Aaron and I bought a house and he engineered our landscaping in such a way that gives us bursts of color from April all the way to October. He prunes and relocates plants each year to give them more water or less, more light or less, more acidic soil or less—all tailored to each plant’s ideal growth environment.

The process is cyclical and unstoppable. We can either accept it and cultivate it, or fight it all winter long. But it happens all the same. The beauty of the garden come springtime depends on our willingness to work with what we have.

I loathe the phrase “trust the process” because it’s hardly fun to be buried beneath the snow in the messy middle of a dormant phase—when the power of what lies within is felt and waiting to burst through. The process tells me that dormancy exists and is also necessary, and I am a wisher of summer year-round. Our culture, too, encourages this in me.

Every rep counts — this is the thought that drifts into my mind as I think about the challenges of the day, sitting in a chairlift beside Primrose, my oldest child. Up we go, ascending the ski hill on a crisp but sunny winter day. At the bottom of the slope–too far for me to see now–Aaron stands with a paper cup of coffee in his gloved hands. AJ, our youngest, plays at his feet, using his snowboard as a sled. Sierra, our middle child, clings to his side, torn between her desire to stick to the beginner hill (where, despite this being her third year, she stubbornly refuses to advance) and her reluctance to be there alone.

The day had unfolded much as I expected it would, trying and tiring, based on the moods from earlier that morning. The kids (and myself) had felt a pull to stay home and be cozy, but Wisconsin had received a heavy snowfall on a rather bare winter and we had already invested in the gear, so…if we were going to use it, now was the time–cozy moods aside.

I was desperate – locked in place and frustrated. No book hacks, self-help podcasts, or personal commitments could shake me free from the years-long rut that clung to my life like a hoe dragging through tough soil.

There were things I couldn’t do anymore – not excuses, but legitimate reasons I was boxed in. I couldn’t wake up early and run miles from my house before dawn, as I had always loved. The kids were too young for that yet. I couldn’t cram in long hours at my desk in a focused flow, oblivious to the needs of those around me. I couldn’t schedule meetings at any hour that suited me. Again, those adorable, lovable, time-sucking kids. Admittedly I wasn’t trapped, but the window to work was finite now, narrow. Too narrow for my taste, and I was still adjusting.

Are my dreams too big? My capacity too small? I would wonder too often. It was hard to unearth a clear answer and the questions nagged at me. Each day, a mystery of what I would accomplish no matter how intentionally I curated my to-do list.

It was just over a year ago when I felt this stuck. Cemented in place behind the massive boulder of my aspirations at the base of a steep incline that was life after children. I was past the days and years of pregnancy and nursing, feeling my energy return and ready to unleash it. But nothing (nothing!) I had used in the past to create momentum was working. Instead, it had been a lot of work and little movement. Me, still fixed in the same old place sorting through paltry results in the wake of a hard push.

Before I packed my bags to leave for California, a last minute trip for a chance opportunity to run into someone interested in my book, there was work to do. In the week leading up to my departure I found that it took all of me to believe in the choice that I had made, which was to book a flight to Santa Barbara for the opening weekend events at Godmothers book store, despite the plethora of obstacles that nagged at me to do the easy thing and stay home. 

Aaron hardly ever travels for work, except on this one day that I’d have to spend on a plane to make the trip. His work team had already planned to be in Chicago together, and I’m all about what feels fair — why should he have to dismantle his schedule for mine? To go, I’d have to line up childcare on a Monday from dawn until dusk, just after the kids started back at school – two in Elementary and our youngest at a separate Pre-school, all before anyone has fully adjusted to their schedules. Not to mention drop off and pick up at gymnastics. 

Flight costs were high, and only getting higher. And in between the time when I started scouting for childcare and when it was actually confirmed, I sat silently with myself, then bought non-refundable tickets and hoped it would all come together.

The next day I discovered that I forgot to add Sierra’s Girl Scout Bridging Ceremony to our family calendar, and with my departure on Saturday, I would now miss the Sunday event. Everyone in the troop had RSVPed. And I, a troop leader, hadn’t put it on my calendar. Tears welled in my eyes as I tried to continue note-taking during the planning meeting with my co-leaders, who also happen to be dear friends. There was a strong part of me that felt that if this trip was meant to be it would feel more fluid. The pieces would come together nicely like a puzzle destined to fit. The cost, both tangible and within, was high and only rising. “Dreams are stupid,” I said aloud, part joking, part not. And at that, my girlfriends stood from the table, scooting their chairs along the hardwood floor, and held me in a hug.

For years I wrestled with my desires (increasing revenue for my nonprofit, publishing my book, and speaking on stage), and what I could produce (none of those things). I had BIG desires, but low results. Ugh.

I just had to work harder, obviously – wake up earlier, shorten my workouts, tether myself to my desk at night in the dark of my basement office. I simply had to want it more, I was told…by myself, by others, by our culture. Because priorities get focus, focus creates action, and action creates results. These are the facts. I was the thing that needed to be better.

Then, in a fog of exhaustion when I couldn’t will myself to do these things, I’d pour myself a drink as incentive and try anyway. Inside, I became a tangle of anxious energy and weakness, and the results I was achieving on the outside were meager at best. I began to question if I really wanted these things. Others questioned that too.

During the day, I’d waltz between phone calls, meetings and emails to manage my nonprofit and its massive cross-country relay, while simultaneously juggling nursing sessions and nap times with a baby, which then became a toddler and a baby, and then two toddlers and a baby! It was a precarious two-step that had me yearning for the quiet moments when I got to sit in the nursery rocking chair, pinned down by the love and want of my little one, and close my parched eyes. “Could I have used those minutes for work?” my mind would wonder, knowing very well that what I had done was the most of what I was capable of. Other moms seemed to be balancing personal and professional growth beautifully. I knew this because I viewed their thriving social media profiles. “How are they doing it andmanaging their family?” I’d ask myself.