ADAPT OR GET FUCKING LEFT BEHIND

I almost didn't race.

Not because I wasn't trained.  Not because I didn't want to.

But because somewhere between a heel injury, a canceled swim, a shortened bike course, and a season that already looked nothing like the one I had imagined, I wasn't sure there was anything left worth racing for.

I was so fucking wrong.

There are race reports.  And then there are race days that have absolutely nothing to do with the race itself.  This was one of those days.

If you've been following my journey this year, you know this season has looked nothing like I imagined.  For the first time in eleven years, I don't have an IRONMAN or a Half IRONMAN on my race calendar.

Even writing those words still feels strange.

For more than a decade, my life has revolved around long-course racing. Endless long weekend rides. Long runs on tired legs.  Meticulously planned training blocks. The excitement of preparing for something so big that it demanded every ounce of patience, discipline, and grit I had to give.

Long-course racing wasn't just something I did.  It quietly became part of who I was.

This year... it's different.

Every time someone asks me, "What IRONMAN are you training for this year?" I smile and answer”:  "None... just an Olympic triathlon."

People mean well when they ask.  They're asking because, for the last eleven years, that's who I've been.  But every single time I answered that question, I felt something I wasn't expecting.  A tiny ache in my heart.

Not because an Olympic triathlon isn't worthy.  It absolutely fucking IS!

But because this year has forced me to let go, at least temporarily, of a version of myself that I loved.  No one really talks about that kind of grief.  The grief of still being healthy enough to race......but not the races your heart thought it would be racing or want to race.  The grief of realizing that your identity has become wrapped around something you never intended it to be. 

This isn't the year I would have chosen.  But sometimes life doesn't ask for your opinion. It simply changes the course.

Then came race week for Diamond in the Rough Olympic Triathlon.

For weeks, I'd been navigating a heel injury.  Every run became an experiment.  Every morning began with the same conversation.  How does it feel today? Can I run? Should I back off?

There were mornings when the first few steps filled me with hope. There were others when they filled me with frustration.  Thankfully, thanks to an incredible physical therapist recommended by one of my seasoned athletes, we finally figured it out.

It wasn't plantar fasciitis as I was expecting it to be, but instead a mechanical issue.

A shoe that wasn't right for my narrow foot had allowed my heel to move just enough to create constant shearing with every stride.  The answer brought relief.  But it didn't erase the injury. It simply gave me a path forward.

So I arrived at Diamond in the Rough knowing one thing. I had to race smartly to keep protecting my heel.

Then life decided to test me again.  The night before the race, the email arrived. The swim had been canceled!  The water quality had failed inspection.

Just like that......my favorite part of triathlon disappeared.  I won't lie.  My first thought was:  "Seriously? This too?"  I had spent weeks protecting my heel so I could swim, bike, and run.  Overnight, the race had already become one I hadn't trained for, a duathlon:  run-bike-run.

But then something unexpected happened.  Curiosity showed up.  Not because I was excited the swim was canceled.  Fucking far from it. But because the coach in me took over.  I'd never raced a duathlon.  I'd studied the strategy.  I'd explained the pacing.  But I'd never actually stood on a start line and experienced one myself.

With climate change and increasingly frequent water quality issues, I honestly believe canceled swims in the peak of summers are going to become more common.  As a coach, I want to be ready for my athletes if this happens to them to be able to speak not just from theory but also from experience. 

So I leaned into curiosity.

Then, ten minutes before the gun went off, the race director grabbed the microphone and announced that a car accident happened on the Olympic bike course with power lines down.  The Olympic bike course was closed.  We'd be racing the sprint bike course instead.

I actually fucking laughed.  Because what else do you fucking do when it becomes a bit of a shit show?

The race I'd spent weeks carefully preparing my body for had quietly become the exact race I didn't want to race:  one-mile run, sprint-distance bike, and Olympic-distance 10K run.

If someone had asked me to design the least ideal race for an athlete managing a heel injury...this would've been it.  This race suddenly became disproportionately about running.  The one thing I'd spent weeks trying to protect.

For a few minutes, I seriously considered not racing.  I would still be here supporting my athletes and no one would have questioned my decision, as honestly it would have been the smart decision for my heel.

But maybe that's exactly why I couldn't make it. 

Because somewhere between disappointment and fear, I realized something.  My athletes don't need a coach who talks about resilience when life is easy.  They deserve a coach who's willing to live it.  Leadership isn't standing on the sidelines telling people how to adapt.  Leadership is adapting in front of them.  Living the lesson before you teach them.

So I kept my race shoes instead of just my coach's hat, and I raced with them, next to them.

The race itself was brutally hot.  The kind of Maryland summer heat that wraps around you before the day has even begun.

By the time I reached my bike in transition after the opening one-mile run, I was dripping in sweat!  For the entire bike course, each time I would lift my head up from aero position, sweat would drip down my eyes inside my aero helmet!  During the 10K run, water cups stopped being used for drinking, and instead they became something to pour over my head at every aid station.

Ironically, when I crossed the finish line, my very first thought wasn't:  "I wish they'd kept the full bike."  It was:  "Thank God they shortened it!"

Perspective is funny like that.

I finished second in my age group.  If I'm honest...there was a tiny sting.  I am beyond competitive, ask my very patient husband.  I even make racing to the sink each night to brush our teeth a competition.  It is who I am.  It is who Esther Fucking Collinetti is. 

There was a version of me that would have measured the day by that result.  But this season has been teaching me something different.  Yesterday wasn't about racing the athlete I was last year.  It was about honoring the athlete I was yesterday.

A perimenopausal woman doing everything she could with the body she brought to the start line.  Sometimes that's enough.  Sometimes it fucking has to be!

But none of that ended up being the story.  The story happened after the finish line. 

One of my athletes stood as the Overall Female Champion.  Others stood proudly on their age-group podiums.  Others crossed the finish line with enormous smiles.  Then the husband of one of my athletes gathered us together for a group photo.

We were all laughing.  Sweaty.  Hot.  Exhausted.  Completely unaware that someone had just captured my favorite image of the entire day.

That picture means more to me than my medal ever will.  Because when I look at it, I don't see podiums.  I don't see finish times.  I don't even see a race.

I see trust.  Friendship.  Resilience.  Community.

I see people who refused to let circumstances decide whether the day would be meaningful.  And I realized something.  The race we had all trained for never happened.  But the day we were given.....was still worth celebrating.

I have spent much of this year grieving.  Grieving the IRONMAN build that isn't happening.  Grieving a body that hasn't always cooperated.  Grieving change, as I enter menopause.  Grieving the version of myself that believed every season would unfold exactly as planned.

Maybe that's why this race hit me harder than I expected.  Because it wasn't just another canceled swim or bike shortened.  It felt like another reminder that this year wasn't going according to plan. 

But maybe... that was the lesson all along. 

Maybe adapting isn't pretending you're okay with disappointment.  Maybe adapting is crying over the season you thought you'd have....and showing up anyway.  Maybe adapting is allowing yourself to mourn what's missing without losing sight of what's still here.  Maybe adapting is understanding that acceptance isn't giving up.  It's making peace with reality so you can move forward instead of standing still.

Life doesn't care about your race plan.  It doesn't care how many miles you trained.  It doesn't care whether your swim gets canceled.  Or your bike course shortens.  Or your body lets you down.  Or this wasn't supposed to be the year that tested you.

Life simply asks one question. 

Who are you going to be now? 

Because eventually every one of us reaches a moment when the race we've prepared for disappears.

Maybe it's in sport.  Maybe it's in our careers.  Maybe it's in our relationships.  Maybe it's in our health.  The details change.  The lesson does not.

You can spend your energy wishing life had stayed the same.  Or you can become the kind of person who learns to race the course that's in front of you.

As for me...

I'm still grieving this season sometimes.  I'm still learning to separate my identity from the distance I'm racing.  I'm still fucking healing.  Literally and figuratively.

And in four weeks, I'll stand on another start line at USA Triathlon Nationals.  Not as the athlete I imagined I'd be back in January.  But as the athlete this season has shaped me into.

Maybe that's enough.  Actually...I think it's more than enough.

Because sometimes the race you never wanted.....becomes the one that teaches you exactly who you are.

Adapt... or get fucking left behind.