THE RACE SHE NEVER MEANT TO RUN

The finish line lay miles ahead. She’d trained hard for this race, but nothing could have prepared her for the endurance she’d need to actually run it.

Months of preparation wouldn’t be enough to sustain her on their own; she’d have to dig deeper. To finish the race, she’d need to find the strength to persevere.

Her footfalls became the cadence to the mantra resonating through aching bones and tired muscles. Close wasn’t an option. She more than wanted to finish the race; she needed to cross the finish line.

Months of training lay behind her. The finish line was still miles ahead. She’d come this far. She didn’t want just to get close; she wanted to finish the race.

There was no turning back. No way she’d try again if she failed. Stopping now meant giving up. It meant giving in to the weakness, begging her to stop. She was tired. Barely trudging forward. One foot in front of the other was all she could focus on.

What remained of her strength was waning. Continuing was a mental battle like none she’d ever known. A test of will like no other.

When she crawled across the finish line, there was no fanfare. No crowds greeted her. They’d already gone. She was one of the last to finish.

There was only one waiting. The same one who’d been there at the start. He opened his arms to welcome her. Celebrated her victory. Steadied her when she would’ve fallen.

That was enough. She’d done it, finished the race, and that was all that mattered.

I completed that ultramarathon in 1997. I was 30 years old. Though I didn’t know it at the time, it wouldn’t be the hardest race I’d run.

That one lay ahead of me, and it was a race I’d never meant to run.

Although the lessons I learned running that ultramarathon would serve me, the strength I’d need to persevere would not be my own. It had to come from a source more powerful than my desire to succeed. Winning this race would require that I not only overcome my physical limitations, but also overcome myself.

On my own, I’d never succeed. I knew that from the start. Surrender was the only way. It went against my nature, against my need for control, but, without it, there was no point in even beginning.

Without surrender, I’d only get so close; I’d never finish.

This race was unlike any I’d run before because I couldn’t see the finish line. I didn’t know how many miles lay between it and me. There were no markers to measure distance. No rest stations offering Gatorade to quench my thirst and fuel my body. No onlookers to offer encouragement along the way.

There was only my forward momentum and blind faith that the finish line was there. 

Though I hadn’t wanted this race, I’d still chosen to run it. 

Every wrong turn, bad decision, and horrible choice I’d made had led me to the starting line. When the whistle blew, I set my stance. When the shot broke the silence, I took off.  

No, this wasn’t a race I’d willingly chosen; it was the one I needed. It wasn’t a race I’d prepared for; it was the one that would prepare me. Not just for the finish line, but for the journey itself.

Winning didn’t require physical endurance; it demanded complete surrender. Though it was a test of strength, it tested my faith even more.

It was the most important race of my life. The race that revealed God’s Spirit within me. A Spirit of power and of love. My weakness revealed His strength. My failures, His victory. 

He gives power to the faint, and to him who has no might He increases strength. Even youths shall faint and be weary, and young men shall fall exhausted; but they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.

— Isaiah 40:29-31

As I continued, there was only One beside me. The same One who’d been there from the start. Who fought with me and for me. Steadied me when I stumbled. Quenched my thirst and fortified my spirit. Increased my faith and nourished my desire to continue.

When I would’ve stopped, He pushed me forward. When my legs would’ve given out, His strength sustained me.

I no longer feared the unknown outcome of the race I’d never wanted. For I’d fully surrendered to the One who led me. The distance between where I was and the finish line no longer mattered.

My focus was on Him, on the light He provided, and on running the race He set, Hebrews 12:1-3.

I’ll reach the finish line one day. In His timing. For now, my task is to continue — to follow where He leads and maintain the pace He sets for me.

And that is enough.

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JN Fenwick/mothjournal14 ©2026 | All rights reserved. | I DO NOT WALK THIS RECOVERY JOURNEY ALONE.

I’m JN Fenwick.

Wife, mom, but more importantly, a recovering alcoholic with a grateful heart. For years, I struggled, not just with alcohol, but with an eating disorder and the burdens of guilt and shame. On March 22, 2018, I surrendered my life to Christ. I was 51. God did not forsake me. He welcomed me, as undeserving as I am. He did not see my brokenness. Instead, He saw my potential. My Recovery Journey is one of Faith. From the ashes of my failures, God built a fire in me. A fire that guides each step I take. My journey is yours. My healing can be yours, too.